Sitting there, I sketched them again and again. We talked, they held hands, Saul told stories about life in London and the company he worked for there. Although the four of us got together for family reunions once or twice a year, this was totally different. We were all breathing relief, love, and apprehension as one. It warmed the emotional temperature of that room fifty degrees. Mom had almost left us forever, I'd had kidney stones, my father had turned over familial power to us and spoken of marriage, family, and lifetime love as things that killed a person in the end. Perhaps he was right to whisper. Perhaps we all should have.

In my mother's room one afternoon while she slept, I remembered the drawing Lincoln had sent of the man with the flower in his neck. A rose in the throat. Wasn't that what was happening here? Choking on life's good things if they went down the wrong tube, the wrong way? Roses are meant to be seen and smelled, not swallowed. My father's love for Mother turned instantly lethal when he thought she was dying. This way, not that. It made such sense. But what did the Aarons mean in saying it? It was ten in the morning in L.A. There was a telephone in the room but I chose to use the public one out in the hall.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Lily? This is Max Fischer."

"Max! I've been waiting for you to call! How are you? How's your mom?"

"Okay. She was in a coma but she's out now and they think she'll be all right. Listen, apropos of nothing, I wanted to ask you something. Remember that drawing Lincoln sent me? The one of the man with the flower in his throat?"

"The rose. Sure I rememberI told him to draw it! Exactly to my specifications."

"Okay, but what does it mean?"

I could literally feel her smile through the telephone.

"Guess."

"Excuse me?"

"You have to guess."

"I've been guessing since I got it, but the only thing I could come up with was depressing."

"No, it's not depressing! That I guarantee you. You know how sometimes you're sitting somewhere and, very faintly, you hear music coming from the next room? You sit forward and c.o.c.k yourears, trying to make out what it is? After a while you do , and you sit back like 'Okay, life can now continue.' That was me, Max. I figured out what music you are to me: you're a rose in my throat. Don't you love mixed metaphors?"

"But it's good?"

"Yes, definitely good. When are you coming back?"

I looked at the door to my mother's room and felt a slap of guilt. Now that she was better I wanted to leave and go back to my life, back to what might happen with Lily Aaron. "Soon, I hope. As soon as they say she'll definitely be all right."

"Let's go bicycle riding when you're here. The three of us."

"Great." I made a mental note to buy a bike the moment I set foot back in Los Angeles.

"Know what I've wanted to do for years? Ride a bicycle around Europe. Not with a backpack or anything. You have a car and you stay in hotels, eat good meals... but you have bikes too on top of the car and when you stop in a city or in the mountains, you only ride around or walk. No sightseeing from the car. Can you imagine how beautiful it would be to ride around the Alps?"

"Or Paris? That'd be a dream. Can I come?"

"I don't know. Come home and we'll check you out. Like a job interviewsee if you're made of the right stuff."

Before he returned to London, Saul and I had dinner together. Although we have little in common, my brother and I get along very well. He loves business, women, traveling. When he's not working on a giant deal, he's either in bed with a beauty or getting on a plane to some exotic place. Our parents know only that he's successful and sends postcards or bizarre presents from the ends of the earth. His wife, Denise, is a stupid woman who used to be very beautiful before her stupidity and meanspiritedness wore the beauty away. They have no children and she's quite content to live well, spend money, and have an occasional affair when her selfconfidence slips. Saul told me all this but says he doesn't care.

When my brother and I chat it's always comfortable because we like each other but wouldn't for the world wish ourselves in the other's shoes.

"What does this Lily look like?"

"Short, long dark fluffy hair. She looks sort of French."

"What's the last name again?"

"Aaron."

"Is she a Jew?"

"I don't know."

"And she's got a son?"

"Yes, he's nice."

"Are you sure you want to get involved with a woman who has a kid just entering p.u.b.erty? Do you know how to skateboard? Are you ready for Little League?"

"Saul, my brother, f.u.c.k you. How many women have you been with who had children?"

"Different, very different. You're single. They always knew I was married. They were given that info before anything ever happened, bucko. I never gave any kid a chance to think of me as Papa. But 'cause you're single, the tighter you get with his mom, the more the boy will see you that way. Believe me."

"That may not be so bad either. Instant family. No diapers or teething. He'll probably even like the same videos I do. Didn't you ever want kids? I'm sure Denise wouldn't, but I could see you jiggling a nice little one on your knee."

"I could too, kind of, but then the idea of spending half a lifetime parenting exhausts me. Anyway, Denise would like kids if the only thing they did was serve the drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Other than that, she envisions children as little monsters who'd make her b.r.e.a.s.t.s sag and put runs in her silk stockings."

"Do you ever think of divorcing?"

"Seventeen times a day I think of it, Max. But know what stops me? This is going to sound funny coming from me, but we have a life together. That counts for something. I mean yeah, I have a million girlfriends and she's had her share too. Plus she drives me crazy, and I'm not at home enough to makeher feel like she's got a fulltime husband. But despite that, there is this life we've made together. We like to poke around in the Burlington Arcade, and go to Tottenham soccer games. Denise loves soccer.

She's still the best lover I've ever had and... I don't know, man. Put all the good together and it counts for something. She can be dubious, but she's my wife and my history. She's the only one who knew what it was like 'way back when.' That means something." He talked on and I loved him very much both for what he said and for what he implied. Marriage, even in the most difficult "climate," can be as st.u.r.dy and sometimes as beautiful as cactus. Because now and then it surprises you without warning by blossoming into the most delicate, vibrantcolored flowers. "Who cares when a rose blooms, you know?

A rose you expect to do what it does. But when a cactus flowers and it's gorgeous...

"Listen to what happened the other night. I was getting into bed and on my pillow was a slip of paper. It said 'sweet red splendid kissing mouth' in Denise's handwriting. So I called out to her, 'Hey, Den, this is really nice. Did you make it up?' 'No, Swinburne.' 'Swinburne ? You mean the poet?

When'd you start reading poetry?' 'I didn't.i.t was inside the wrapper of one of those Baci candies. Isn't it sweet?' Christ, Max, did I love her more for writing it out and putting it on my pillow, or admitting right off she'd gotten it from a f.u.c.king candy wrapper!"

A woman waiting alone in public has a determined, closeddoor look on her face. To men it says, "Yes I'm waiting, but not for you, bub. Go away." To women it gives them the onceover, as if daring them to say something. When a woman is waiting for me I like to watch a moment, unseen, before making contact. Pretend I'm seeing her again for the first time with no prejudice or desire in my thoughts.

Lily was already through the gate, sitting in a blue plastic chair and giving "the look" when I arrived.

Luckily I'd called Air France to make sure of the flight time and heard her plane would be arriving forty minutes ahead of schedule. A mad dash in the car down from St.PauldeVence and no traffic had made me only a little late. Little enough to take one good look before saying h.e.l.lo.

Her hair was shorter and curlier. Something else was different, but what? I was so glad to see her, so flatout grateful she'd gone along with my crazy, onechanceinamillion idea: Call a woman you hardly know. Ask her to drop her life for a week and fly to the South of France with the ticket you offer. If she wants to bring her son that's fine, but you'd prefer her alone. There is, was , a long pause on the other end of the phone, which naturally I take to be the beginning of "No." Instead she asks only one question"Have you ever done this before with another woman?" And you know she is saying yes once you've said no, you never even thought of doing something so whimsical and hopefully romantic. Before she answers you know your whole life is about to change. G.o.d bless her.

Her lips were green. Her lips were green .

"Max! At last! What? What's wrong?"

"Lily, are you all right? Your lips are green!"

She gave a little "Oh!" and brought a hand halfway to her mouth. Then the "Oh!" turned into a smile, then a big laugh. "It's my stupid lipstick! That happened once before. It's this special stuff which when you put it on is green, then turns the red which most suits you. But that's right, the last time I put it on and it stayed green, I was nervous too. Oh, Max, isn't that dramatic? I fly all the way to Europe to show you nervous green lips."

Close enough to touch her, I didhands to her shoulders, friendly, warm, intimate enough. "How're you doing, Lily? How was your flight?" Before she had a chance to say anything, I pulled her to me and gave her a long tight hug. She didn't do anything for a moment, then her hands moved tentatively up my back.

"I didn't know if you'd do that. Maybe that's why my lips were green. Maybe if I'd known you'd hug me right away, they'd have been red as pomegranates!"

Still holding her, I said into her hair, "You came. You G.o.dd.a.m.ned came ! It'll be great. I promise you we'll have a ball."

She pushed a little away and looked me sternly in the eye. "I don't need France, Max. And I don't need a good time. I've got lots to do at home. I came because of you. I came because you asked an impossible thing that might end up meaning the world. Where are we staying?""St.PauldeVence. It's about half an hour from here."

"That's where the Colombe d'Or is. Gus said I had to bamboozle you into taking me there for dinner."

"Done. Who is Lincoln with?"

"Ibrahim and Gus till the weekend, then Foof and Ky. He's in heavenspoiled rotten for six days.

Foof and Ky are taking him to a Vietnamese wedding."

"You won't be worried about him?"

"Sure I'll be worried, but I gotta get used to it. He's ten now. G.o.d, ten years old. Do you know what he said before I left? 'Are you going to make love with him, Mom?' My son's now asking who I'm having s.e.x with."

I laughed. More because of her lipssince I last looked they had turned a pale pinkred.

"You think that's funny?"

"I think your lips are funny. They've finally changed color."

She touched a finger to them and inspected it. "Don't you want to hear what I said to Lincoln?"

"That's a dangerous question."

"You know you're dying to know. I told him yes, I'd be sleeping with you after you've had an AIDS test. Lincoln's very paranoid about me getting AIDS. He watches too much TV."

I put a hand on her elbow. "I already did. I had a test when I was in the hospital."

"Me too. I did it there one day when we visited you."

Five steps ahead of me, she turned. I'd stayed planted, stopped both by the revelation and by the coolness of her answer. Her jaw dropped open comically and she shrugged. "Hey, you can't have a romantic week without s.e.x. I knew you'd get a test. You're that kind of person. That's one of the reasons why I agreed to come. You're interesting, but you're not nuts. I don't need any more nuts in my life. Let's go. The only other time I was in France, I got hepat.i.tis and had to go to the hospital."

People take it for granted that most famous beautiful places are ruined because of today's tourism, pollution, greed, land developers... but I disagree. If you know beforehand what to expect, they can still be splendid and fulfilling. What our cynical minds ignore is the fact that these spots are famous because of their beauty. Certainly some have been ruined over time, but many others are hearty and resilient and stubbornthey don't take kindly to change and resist quite nicely the cheap DayGlo cosmetics of our age.

After we'd checked in at the hotel I did something I'd rarely done with a woman: as soon as we got to the room and were alone, I took Lily in my arms and brought her to bed. She was willing.

The first time with anyone is often only soso, even if the relationship later develops into wonder.

The newness and nervousness, the willI/willshebegood? worries make it more of an experiment than an experience. But even considering that, Lily made love so ardently and interestingly our first time that when it was over, I looked at her and said, "Zowie." She was all oppositeshard and soft, fast and slow, tender then mean. She kept me off balance most of the time, which enhanced the whole experience incredibly. A kiss was suddenly a bite, then a lick, a nip, a long soft kiss. Her mouth pulled abruptly away, came back in for more, pulled away into a slow erotic smile. She made noise but it was quiet and low, noise meant only for us and no one else. I found myself watching her hands. They twisted and curled, became fists or lay helplessly open. They told the whole story. I was mad for those hands and kept putting my face on them or pulling them to me so I could feel their strength and warmth and smell everything on them. Both of us were on them and our smells were sweat and funk and Kouros cologne that had no chance against the other aromas.

Much later, when we were finished, she went into the bathroom and started the shower. I got up quickly and, going in there, reached around her and turned it off. She dropped her eyebrows and stuck out her bottom lip. "What are you doing?"

"Don't shower yet. I love the idea of your walking around out there with our smells on you. That's one of the best parts, don't you think? World's rarest perfume."

"Okay. That's interesting. Most men I know leap for the bath afterward. It's nice hearing you likethe smells, Max. I do too, but I've been sort of brainwashed out of it over the years. You and another man are the only ones I've ever been with who were like that. I think most guys love p.u.s.s.y so long as it's used properly. Take it beyond that and a lot of them get real nervous."

"Who was the other man?"

"My exhuzz, Rick."

"Rick the p.r.i.c.k?"

"The very same. You have a good memory."

"Will you tell me about him?"

"If you want. But it stings, so I can only do it in little bits."

One of those bits came while we were eating. Looking at a slice of cuc.u.mber, she wiggled it on her fork and smiled. "You want to hear a Rick Aaron story? I'll tell you one about cuc.u.mbers. It just came to me this minute. I haven't thought about it in years. After Rick and I had moved in togetherthis was in collegewe decided it was time I met his parents. He'd warned me about them for months but I thought he was only being carefulyou know, didn't want to build up my expectations. They lived a few hours from school, so one Sunday we drove over there, all dressed up, looking like Barbie and Ken dolls. I was supposed to ask his father about their garden first chance I got because Dad was gonzo about gardening. We arrived and I was introduced. The family gave me the big onceover, then it was time for Sunday dinner. They put me next to Mr. Aaron, and halfway through soup, I said sweetly, T hear you have a beautiful garden, Mr. Aaron. Can I see it after we eat?'"

"He says, 'Wellll, I don't know. Are you having your period?' I was twenty years old, Max. I'd never met this jerk before, but the first thing he asked was that . I was speechless. I looked across the table at Rick for help but my hero over there was staring into his soup. But the rest of his family were looking at me howdoyoudo and waiting for my answer! 'What does that have to do with your garden, Mr. Aaron?' 'Hah! Pretty darn obvious you don't know much about gardening! Only thing I can tell you is when a menstruating woman gets near cuc.u.mber plants it is pure death to the cukes. That's all there is to it.' "

The trees were moving yellow around us. There was a gla.s.s of milkywhite Pernod on the table next to my black eyegla.s.ses. Plates with crisp salad and soft cheeses. My wallet was full of those marvelously large hundredfranc notes they hand you by the bundle in a bank with a small pin in one corner to hold them together. Soon we'd go back to the room and bathe, then get ready for dinner. What would she wear? No matter what, I knew now what she was like beneath her clothes. I knew I would be there again soon and she seemed as eager as I about it. I believe both of us were so happy that first day that it could have been repeated again and again until it was time for us to leave France and we would still have been fully content.

It was the perfect land in which to begin our relationship, because the South of France is one long caress to the senses. Much of what you experience there can fuel a fundamental part of the spirit. For it is the earth, physical life, at its absolute best. That is what the beginning of love is too if you are lucky. I told Lily both "places" are where all the greatest ingredients in the world are found.

I could offer a handful of snapshots or switch on the slide show and bore you with pictures of how happy we were, how much fun we had, but rather than that, there are only two other scenes I must describe.

She loved openair markets and we often came across them as we drove around that beautiful countryside. Our rented car was soon filled with perfume essences, old linen dresses, dried Provencal herbs and lavender. I loved standing beside Lily watching her sort through boxes of old French magazines, or rub olive oil on the back of her hand so she could better distinguish the quality. She taught me a great deal about food that week and I was both grateful and eager to learn. She laughed when I told her how her enthusiasm was so invigorating and different from the att.i.tudes of the women I'd recently dated (excepting Norah Silver), who rarely took off their sungla.s.ses to even look at a menu.

" 'Say nothing, act casual,' huh? I'm not very California in that way, am I? I don't even own a pair of sungla.s.ses."

What was the name of the town? I can see it so well in my mind's eye. The fast brown riverrunning next to it. The restaurant on the water where we ate. A historical plaque announcing that someone like Petrarch had lived there. A big market was being held when we drove in, so we stopped to eat and browse. The river, the market, and the main road all ran parallel to each other. Lily and I separated because she wanted to look at the food, while I discovered a box of old cartoon books that had me rubbing my hands together. We agreed to meet at the car in an hour, big kiss, see you later.

Another thing I liked about herit was no big deal to go your separate ways a while. More often than not, she was the one who suggested it when we were someplace but had our eyes on different directions.

I was so engrossed in the books, the sound of impact and the howl of the poor animal didn't penetrate my skull for moments. People started calling to each other and running in the same direction.

My French is basic, but I heard "chien " and "accident ." Besides, the screams were hideous and unmistakable. It was clear what had happened. I only hoped it was a dog and nothing else.

"Oh pauvre "

"Il n'est pas mort! "

"Qui est la dame? "

"Sais pas ."

There was a crowd huddled in a semicircle over whatever was on the ground. I came up behind and through their movement saw a blast of shiny blood, entrails, and the beautiful gleaming black coat of a young dog. Its rear quarters were crushed across the pavement. Next to it on the ground was Lily. She was shouting in French for something, loud enough to be heard over the screeching death wails of the puppy. She said later she was asking for string, wireanything she could use to choke. I pushed through and squatted down next to her. The dog moaned and snapped its jaws in a mad shudder and snarl. It kept trying to twist around to its burst rear. Black fur. White frothing mouth. Red. Half its young blood was over my love.

"Max, get rope or string. No, give me your belt!"