LITMIR.BIZ

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      “As many as people will pay for, I’d suppose. I’ll take a closer look next time.”

      “From there it was a short step to immerse myself in the history of the time, and zut! What a chaotic, bloody time it was.”

      “My monastery didn’t stress that. Medieval experience as defined by Aquinas.”

      “The philosopher.”

      “Philosopher, priest, Doctor of the Church, saint. Rational thought, beautiful systems. Every piece of the puzzle in place, every problem with an answer. Intimations of a perfect world.”

      “You obviously took something of value, but you missed what was happening outside the walls. The fourteenth century was not an ideal world, nor your saint’s thirteenth.”

      “Nor any other, I dare say. With hindsight I would describe the experience as a systematic attempt, in my case largely successful, to avoid the ‘is’ and promote the ‘ought.’ The real world was the starting point but it didn’t hold the best minds, ours either, not when you believe the point of this life is the next one. Worse yet, those great minds failed to check whether their lofty conclusions bore any relation to where they started.” Having said this I exhaled and began smiling.

      “What’s so funny?”

      “Nothing, just a dumb joke.”

      “Tell me. I insist.”

      “Okay. What does a Jesuit education prepare a person for?”

      “I don’t know. What?” A smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.

      “It prepares him for life – in the thirteenth century!”

      She roared. “I shall have to use that.”

      “The problem is, what you’ve shown me proves it isn’t true. The joke isn’t true.”

      She nodded. “You’re right. Such learning wouldn’t have helped you in the rough and disorderly world. You’d have been eaten alive by the wolves.”

      “They’re still out there, you know.”

      “You’ve noticed that too.”

      After dinner we headed south in the Volvo. It was still early, an hour before the sun slid behind New Jersey and the lights of the City winked on. Driving back it occurred to me that I should have invited Lucie to see Kells’ illuminated manuscript. Next time. I dropped her at the Waldorf, the doorman watching discretely through the open door as she leaned over and to give me a kiss on the cheek which, as I turned toward her, ended up full on my mouth. Surprised, we both laughed.

      “A toute a l’heure,” she said, looking back through the open door.

      “Bien sûr,” I said. “Bonne chance et bon voyage.”

      The next day I picked up a book Lucie said I had to read, Barbara Tuchman’s A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous Fourteenth Century. “I rarely trust American authors on European topics,” she had said, “and it is rare I will attempt six hundred pages in English, but this book is exceptional. It will open your eyes to life outside those walls.” As I walked across town toward my office paging through the book, it struck me how different Lucie and Diane were. When was the last time Diane recommended a book? I had no idea.

      TWO MORE TRIPS TO PARIS to confer with Didier and check on the appartement. Didier was very pleased, taking full credit for landing a Pulitzer Prize winner for his shop. Didier’s Editor of Arts & Culture, Celeste de Joinville, was impressed that I knew Lucie, apparently a well-known source about medieval art and often quoted. Edouard LaRoche, a courtly gentleman near retirement, had been the Paris Bureau’s Business Editor for years, predating even Didier, and would stay on as I shouldered some of his reporting duties. He wasn’t at all perturbed by my appearance. “En fait, this gives me more time at my country home in Giverny – you know, the water lilies.”

      I saw Pat once on these trips but didn’t have time to look Lucie up. I was still plowing through her fourteenth century, 596 pages of small print (679 with notes and index) and a slow go. I also had a problem with the author’s thesis. My “monastery” may have stressed positive thinking, but Tuchman took things to the opposite extreme. No doubt kings, nobles and churchmen were vain, greedy and incompetent, but I refused to believe people in power weren’t decent Christians some of the time, at least some of them. And the life of the common folk couldn’t have been as miserable as she made it out to be, could it?

      We had decided to sell Diane’s condo but rent the Glen Cove house, figuring we’d be needing it again. Now nine, Peter was the most aware and enthusiastic of our three. Paul Junior and Emma were doing well at their private French lessons but Peter was a definite Pièrre. We brought French books home from the library and allowed them to select some from the local bookstore. Eloise, Babar, Asterix and Obelix were familiar company, The Red Balloon, Babar, and travelogues on our big TV. Peter would be entering fourth grade and I was interested to see how the American school fit him. He loved le foot, the French national game, and played at a level I hoped would let him hold his own.

      A natural charmer, Emma easily wrapped adults around her little finger. I knew when she did it to me but I didn’t care, I enjoyed it so much. Watching her go off to kindergarten in her sweater and skirt, her skinny little legs in tights, melted my heart. Emma made me realize how much Diane meant to me, almost more than our time together did. She would do well, six years old and the world at her feet. The French environment would only help, I was convinced.

      My namesake was the enigma. As outgoing and positive as the other two were, Paul was moody and given to long periods of silence. These could come unexpectedly, even during conversation when a stray thought seemed to carry him off. He also had a self-centered streak which I hesitated to call selfish or mean, but sometimes came close. He excelled at putting his little sister down and could even confound Peter with a sharp word. Sharing wasn’t high on his skills list, nor taking direction. To me it was odd how Diane doted on Paul, actually seeming to prefer him to the other two. Yes, I know the puppy is more lovable than the dog, but still.

      Part of it I chalked up to Paul Junior’s appearance. While Peter and Emma shared my round face, dark hair and swarthy complexion skin, Paul Junior took after Diane, his angular face and slight frame, his blond hair a junior version of hers. I wanted to think of him as wiry but at times he simply looked frail. He still went monthly for injections – this would continue the rest of his life. We went on heightened alert whenever he started sniffling or one of the myriad of childhood illnesses came around. Diane acknowledged some favoritism, saying “he needs my help more than the others.”

      Despite my efforts to engage him, Paul Junior hadn’t embraced the move. I worried about how he would adapt. Even in matters of religion he was odd man out, Peter and Emma interested, he diffident to an extreme. It would be too easy to say Peter and Emma were Bernards and Paul Junior an Archer, but that conclusion was there for the taking.

      As the months dragged by there was no movement on the condo. We had plenty of offers but none of them came close to Diane’s price. Diane quarreled with the agent as she pushed to make a sale and Diane held firm. None of that would matter except – and it embarrasses me to tell you this – Diane had announced she wouldn’t leave until we sold the condo. At first I thought she was joking, but she said no, she’d lose money selling it with bare walls and floors. The furniture had to stay, which meant so did we. That makes no sense, I said, we can rent furniture. As for the house, we had turned down several promising tenants. Let’s get moved, I pleaded, get the kids settled and finish the deal from Paris – that’s what agents are for. But she was adamant. July flew by and it was obvious we’d miss our deadline. Often she and I had harsh words. Your obstinance is holding the children hostage, I would say. She would break down crying, bolt from the room and slam the door.

      Now we were tentatively targeting Christmas. We agreed a clean break mid-way through the school year would be the least bad alternative at this point. For me it would come down to a hellish commute, four days in Paris, two days at home, the rest

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