French Fried (19 page)

“And then,” I said dramatically, holding my goblet up to the lamplight to admire the dark red of my wine. “This is not Beaujolais!” I exclaimed, because I don’t like Beaujolais, especially the new variety. “And then someone in a black car tried to run down my husband, and did hit a dog.”

“That is so sad,” said Albertine. “This must be a terrible person. Everyone keep eyes open for this terrible person, who runs down dogs and poisons the fine pâté of Lyon.”

I think Albertine had had more wine than I, or perhaps less food. “And then, on the stairway to an apartment in Old Lyon, someone pushed me backward, and I awoke in a hospital.”

“Charles,” said Albertine, “go down the table to protect Carolyn.”

“Charles is our watchdog,” I explained, as he trotted over to me and laid his head in my lap. What a sweet dog. “Now we must order dessert.” I could see that people at the other table were casting glances at us when my young friends cheered and suggested that I choose one. Being a lover of coffee and chocolate, I chose a dessert called Café Glace with Whiskey. It took the restaurant quite a while to make so many of the same dessert, but it was lovely, as everyone agreed—coffee ice cream with crunchy chocolate bits, mint leaves, and whiskey.

We entertained ourselves, while waiting, by telling jokes and choosing the best raconteurs to receive the remaining hors d’oeuvres. My joke didn’t win a prize, but the Slovenian told a hilarious communist political joke and won the last marinated sweet pepper. Albertine won a bite of goat cheese for a very risqué joke, although I was surprised she knew one. I know some. I just don’t tell them. The luckiest person, a young docent from Germany, won the sun-dried tomato tart, and a student from St. Petersburg won the last bit of pâté.

Then the desserts came with strong coffee, of which I took only a sip because I wanted to sleep well tonight and feel well tomorrow for my trip to Villenueve-les-Avignon. Martin said, considering the fact that I was recovering from a concussion, perhaps I shouldn’t go, there being long falls from the area of the fort.

He was sweet to worry about me, but I refused to miss the excursion. “And Charles de Gaulle and I will be along to watch over Carolyn,” called Albertine from her end of the table. When the dog heard his name, he lifted his head from my lap and trotted back to his mistress.

At the other table they were still eating their entrées, so my young people insisted that I should be home in bed, getting my rest after my dangerous experiences in Lyon. They offered to escort me home.
Fine
, I thought, still angry that Jason was sitting with two sexually aggressive women and hadn’t even saved a seat for me. Our waitress brought the bill, which sounded terribly expensive, but not bad at all when we divided it by twelve. I told her that my husband, the man with the beard at the end of the other table, would have to pay my share because he had the only credit card. Everyone, including the waitress, thought it a shame I didn’t have my own card.

I had ten euros in my handbag, which I had insisted that Jason give me, so I put five into the empty ashtray, and the others contributed the usual change to the pot. Then we all rose, and our happy waitress said, “Madam, you must come again.” With some of the group beginning to sing, we left.

“Carolyn, where are you going?” Jason shouted after me.

“My friends are seeing me to the hotel,” I called back. As there were only two females in the group, they walked Albertine to her hotel first—it was much fancier than ours—and then me to mine, where they serenaded me as I wobbled into the hotel on Pierre’s arm. Bridget whipped my key out and took me to my room.

What lovely people the French are, although of course Bridget was from Ireland, but I remember thinking the Irish must be lovely, too. After all, they made whiskey, and there had been whiskey on my dessert. Tomorrow, I reminded myself, I’d return to skipping dessert.

“Good night, madam,” said Bridget and left me to fall, within minutes, into a deep sleep. I never heard Jason come in, and I ignored him when he spoke to me. Why wake up for a man who hadn’t even saved me a seat at dinner?

Carolyn didn’t wake
up when I got in, but she certainly did in the morning. I’d barely gotten into my running clothes when she sat up and said, “Where are you going?”

“For a run,” I replied, sitting down to lace my shoes.

“Then meet me downstairs for breakfast.”

I wonder if I looked as shocked as I felt. “They charge twelve euros for breakfast here. I can pick up coffee and a roll for nothing at the meeting.”

“Oh yes, the meeting. In the Palais des Papes,” said my wife, flinging back the covers. “I find it hard to believe that you never mentioned the actual
meeting
was at the palace. I’d have been very excited to hear that. Were you afraid I’d tell you more than you wanted to know about the
palais
?”

“Carolyn, I gave you the brochure. It mentioned the venue, which, frankly, is rather strange. It’s like attending a scientific conference in a cathedral. I keep expecting some cardinal to show up during a paper and excommunicate the speaker.”

“Very funny, but I think you’re safe, Jason. You’re not Catholic. Now, Mercedes probably is. Maybe he’ll excommunicate her. And why would you think I’d look at anything in that brochure but the social events? I saw that the banquet would be held in the Grand Tinel, but I never realized—”

“Well, we can talk about the papal palace at dinner. I’ll describe whatever rooms I see in the conference wings, but right now I really—”

“—need to explain to me why you didn’t save me a seat at dinner last night. When Albertine and I got to the terrace, there you were with the two most sexually rapacious women in Avignon, and all the rest of the seats at your table were filled.”

“
Sexually rapacious?
The chairman’s wife was beside me.”

“Yes, she was the mistress of your friend Robert. Now she’s probably looking for a new lover. And Mercedes, who can’t seem to keep her hands off you.”

“Carolyn, I’m old enough to be her father.”

“Then act like one. Her behavior is embarrassing, and you’re not doing a thing to stop it, which makes me think—”

“What am I supposed to do?” I demanded. “I’ve never encouraged Mercedes.”

“For starters, you could have said, ‘I’m saving this seat for my wife.’ ”

“But I was talking to Victoire when Mercedes sat down. I couldn’t very well tell one of them to find another seat. Really, Carolyn, you’re overreacting, and I resent the implication—”

“And I resent the way it looks when that girl is always hanging on your arm, and making snide remarks to me.”

“Well, for goodness sake, you seemed to be having a grand time yourself last night. Were you drinking? Surely the doctor told you not to. And then you walked off with all those young men.” By then I was quite irritated. “You might consider how
that
looked.”

“I had three glasses of wine, Jason. I’d had no pain pills since morning. And I was tired by the time we finished eating; I wanted to go home. Was I supposed to walk back in the dark by myself while you were finishing your entrée and flirting with your Latin ladies?”

“Look, Carolyn, you’re being—”

“—a normal wife, who doesn’t like to see her husband chasing after a student. Furthermore, you never let me tell you what Albertine and I think all the these attacks are about, or do you still think I just fell down those stairs?”

“I give up. What’s going on?”

“Terrorists. I was the person primarily responsible for taking that boat back. And one of those men who are now in jail was a terrorist. He probably sent a fellow conspirator after us.”

“But that’s crazy. You think there’s a—”

“Haven’t you been following the news? Islamic people are burning cars and buildings on the outskirts of Paris—near the Saint-Denis Cathedral. Saint Denis is the patron saint of Paris—or is it France?—in case you don’t remember. It makes me wonder if that Moroccan crime-scene person isn’t a conspirator. He probably got himself assigned to our case to be sure that one or both of us died from the pâté, and when we didn’t, he tried to run you down, and when that failed, he lay in wait and pushed me down the stairs. I called the inspector last night to tell him.”

“And what did he say?” I asked sarcastically, glancing at my watch and then wishing that I hadn’t asked. I’d be lucky to have enough time for half a mile if my wife kept talking.

“He said the fellow had been on the force for seven years. But of course, terrorists take those courses in Pakistan and then stay undercover for years in western countries until they’re given an assignment.

“So you just go off for your run, Jason. Don’t worry about me. If I’m shot at Fort Andre or pushed down a well when Catherine and I visit Villenueve-les-Avignon this morning, maybe I’ll be lucky again and only end up in the hospital.”

“Then don’t go,” I retorted. “And Carolyn, I am not interested in Mercedes in any way except scientifically. She’s an excellent student.”

“I’m so happy to hear it. Maybe you should tell her that you’re only attracted to her mind. I have a feeling she wouldn’t believe me if I told her.”

“I’m going now, Carolyn. I’ll call you later, and we can make plans.” As I left the room, Carolyn said, “Plans for the three of us? Or the four of us? Maybe we should invite Jacques Laurent and
his
girlfriend, the delightful Mademoiselle Zoe Thomas.”

I stopped and turned around. “I can’t believe Laurent is having an affair with that well-rounded, iron-willed secretary? Where do you hear these things?”

“They’re common knowledge. Now all we need is another young man for Victoire and one for me. Then we’ll all be taken care of.”

“There’s always Pierre,” I snapped. “He declared his love at the city hall and probably several times at your table last night.” With that, I left and slammed the door.
Rioting in Paris? Could that be right?

I was in
tears when Jason slammed the door, indifferent to my concerns and angry that I’d held him up. Why couldn’t he understand that Mercedes’s obvious infatuation, whether or not he returned it, was embarrassing to me? And he just brushed off the idea that terrorists might be after us. What was so unbelievable about that? They always retaliate. Look what had gone on for decades in the Middle East.

Before I could have a good cry, the telephone rang—Albertine calling to ask when Catherine planned to pick me up, so she and Charles de Gaulle could to join us. At least, someone cared what happened to me. I wiped my eyes and invited her to breakfast. That would cost twenty-four euros, which I’d put on the room bill since Jason had left before I could ask for his credit card. What was I supposed to do if we went across the Rhône by bus or had lunch after our trip?

Albertine accepted, so I dressed and went downstairs. We walked around the corner to the breakfast area and the row of tables with large windows looking out on the street. Once we had our food, Albertine mentioned “that young woman who seems to adore your husband.” I mumbled that she was just a graduate student. “Then you should make sure she stays away from him on social occasions. She should have been at the young ones’ table, and you and I with the notable professors.”

I agreed, feeling morose.

“Well, I must think what to do, Carolyn. Perhaps you are naïve about these things, but you should realize that your husband is reaching a dangerous age. He needs to be protected from himself. I watch Adrien closely and have defended him and myself for at least ten years.”

“Tell me, Albertine, why do so many Frenchwomen wear black?” I asked to change the course of an embarrassing subject. Albertine had on a handsome black suit with white trim, not to mention shoes quite unsuited for sightseeing.

“Black is chic,” she replied, “but different Frenchwomen wear it for different reasons. I favor it because I look good in black, which compliments my complexion and hair. Victoire wears black because she wishes to look as thin as possible, although she looks skeletal in any color, while Catherine wears black because she is a widow.”

“She’s still in mourning?”

“Her husband died years ago, so she should have given up mourning clothes by now, but he killed himself. He was much older, and she was wildly in love with him, a student of his before they married. Unfortunately, she failed to notice that he was given to fits of depression. Why would he kill himself when he had her? she thought, so she blamed his death on criticism of his research, but her husband had been falling into melancholy long before that.

“Adrien says it was not so terrible a matter, the paper. All scientists make a mistake or two, which is pointed out in the literature. The offender then writes a courteous letter to the critic, a retraction to the journal, and that’s the end of it. But Catherine wouldn’t be consoled. After his death, she sold their home and bought that apartment. Perhaps she wanted to die, too, but not to kill herself, being a Catholic. Since then she no longer socializes. She spends all her time doing research and driving her poor students to despair. A woman her age should have remarried, or at least taken a lover. Her conduct is unhealthy.”