"No."

"You're a lesbian and you'd like my blessing before asking out a field hockey coach." "No, Dad." "Thank G.o.d. Sapphic love, while natural and as old as the seas, is, regrettably, still considered by Middle America something of a fad, akin to the Melon Diet or Pantsuits. It wouldn't be an easy way of life. And as we both know, having me for a father is no cakewalk. It'd be strenuous, I think, to shoulder both loads."

"I love you, Dad."

There was silence.

I felt ludicrous, of course, not only because when one throws out those particular words, one needs them to boomerang back without delay, not even because I realized the previous evening had turned me into a sap, a cuckoo, a walking For the Love of Benji For the Love of Benji and a living and a living La.s.sie Come Home, La.s.sie Come Home, but because I knew full well Dad couldn't stomach those words, just as he couldn't stomach American politicians, corporate executives who were quoted in but because I knew full well Dad couldn't stomach those words, just as he couldn't stomach American politicians, corporate executives who were quoted in The Wall Street Journal The Wall Street Journal saying either "synergy" or "out of the box," third-world poverty, genocide, game shows, movie stars, E.T., saying either "synergy" or "out of the box," third-world poverty, genocide, game shows, movie stars, E.T., or or for that matter, Reese's Pieces. for that matter, Reese's Pieces.

"I love you too, my dear," he said at last. "Really though, I thought you'd have figured that out by now. Yet I suppose it's to be expected. The clearest, most palpable things in life, the elephants and white rhinos if you will, standing around quite plainly in their watering holes, chewing on leaves and twigs, they often go unnoticed. And why is that?"

It was a Van Meer Rhetorical Question followed by the Van Meer Pregnant Pause, so I simply waited, pressing the receiver against the bottom of my chin. I'd heard him use such oratorical devices before, the few times I'd come to watch him lecture in one of the big amphitheaters with carpeted walls and buzzing light. The last time I'd heard him speak, on Civil Warfare at Cheswick College, I remember, quite distinctly, I was horrified. Without a doubt, I thought to myself, as Dad went on frowning center stage (occasionally breaking into a variety of showy gestures, as if he was a deranged Mark Antony or manic King Henry VIII), everyone could see, plain as day, Dad's embarra.s.sing truth: he wanted to be Richard Burton. But then I really looked around, and noticed every student (even the one on the third row who'd shaved an anarchy symbol into the back of his head) was behaving like a feeble white moth spiraling through Dad's light.

"America is asleep," Dad boomed. "You've heard it before-perhaps by a homeless man you pa.s.sed on the street and he smelled like a Porta-John so you held your breath and pretended he was a mailbox. Well, is it true? Is true? Is America hibernating? Getting forty winks, a bit of shut-eye? We're a country of boundless opportunity. Aren't we? Well, I know the answer's 'yes' if you happen to be a CEO. Last year, the average compensation for a Chief Executive Officer soared 26 percent, compared to blue-collar salaries inching up a pitiable 3 percent. And the fattest paycheck of all? Mr. Stuart Burnes, CEO of Remco Integrated Technologies. Tell him what he's won, Bob! One-hundred sixteen-point-four million dollars for a year's labor." America hibernating? Getting forty winks, a bit of shut-eye? We're a country of boundless opportunity. Aren't we? Well, I know the answer's 'yes' if you happen to be a CEO. Last year, the average compensation for a Chief Executive Officer soared 26 percent, compared to blue-collar salaries inching up a pitiable 3 percent. And the fattest paycheck of all? Mr. Stuart Burnes, CEO of Remco Integrated Technologies. Tell him what he's won, Bob! One-hundred sixteen-point-four million dollars for a year's labor."

Here Dad crossed his arms and looked fascinated.

"What's Stu doing doing to warrant such a windfall, a salary that would feed all of Sudan? Sadly, not much. Integrated missed fourth-quarter earnings. Stock prices fell 19 percent. Yet board members picked up the tab for the crew on Stu's hundred-foot yacht, also paid the Christie's curator fees for his fourteen-hundred-piece Impressionist art collection." to warrant such a windfall, a salary that would feed all of Sudan? Sadly, not much. Integrated missed fourth-quarter earnings. Stock prices fell 19 percent. Yet board members picked up the tab for the crew on Stu's hundred-foot yacht, also paid the Christie's curator fees for his fourteen-hundred-piece Impressionist art collection."

Here Dad inclined his head as if hearing faint, far-off music.

"So this is greed. And is it good? good? Should we listen to a man wearing suspenders? With many of you, when you come and chat with me during office hours, I sense an air of inevitability, not of Should we listen to a man wearing suspenders? With many of you, when you come and chat with me during office hours, I sense an air of inevitability, not of defeat, defeat, but resignation, that such iniquities are simply the way it is and they can't be changed. This is America and what we do is grab as much but resignation, that such iniquities are simply the way it is and they can't be changed. This is America and what we do is grab as much cash cash as we can before we all die of heart disease. But do we want our lives to be a bonus round, a Money Grab? Call me an optimist, but I don't think so. I think we hope for something more meaningful. But what do we as we can before we all die of heart disease. But do we want our lives to be a bonus round, a Money Grab? Call me an optimist, but I don't think so. I think we hope for something more meaningful. But what do we do? do? Start a revolution?" Start a revolution?"

Dad asked this of a small brown-haired girl wearing a pink T-shirt in the front row. She nodded apprehensively.

"Are you out of your mind?" mind?"

Instantly, she turned six shades pinker than the T-shirt.

"You might have heard of various imbeciles who waged war on the U.S. government in the sixties and seventies. The New Communist Left. The Weather Underground. The Students for the Blah-Blah-No-One-Takes-You-Seriously. In fact, I think they were worse than Stu, because they smashed, not monogamy, but hope for productive protest and objection in this country. With their delusional self-importance, ad hoc violence, it became easy to dismiss anyone voicing dissatisfaction with the way things are as freaky flower chiles.

"No. I contend we should take a cue from one of the greatest American movements of our time-a revolution in itself really, n.o.bly warring as it does against time and gravity, also accountable for the most widespread perpetuation of alien-looking life forms on Earth. Cosmetic surgery. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. America is in dire need of a nip-tuck. No ma.s.s uprising, no widespread revolution. Rather, an eye lift here. A b.o.o.b job there. Some well-placed liposuction. A minuscule cut behind the ears, tug it up, staple it into place-confidentiality is key-and I contend we should take a cue from one of the greatest American movements of our time-a revolution in itself really, n.o.bly warring as it does against time and gravity, also accountable for the most widespread perpetuation of alien-looking life forms on Earth. Cosmetic surgery. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. America is in dire need of a nip-tuck. No ma.s.s uprising, no widespread revolution. Rather, an eye lift here. A b.o.o.b job there. Some well-placed liposuction. A minuscule cut behind the ears, tug it up, staple it into place-confidentiality is key-and voila, voila, everyone will be saying we look mahvelous. Greater elasticity. No sags. For those of you who are laughing, you'll see precisely what I mean when you do the reading for Tuesday, the treatise in Littleton's everyone will be saying we look mahvelous. Greater elasticity. No sags. For those of you who are laughing, you'll see precisely what I mean when you do the reading for Tuesday, the treatise in Littleton's Anatomy of Materialism, Anatomy of Materialism, 'The Night.w.a.tchmen and Mythical Principles of Practical Change.' And Eidelstein's 'Repressions of Imperialist Powers.' And my own meager piece, 'Blind Dates: Advantages of Silent Civil War.' Do not forget. You will be pop quizzed." 'The Night.w.a.tchmen and Mythical Principles of Practical Change.' And Eidelstein's 'Repressions of Imperialist Powers.' And my own meager piece, 'Blind Dates: Advantages of Silent Civil War.' Do not forget. You will be pop quizzed."

Only when Dad, with a small, self-satisfied smile, closed his worn leather folder full of chicken-scratch notes (placed on the podium for effect, because he never looked at them), removed the linen handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and delicately touched it to his forehead (we'd driven through Nevada's Andamo Desert in the middle of July and he hadn't needed to blot his forehead like that a single time), only then did anyone move. Some of the kids grinned in disbelief, others walked out of the lecture hall with surprised faces. A few were starting to page through the Littleton book.

Now, Dad answered his own question, his voice low and scratchy in the receiver. "We are under an invincible blindness as to the true and real nature of things," he said.

18.

A Room with with a View a View.

The late great Horace Lloyd Swithin (1844-1917), British essayist, lecturer, satirist and social observer, wrote in his autobiographical Appointments, Appointments, 1890-1901 (1902), "When one travels abroad, one doesn't so much discover the hidden Wonders of the World, but the hidden wonders of the individuals with whom one is traveling. They may turn out to afford a stirring view, a rather dull landscape or a terrain so treacherous one finds it's best to forget the entire affaire and return home." 1890-1901 (1902), "When one travels abroad, one doesn't so much discover the hidden Wonders of the World, but the hidden wonders of the individuals with whom one is traveling. They may turn out to afford a stirring view, a rather dull landscape or a terrain so treacherous one finds it's best to forget the entire affaire and return home."

I didn't see Hannah during Finals Week and only encountered Jade and the others once or twice before an exam. "See ya next year, Olives," Milton said when we pa.s.sed each other outside the Scratch. (I thought I detected wrinkles in his forehead hinting at his advanced age when he winked at me, but I didn't want to stare.) Charles, I knew, was off to Florida for ten days, Jade was going to Atlanta, Lu to Colorado, Nigel to his grandparents - Missouri, I think-and I was thus resigned to an uneventful Christmas vacation with Dad and Rikeland Gestault's latest critique of the American justice system, Ride the Lightning Ride the Lightning (2004). After my last exam, however, AP Art History, Dad announced that he had a surprise. (2004). After my last exam, however, AP Art History, Dad announced that he had a surprise.

"An early graduation present. A final Abenteuer-I Abenteuer-I should say, should say, aventure - aventure - before you're rid of me. It's only a matter of time before you refer to me as-what do they say in that mawkish film with the cranky elderly? An old p.o.o.p." before you're rid of me. It's only a matter of time before you refer to me as-what do they say in that mawkish film with the cranky elderly? An old p.o.o.p."

As it turned out, an old friend of Dad's from Harvard, Dr. Michael Servo Kouropoulos (Dad affectionately called him "Baba au Rhum," and thus I a.s.sumed he bore a resemblance to rum-soaked sponge cake), had, for some time, been entreating Dad to visit him in Paris, where he'd been teaching archaic Greek literature at La Sorbonne for the past eight years.

"He invited us to stay with him. Which we will, certainly; I understand he has a palatial apartment somewhere along the Seine. Comes from a family drowning in money. Imports and exports. First, however, I thought it'd be swell swell to stay a few nights in a hotel, get a taste of to stay a few nights in a hotel, get a taste of la vie parisienne. la vie parisienne. I booked something at the Ritz." I booked something at the Ritz."

"The Ritz?" Ritz?"

"A suite au sixieme etage. au sixieme etage. Sounds quite electrifying." Sounds quite electrifying."

"Dad-"

"I wanted the Coco Suite, but it was taken. I'm sure everyone wants the Coco Suite."

"But-"

"Not a word about the cost. I told you I've been saving for a few extravagances."

I was surprised by the trip, the proposed lavishness, sure, but even more by the childlike zeal that'd overtaken Dad, a Gene Kelly Effect I had not witnessed in him since June Bug Tamara Sotto of Pritchard, Georgia, invited Dad to Monster Mash, the statewide tractor pull in which it was impossible for someone without trucker connections to get tickets. ("Do you think if I slip one of those toothless marvels a fifty, he'd allow me to get behind the wheel?" Dad asked.) I'd also recently discovered (crumpled paper sadly staring out of the kitchen trash) Federal Forum Federal Forum had declined to print Dad's latest essay, "The Fourth Reich," an offense which, under normal circ.u.mstances, would have caused him to grumble under his breath for days, perhaps launch into spontaneous lectures on the dearth of critical voices in American media forums, both popular and obscure. had declined to print Dad's latest essay, "The Fourth Reich," an offense which, under normal circ.u.mstances, would have caused him to grumble under his breath for days, perhaps launch into spontaneous lectures on the dearth of critical voices in American media forums, both popular and obscure.

But, no, Dad was all "Singin' in the Rain," all "Gotta Dance," all "Good Mornin'." Two days before our scheduled departure, he came home laden with guidebooks (of note, Paris, Pour Le Voyageur Distingue Paris, Pour Le Voyageur Distingue [Bertraux, 2000]), city shopping maps, Swiss Army suitcases, toiletry kits, miniature reading lights, inflatable neck pillows, Bug Snuggle plane socks, two strange brands of hearing plug (EarPlane and Air-Silence), silk scarves ("All Parisian women wear scarves because they wish to create the illusion of being in a Doisneau photo," said Dad), pocket phrase books and the formidable, hundred-hour La Salle Conversation Cla.s.sroom ("Become bilingual in five days," ordered the side of the box. "Be the toast of dinner parties."). [Bertraux, 2000]), city shopping maps, Swiss Army suitcases, toiletry kits, miniature reading lights, inflatable neck pillows, Bug Snuggle plane socks, two strange brands of hearing plug (EarPlane and Air-Silence), silk scarves ("All Parisian women wear scarves because they wish to create the illusion of being in a Doisneau photo," said Dad), pocket phrase books and the formidable, hundred-hour La Salle Conversation Cla.s.sroom ("Become bilingual in five days," ordered the side of the box. "Be the toast of dinner parties.").

With the nervous expectation "one can only feel when one parts with one's personal baggage and holds fast to the shabby hope of reuniting with it after journeying two thousand miles," Dad and I, on the eve of December 20, boarded an Air France flight out of Atlanta's Hartsfield airport and safely landed in Paris at Charles de Gaulle, the cold, drizzling afternoon of December 21 (see Bearings, 1890-1897, Bearings, 1890-1897, Swithin, 1898, p. 11). Swithin, 1898, p. 11).

We weren't scheduled to meet up with Baba au Rhum until the 26 (Baba was supposedly visiting family in the south of France), so we spent those first five days in Paris alone as we'd been in the old Volvo days, speaking to no one but each other and not even noticing.

We ate crepes and coq au vin. At night, we dined in expensive restaurants crawling with city views and men with bright eyes that fluttered after women like caged birds hoping to find a tiny hole through which they might escape. After dinner, Dad and I entombed ourselves at jazz clubs like au Caveau de la Huchette, a smoky crypt in which one was required to remain mute, motionless and alert as a c.o.o.nhound while the jazz trio (faces so sweaty, they had to have been lined with Crisco) ripped, riffed and warped with their eyes closed, their fingers tarantuling up and down keys and strings for over three and a half hours. According to our waitress, the place had been a favorite of Jim Morrison, and he'd shot up heroin in the same dark corner in which Dad and I were sitting.

"We'd like to move to that table there, s'il vous plait," s'il vous plait," said Dad. said Dad.

Despite these rousing environs, I thought about home all the time, about that night with Hannah, the strange stories she told me. As Swithin wrote in State of Affairs: State of Affairs: 1901-1903 (1902), "Whilst man is in one location, he thinks of another. Dancing with one woman, he can't help but long to see the quiet curve of another's nude shoulder; to never be satisfied, to never have the mind and body cheerfully stranded in a single location-this is the curse of the human race!" (p. 513). 1901-1903 (1902), "Whilst man is in one location, he thinks of another. Dancing with one woman, he can't help but long to see the quiet curve of another's nude shoulder; to never be satisfied, to never have the mind and body cheerfully stranded in a single location-this is the curse of the human race!" (p. 513).

It was true. Contented as I was (especially those moments Dad was unaware of the bit of eclair at the corner of his mouth, or when he rattled off a sentence in "perfect" French and was met with confused stares), I found myself staying awake at night, worried about them. And, this is awful to admit, because the correct thing was to be wholly unfazed by what Hannah had told me-I really couldn't help but see them all in a slightly different light now, a very severe overhead light in which they bore a startling resemblance to smudged street urchins who sang and marched in the chorus of "Consider Yourself" in Oliver!, Oliver!, which Dad and I watched over salty popcorn one dull evening in Wyoming. which Dad and I watched over salty popcorn one dull evening in Wyoming.

After nights such as these, the next morning I found myself squeezing Dad's arm a little tighter as we dashed in front of traffic crossing the Champs Elysees, giggling a little louder over his comments regarding fat Americans in khaki when a fat American in khaki asked the madame at the patisserie counter where the bathrooms were. I began to behave like someone with a grave prognosis, searching Dad's face all the time, feeling on the verge of tears when I noticed the delicate wrinkles blooming around his eyes, or the p.r.i.c.k of black in his left iris, or the frayed cuffs of his corduroy jacket-a direct result of my childhood, of my tugging on his sleeve. I found myself thanking G.o.d for these dusty details, these things no one else noticed, because they, fragile as spiderwebs and thread, were the only things separating me from them. them.

I must have thought about the others more than I realized, because they began to make Hitchc.o.c.k cameos. I saw Jade on countless occasions. There she was, just in front of us, walking a haughty pug down Rue Danton - wheat-bleached hair, blunt red lipstick, gum and jeans-perfectly jaded. And there was Charles, the thin, sullen blond kid melting into the bar at Cafe Ciseaux, drinking his cafe, and poor Milton, beached outside the Odeon Metro with nothing but a sleeping bag and a recorder. With gnarled fingers he played a woeful Christmas song-some sad, four-note tune-his feet raw, his skin heavy as a wet pair of jeans.

Even Hannah made a brief appearance, in what turned out to be the only incident of our stay Dad had not planned (at least, not to my knowledge). There was a bomb scare in the early morning of December 26. Alarms screamed, hallways flashed, all guests in the hotel, as well as employees - bathrobes, bald heads, bare chests a-flying-were emptied out into Place Vendome like cream of potato soup from a can. Smooth Efficiency, the implacable quality exuded by all Ritz staff, turned out to be nothing more than a flimsy magic spell, valid only when workers were physically inside inside the hotel. Dumped into the night, they pumpkined back into shivery humans, red-eyed, runny-nosed people with windswept hair. the hotel. Dumped into the night, they pumpkined back into shivery humans, red-eyed, runny-nosed people with windswept hair.

Naturally, Dad found this dramatic interlude all very exciting, and as we awaited the arrival of the fire brigade ("I imagine we'll be on France 2," Dad speculated with glee) in front of a waxen bellboy, draped in rippling silk pajamas the color of peas, I spotted Hannah. She was much older, still slim, but most of her beauty had corroded. The sleeves of her pajamas were rolled up like a truck driver's.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Eh," said the frightened bellboy. "Je ne sais pas, madame." "Je ne sais pas, madame."

"What d'ya mean tu ne sais pas?" tu ne sais pas?"

"Je ne sais pas."

"Does anyone know anything around here? Or are you all just a bunch of frogs on lily pads?"

(The "bomb scare," to Dad's evident displeasure, turned out to be nothing more than an electrical malfunction, and the following morning, our last in the hotel, Dad and I awoke to free breakfast in our suite and a note calmly printed in gold, apologizing for le derangement.) le derangement.) On the windy afternoon of the 26, we said good-bye to the Ritz and took our suitcases across the city to Baba au Rhum's five-bedroom apartment, occupying the top two floors of a seventeenth-century stone building on Ile St. Louis.

"Not bad, hmmm?" said Servo. "Yes, the girls enjoyed this old shed shed growing up. All their French friends wanted to come over every weekend, couldn't get growing up. All their French friends wanted to come over every weekend, couldn't get rid rid of them. How do you like Paris, mmm?" of them. How do you like Paris, mmm?"

"It's extr-"

"Elektra does not like Paris. Prefers Monte Carlo. I agree. Tourists make life difficult for us true Parisians, and Monte's a theme park you can't enter unless you have, what, Soc -one, two million? Been on the phone with Elektra all morning. Calls me up. 'Daddy,' she says, 'Daddy, they want me for the emba.s.sy.' Salary they offered her, I fall off my chair. Barely nineteen, skipped three grades. They adore her at Yale. Psyche too. She just started as a freshman. And they still want her for all the modeling, did top modeling in the summers. Made enough to buy all of Manhattan, and what is his name with the underwear, Calvin Klein. He fell madly in love with her. Nine years old, she was writing like Balzac. Her teachers would cry when they read her work, they were always telling me she's a poet. poet. And poets are born, you see, they're not made. Only one comes along in a single, what do they say? Mmm? A single century." And poets are born, you see, they're not made. Only one comes along in a single, what do they say? Mmm? A single century."

Dr. Michael Servo Kouropoulos was a severely tanned Greek man of many opinions, tales and chins. He was overweight, in his mid- to late sixties with white sheep's hair and dull brown dice eyes that never stopped rolling around a room. He sweated, suffered from the strange tic of slapping then rubbing in circular motions his own chest, threaded each of his sentences together with a belly-deep "mmm" and treated idle conversations that had nothing to do with his family as if they were termite-infested houses in dire need of being exterminated with another story about Elektra or Psyche. He moved speedily, in spite of the limp that warped his walk and the wooden cane that, after propping it against some counter while ordering un pain au chocolat, un pain au chocolat, came clattering noisily to the floor, sometimes. .h.i.tting people on the shin or foot ("Mmmm? Oh, dear, excusez-moi."). came clattering noisily to the floor, sometimes. .h.i.tting people on the shin or foot ("Mmmm? Oh, dear, excusez-moi.").

"He always hobbled," Dad said. "Even when we were at Harvard."

As it turned out, too, he was severely averse to having his picture taken. The first time I removed my disposable camera from my backpack, Dr. Kouropoulos put his hand over his face and refused to remove it. "Mmmm, no, I don't photograph well." The second time, he disappeared for ten minutes in the Men's Room. "Excuse me, hate, hate to break up the photo op, but, nature. She's calling." The third time, he threw out that shopworn detail people loved to repeat about the Masai people, thereby drawing attention to their sensitivity and savoir faire when it came to primitive cultures: "They say it steals the soul. I don't want to take any chances." (This factoid was painfully outdated. Dad had spent time in the Great Rift Valley, and said for five dollars, most Masai under seventy-five would let you steal their soul as many times as you wished.) I asked Dad what his problem was. "I'm not sure. But I wouldn't be surprised if he was wanted for tax evasion."

To imagine that Dad had deliberately chosen to spend five minutes with this man, let alone six days, six days, was inconceivable. They were not friends. In fact, they appeared to loathe each other. was inconceivable. They were not friends. In fact, they appeared to loathe each other.

Meals with Baba au Rhum were not joyous affairs, but prolonged torture. He ended up so filthy after pulling apart his braised beef or leg of lamb, I found myself wishing he'd taken the gauche yet critical precaution of tucking his napkin around his neck. His hands behaved like fat, startled tabby cats; without warning, they'd pounce two to three feet across the table in order to seize the saltshaker or the bottle of wine. (He'd pour himself a gla.s.s first, then in a dull afterthought, one for Dad.) My primary discomfort during these meals derived not from his table manners, but from the general repartee. Midway through the appetizers, sometimes even before, Dad and Servo became engaged in a strange, spoken locking-of-horns, a masculine battle of one-upmanship widespread among such species as the Rutting Bull Elk and the Sabre-toothed Ground Beetle. locking-of-horns, a masculine battle of one-upmanship widespread among such species as the Rutting Bull Elk and the Sabre-toothed Ground Beetle.

From what I gathered, the compet.i.tion sprung from Servo's subtle insinuations that while it was all fine and dandy Dad had raised one one genius ("When we go home, a little bird told me we're going to find good news from Harvard," Dad pompously unveiled during dessert at Laperouse), he, Dr. Michael Servo Kouropoulos, hailed professor of genius ("When we go home, a little bird told me we're going to find good news from Harvard," Dad pompously unveiled during dessert at Laperouse), he, Dr. Michael Servo Kouropoulos, hailed professor of litterature archaique, litterature archaique, had raised had raised two two ("Psyche was tapped by NASA for the Lunar Mission V in 2014. I'd tell you more, but these things are cla.s.sified. I must remain, for ("Psyche was tapped by NASA for the Lunar Mission V in 2014. I'd tell you more, but these things are cla.s.sified. I must remain, for her her sake and the sake of the world's declining superpower, sake and the sake of the world's declining superpower, mum mum . . ."). . . .").

After considerable word-to-word combat, Dad showed signs of strain - that is, until he located Servo's Achilles' heel, some disappointing younger son apparently mislabeled Atlas, who'd been unable not only to shoulder the world, but a single freshman course load at Rio Grande Universidad in Cuervo, Mexico. Dad made him admit the poor kid was now adrift somewhere in South America.

I did my best to ignore these ridiculous skirmishes, spending my time eating as daintily as I could, raising White Mercy Flags in the form of long, apologetic stares at the various aggravated waiters and cranky close-at-hand clientele. Only when there appeared to be a stalemate did I placate Dad.

" 'Our love of what is beautiful does not lead to extravagance. Our love of things of the mind does not make us soft,' " I said as gravely as I could after Servo's forty-five minute oration on the famous son of a billionaire (Servo couldn't name names) who in 1996 fell madly in love with tan twelve-yearold Elektra in Cannes, as she sat on the beach making sandcastles with all the modern design sense and keen eye for craftsmanship of Mies van der Rohe. So haunted was the World's Most Eligible Bachelor, Servo was afraid he'd have to get a restraining order, so the man and his four-hundred-foot yacht (which he was threatening to rename Elektra, replete with Pilates gym and helicopter landing pad) couldn't come within a thousand feet of the mesmeric girl.

Hands folded in my lap, I tilted my head and set loose a Powerful Gaze of Omniscience across the room, a gaze reminiscent of the doves Noah set loose from the deck of his Ark, doves that returned to him with twigs.

"So said Thucydides, Book Two," I whispered.

Baba au Rhum's eyes bulged.

After three days of such agonizing meals, I deduced from the defeated look in Dad's eyes he'd come to the same conclusion I had, that it was best we find alternative accommodation, because, although it was all well and good they'd had bell-bottoms and sideburn length in common back at Harvard, this was the era of the ohs, epoch of serious hair and cigarette pants. Being Bon Amis at Harvard in the late 1970s with shirts fashioned out of cheesecloth and a widespread popularity of clogs and clip-on suspenders was certainly not greater than or equal to being Bon Amis now now with minimalist fitted shirts in cotton blends and a widespread popularity of collagen and clip-on headsets so one could give orders hands free. with minimalist fitted shirts in cotton blends and a widespread popularity of collagen and clip-on headsets so one could give orders hands free.

I was wrong, however. Dad had been severely brainwashed (see "Hearst, Patty," Almanac of Rebels and Insurgents, Almanac of Rebels and Insurgents, Skye, 1987). He cheerfully announced he was going to spend the Skye, 1987). He cheerfully announced he was going to spend the entire day entire day with Servo at La Sorbonne. There was an opening for a government professor at the school, which would be an interesting fit for him while I was marooned at Harvard, and as I'd undoubtedly find an entire day of faculty hobn.o.bbing tedious, I was instructed to go amuse myself. Dad handed me three hundred euros, his MasterCard, a key to the apartment, scribbled down Servo's home and mobile phone numbers on a piece of graph paper. We'd reconvene at 7:30 P.M. at Le Georges, the restaurant on the top of the Centre Pompidou. with Servo at La Sorbonne. There was an opening for a government professor at the school, which would be an interesting fit for him while I was marooned at Harvard, and as I'd undoubtedly find an entire day of faculty hobn.o.bbing tedious, I was instructed to go amuse myself. Dad handed me three hundred euros, his MasterCard, a key to the apartment, scribbled down Servo's home and mobile phone numbers on a piece of graph paper. We'd reconvene at 7:30 P.M. at Le Georges, the restaurant on the top of the Centre Pompidou.

"It'll be an adventure/' said Dad with faux enthusiasm. "Didn't Balzac write in Lost Illusions Lost Illusions that the only way to see Paris is on your own?" (Balzac wrote nothing of the kind.) that the only way to see Paris is on your own?" (Balzac wrote nothing of the kind.) Initially, I was relieved to be rid of the two of them. Dad and Baba au Rhum could have each other. But after six hours of wandering the streets, the Musee d'Orsay, stuffing myself with croissants croissants and and tartes, tartes, at times, pretending I was a young d.u.c.h.ess in disguise ("The gifted traveler can't help but affect a traveling persona," notes Swithin in at times, pretending I was a young d.u.c.h.ess in disguise ("The gifted traveler can't help but affect a traveling persona," notes Swithin in Possessions, Possessions, 1910 [1911]. "Whilst at home he may merely be a hoi polloi husband, one of a million dull suited financiers, in a foreign land, he can be as majestic as he desires."), my feet were blistered, I had a sugar nadir; I felt drained and entirely irritated. I decided to make my way back to Servo's apartment, resolving (with more than a little satisfaction) to take the opportunity of Me Time to peruse a few of Baba au Rhum's personal belongings, namely, to locate some mislaid 1910 [1911]. "Whilst at home he may merely be a hoi polloi husband, one of a million dull suited financiers, in a foreign land, he can be as majestic as he desires."), my feet were blistered, I had a sugar nadir; I felt drained and entirely irritated. I decided to make my way back to Servo's apartment, resolving (with more than a little satisfaction) to take the opportunity of Me Time to peruse a few of Baba au Rhum's personal belongings, namely, to locate some mislaid foe-toe foe-toe drowning at the bottom of a sock drawer that revealed his girls not to be the chiseled Olympians their father led everyone to believe, but flabby, pimpled mortals, with dim eyes shoved deep into their heads, mouths long and bendy like pieces of licorice. drowning at the bottom of a sock drawer that revealed his girls not to be the chiseled Olympians their father led everyone to believe, but flabby, pimpled mortals, with dim eyes shoved deep into their heads, mouths long and bendy like pieces of licorice.

Somehow I'd managed to walk all the way to Pigalle, so I entered the first metro I could find, switched trains at Concorde and was walking out of the St. Paul station, when I pa.s.sed a man and a woman moving quickly down the stairs. I stopped in my tracks, turning to watch them. She was one of those short, dark, severe-looking women who didn't walk, but mowed, mowed, with jaw-length brown hair and a boxy green coat. He was considerably taller than she, in jeans, a suede bomber jacket, and as she talked to him -in French, it seemed-he laughed, a loud but supremely lethargic sound, the unmistakable laugh of a person reclining in a hammock soaked with sun. He was reaching into his back pocket for the ticket. with jaw-length brown hair and a boxy green coat. He was considerably taller than she, in jeans, a suede bomber jacket, and as she talked to him -in French, it seemed-he laughed, a loud but supremely lethargic sound, the unmistakable laugh of a person reclining in a hammock soaked with sun. He was reaching into his back pocket for the ticket.

Andreo Verduga.

I must have whispered it, because an elderly French woman with a floral scarf wrapping her withered face tossed me a look of contempt as she pushed past me. Holding my breath, I hurried back down the stairs after them, jostled by a man trying to exit with an empty stroller. Andreo and the girl were already through the turnstiles, strolling down the platform and I would have followed, but I'd only purchased a single ride and four people were waiting in line at the ticket counter. I could hear the shudders of an approaching train. They stopped walking, far to my right, Andreo with his back to me, Green Coat facing him, listening to what he said, probably something along the lines of, YES STOP I SEE WHAT YOU MEAN STOP (OUI ARRETTE JE COMPRENDS ARRETTE), and then the train rushed in, the doors groaned open and he turned, chivalrously letting Green Coat enter in front of him. As he stepped into the car, I could just make out a splinter of his profile.

A smack of the doors, the train belched and pulled out of the station.

I wandered back to Servo's apartment in a daze. It couldn't have been he; no, not really. really. I was like Jade, making things more exotic than they actually were. I I was like Jade, making things more exotic than they actually were. I thought thought I'd noticed, as he moved past me, unzipping his jacket as he hurried down the stairs, a heavy silver watch hanging on his wrist, and Andreo the Gardener, Andreo of the Bullet Wound and Badly Fractured English wouldn't have that kind of watch, unless, in the three years since I'd seen him (not counting the Wal-Mart sighting), he'd become a successful entrepreneur or inherited a small fortune from a distant relative in Lima. And yet-the shard of face I'd seen, the pa.s.sing blur on the stairs, the muscular cologne that strolled through the air behind him like pompous tan men on yachts -it added up to something real. Or perhaps I'd just witnessed his doppelganger. After all, I'd been spotting Jade and the others all over the city, and Allison Smithson-Caldona in her relentless study of all things double and dittoed, I'd noticed, as he moved past me, unzipping his jacket as he hurried down the stairs, a heavy silver watch hanging on his wrist, and Andreo the Gardener, Andreo of the Bullet Wound and Badly Fractured English wouldn't have that kind of watch, unless, in the three years since I'd seen him (not counting the Wal-Mart sighting), he'd become a successful entrepreneur or inherited a small fortune from a distant relative in Lima. And yet-the shard of face I'd seen, the pa.s.sing blur on the stairs, the muscular cologne that strolled through the air behind him like pompous tan men on yachts -it added up to something real. Or perhaps I'd just witnessed his doppelganger. After all, I'd been spotting Jade and the others all over the city, and Allison Smithson-Caldona in her relentless study of all things double and dittoed, Twin Paradox and Atomic Clocks Twin Paradox and Atomic Clocks (1999), actually tried to scientifically prove the somewhat mystical theory that everyone had a twin wandering the planet. She was able to confirm this as fact in three out of every twenty-five examined individuals, no matter their nationality or race (p. 250). (1999), actually tried to scientifically prove the somewhat mystical theory that everyone had a twin wandering the planet. She was able to confirm this as fact in three out of every twenty-five examined individuals, no matter their nationality or race (p. 250).

When I finally eased open the front door to Servo's apartment, I was surprised to hear Dad and Servo in the living room just off the dark foyer and hall. The bloom was finally off the rose, The bloom was finally off the rose, I noted with satisfaction. They were fighting like Punch and Judy. I noted with satisfaction. They were fighting like Punch and Judy.

"Highly hysterical over-" That was Dad (Judy). "You "You can't comprehend what it actually means-!" That was Servo can't comprehend what it actually means-!" That was Servo (Punch). "Oh, don't give me- me-you're hot-headed as-go, go- " "-always go- " "-always content, aren't you, to hide behind the lecture podium?" content, aren't you, to hide behind the lecture podium?" "-you "-you act like a hormonal preteen! Go take a cold shower, why-!" They must have heard the door (though I tried to close it silently), because their voices cut off like a big ax had just swung down on their words. A second later, Dad's head materialized in the doorway. "Sweet," he said, smiling. "How was the sightseeing?" "Fine." Servo's white round head bobbed into view by Dad's left elbow. His shiny roulette eyes tripped ceaselessly around my face. He didn't say a word, but his lips twitched in evident irritation, as if there were invisible threads knotted to his mouth's corners and a toddler was yanking the ends. act like a hormonal preteen! Go take a cold shower, why-!" They must have heard the door (though I tried to close it silently), because their voices cut off like a big ax had just swung down on their words. A second later, Dad's head materialized in the doorway. "Sweet," he said, smiling. "How was the sightseeing?" "Fine." Servo's white round head bobbed into view by Dad's left elbow. His shiny roulette eyes tripped ceaselessly around my face. He didn't say a word, but his lips twitched in evident irritation, as if there were invisible threads knotted to his mouth's corners and a toddler was yanking the ends.

"I'm going to take a nap," I said brightly. "I'm exhausted."

I shrugged off my coat, tossed my backpack to the floor and, smiling nonchalantly, headed upstairs. The plan was to remove my shoes, stealthily tiptoe back to the first floor, eavesdrop on their heated dispute resumed in irate hisses and fizz (hopefully not in Greek or some other unfathomable language)-but when I did this, standing stone still on the bottom step in my socks, I heard them banging around the kitchen, bickering about nothing more calamitous than the difference between absinthe and anisette.

That night we decided not to go to Le Georges. It rained, so we stayed in, watching Ca.n.a.l Plus, eating leftover chicken and playing Scrabble. Dad combusted with pride when I won two games in a row, hologram hologram and and monocular monocular being the being the coups de grace coups de grace that caused Servo (who insisted the Cambridge Dictionary was wrong, license was spelled "lisence" in the UK, he was sure of it) to turn crimson, say something about Elektra being president of the Yale Debate Team and mutter he himself had not fully recovered from the flu. that caused Servo (who insisted the Cambridge Dictionary was wrong, license was spelled "lisence" in the UK, he was sure of it) to turn crimson, say something about Elektra being president of the Yale Debate Team and mutter he himself had not fully recovered from the flu.

I hadn't been able to get Dad alone, and even at midnight, neither of them showed signs of tiring or, regrettably enough, any residual bitterness toward each other. Baba was fond of sitting in his giant red chair sans shoes and socks, his chunky red feet propped in front of him on a large velvet pillow (veal cutlets to be served to a king). I had to resort to my A-Little-Bread-a-Crust-a-Crumb look, which Dad, frowning over his row of letters, didn't pick up on, so I resorted to my A-Dying-Tiger-Moaned-for-Drink look, and when that went un.o.bserved, A-Day!-Help!-Help!-Another-Day!

At long last, Dad announced he'd see me to bed. "What were you fighting about when I came home?" I asked when we were upstairs, alone in my room.

"I would have preferred if you hadn't heard that." Dad shoved his hands into his pockets and gazed out the window where the rain seemed to be drumming its fingernails on the roof. "Servo and I have a great deal of lost baggage between us -mislaid items, so to speak. We both think the other is to blame for the deficiency."

"Why did you tell him he was acting like a hormonal preteen?"

Dad looked uncomfortable. "Did I say that?"

I nodded.

"What else did I say?"

"That's pretty much all I heard."

Dad sighed. "The thing with Servo is-everyone has a thing, thing, I suppose; but nevertheless, Servo's I suppose; but nevertheless, Servo's thing- thing-everything is an Olympic compet.i.tion. He derives great pleasure from setting people up, putting them in the most discomforting of situations, watching them flounder. He's an idiot, really. And now he has the absurd notion that I must remarry. Naturally, I told him he was preposterous, that it's none of his business, the world does not revolve around such social-"

"Is he he married?" married?"

Dad shook his head. "Not for years. You know, I don't even remember what happened to Sophie."

"She's in an insane asylum."

"Oh, no," Dad said, smiling, "when controlled, given parameters, he's harmless. At times, ingenious."

"Well, I don't like him," I p.r.o.nounced.

I rarely, if ever, used such petulant one-liners. You had to have a strong, experienced, ain't-no-other-way-'round-it face to say them with any authority (see Charlton Heston, The Ten Commandments). The Ten Commandments). Sometimes, though, when you had no sound reason for your sentiments-when you simply had a Sometimes, though, when you had no sound reason for your sentiments-when you simply had a feeling- feeling-you had to use one no matter what kind of face you had.

Dad sat down next to me on the bed. "I suppose I can't disagree. One can only take so much inflated self-importance before one feels ill. And I'm a bit angry myself. This morning, when we went to the Sorbonne, me with my briefcase full of notes, essays, my resume-like a fool -it turned out there was no job opening as he'd led me to believe. A Latin professor had requested three months' leave this fall, and that was it. it. Then came the actual reason we'd ventured to the school- Servo spent an hour trying to get me to ask Florence of the guttural r's to dinner, some Then came the actual reason we'd ventured to the school- Servo spent an hour trying to get me to ask Florence of the guttural r's to dinner, some femme femme who was a leading expert in Simone de Beauvoir-of all h.e.l.lish things to be an expert in-a woman who wore more eyeliner than Rudolph Valentino. I was trapped in her crypt-office for hours. I didn't leave in who was a leading expert in Simone de Beauvoir-of all h.e.l.lish things to be an expert in-a woman who wore more eyeliner than Rudolph Valentino. I was trapped in her crypt-office for hours. I didn't leave in love love but with lung cancer. The woman chain-smoked like n.o.body's business." but with lung cancer. The woman chain-smoked like n.o.body's business."

"I don't think he has children," I said in a hushed voice. "Maybe just the one in the Colombian rain forest. But I think he's making the others up."

Dad frowned. "Servo has children."