LITMIR.BIZ

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the kids their confusion and dismay really upset me. We had done such a good a job preparing them and now there was... nothing. They would mark time in their old school. Paul Junior sank into a deep funk. He must have been looking forward to it more than he admitted.

      Then I had an idea. I called Diane’s father and said I had to see him, alone. One day I met him after work at the Club and explained the situation. “It’s her money but these are my children and it’s creating a big problem for them. In fact Paul Junior is taking quite badly.”

      “I’m not surprised,” he said after hearing me out. “My eldest daughter has a mind of her own.” He shrugged. “I always thought you were a brave man to take Diane on.”

      “You never told me that before.”

      “Does a car salesman point out the rust? You’ve been with us long enough that I can speak candidly.” Mr. Archer nodded. “Let me see what I can do.” Next day he called. “I think you’ll see movement. Not even Mrs. Archer knows. I devised a way to make Diane whole. To the extent she falls short I said I’d make it up, one way or the other.”

      “That is very generous of you.”

      There was a pause, I could practically see him shaking his head. “Paul, I’ve been in many tough negotiations but my daughter, your wife, is up there with the best of them. If the realtor is as good as you say, you’ll be under contract by this time tomorrow.”

      And so we were. Plus, the realtor was able to resurrect one of our tenant prospects, a family named Fields who were desperate to get settled before the school year.

      My imminent departure provided a good chance to be in touch with old friends. Benny asked about Hamid and I told him to watch out for the English translation of his short stories. Nathan, I had really neglected. He had taken courses with Benny and had him as his academic adviser in the doctoral program he had just completed. Completed! Just the other day he was doubtful about returning to college. He was excited to tell me he’d landed a teaching job at Brooklyn College.

      My Gazette colleagues treated me to a sendoff at Kells, presenting me a plaque and a Ray Archibald engraving of Hydrocarbon Man in a beret. Diane and I stayed in the bare condo one last time, on sleeping bags and air mattresses. The Beemer was in storage, the wagon already on the boat. Rare simplicity, flat on our backs looking at the ceiling, we here, our possessions elsewhere. Tomorrow we’d close, hand over the keys, scoop the kids and be on our way. Diane said her father had broken the logjam but gave no details, nor did I ask for any. Not even sure she was aware of my initiative – I had pledged Mr. Archer to secrecy. I wouldn’t soon forget the favor he did us, nor would I easily get over Diane’s power trip. I would miss New York but couldn’t wait to take up my new challenge. Allons-y!

      5. En France, En Français

      REAGAN THE CANDIDATE, REAGAN THE PRESIDENT – it’s all Reagan all the time. Never in my wildest imagination would I have predicted this. Playing a role, now that I can see. In fact, thinking about it that way is all that kept me from laughing. Or crying. Or both. And what a role! The best script a B actor ever lucked into. I remember my talk with Paul after the shooting. Not to brag, but that little piece of lead did give the man extra time and helped his disaster of a program sail through the Congress.

      And how about Paul! I would have guessed Washington, but understanding better the depth of his attachment to things French, it makes sense. And you see him distancing himself from business reporting. A good move to get in, even better to get out. Then of course, there’s Latimer. What a bastard, pandering to all our worst instincts. If it weren’t for him and his ilk the right-wingers would never have got this far.

      Haven’t heard from Cahill in a while. I’d better call him and find out what’s going on. Better yet, I’ll look in on Steve. Maybe he knows if they’ve set a date for my deposition. I suppose that will mean many days of preparation. Not looking forward to that, not at all.

      * * * * * * *

      THE FIRST DAY AT MON BUREAU, Fred called with the news that I’d be running in the coveted right corner of the Opinions page across from editorials, and with a prominent byline. Aided by Didier, I quickly roughed out my first set of stories, leaning heavily on Edouard LaRoche’s tracking of EEC issues. But for my first “Expat Dispatch” – that’s the name we chose – something closer to home.

      As we were leaving the States, Ronald Reagan took a step to make his rhetoric reality, and what a step it was. By law Federal employees were prohibited from striking, but this hadn’t kept them from walking off the job with impunity, and PATCO, the air traffic controllers’ union was threatening to do just that. Reagan’s stance was so revolutionary everybody thought he was bluffing, but after a forty-eight hour warning he terminated the eleven thousand controllers who didn’t return to work, barring them from federal employment for life. Though air service suffered, over time it would rebound as replacements were hired. But the impact on U.S. labor relations was profound and lasting. Undercutting the unions’ only real weapon, Reagan encouraged employers everywhere – dared might be the better word – to take a tough line when a strike was threatened. A seismic shift in corporate governance was on, with labor costs at the top of management’s hit list.

      I sketched out the European reaction and set it in the context of French labor, for whom causing inconvenience and backing government into a corner is a time-honored tactic. And, the adversaries feeding off one another, government routinely awards the demanded wages and benefits hikes, in effect bribing strikers to mollify the public – that is, voters. In the May general election, for the first time ever Socialists had captured the French presidency, and they followed up with big wins in the summer’s legislative races. Not only would the government’s pro-labor bias continue, but if François Mitterand had his way, the French economy would take on a distinctly socialist cast, exactly opposite from Reagan. A wealth tax. Reduction of the work week to thirty-nine hours. Five weeks’ paid vacation. Forced retirement at sixty. Government-funded education and health services already part of the system. And something to make my readers blanch – Communists in Mitterand’s coalition government! A Dispatch if I ever saw one!

      I slid easily into a routine. Everyone was aware top management wanted me to succeed, and I supposed the smiles and kind words of some colleagues covered a degree of animosity. For my part I worked hard to be part of the team, sharing my contacts, taking time to provide American color requested for their stories.

      The PATCO Dispatch went over well – I even had an attaboy note from Tom O’Connor. My second Dispatch dealt with Reagan’s unique plan to redirect income from the poor to the wealthy. Tax cuts for the richest 5% of Americans, increases for everybody else. Massive increases in military spending that would fuel inflation, already running near twenty percent. Cuts in social programs, dismantling of social and economic programs for the poor. I described my European colleagues’ disbelief that the U.S. was becoming so reactionary. I couldn’t help laughing – here I am, living in Paris, exploiting the great material Reagan and Company generating. Washington wasn’t necessary, after all.

      That second Dispatch provoked a flood of criticism. Of course everything’s provided in Europe – the taxes are extreme. Three-plus days of the week everybody works for the government. Nor does the European enjoy the opportunities Americans have to attain riches and position – limited horizons and modest ambition are his lot. Others disagreed, saying look through Reagan’s rhetoric to the true malice of his plan. A big dose of pain for everybody but the well-off. With unemployment at unprecedented levels, for a lot of folks no jobs equals no income, and with inflation, your savings, what’s left of them, are worth less each day. Then the ultimate despair of the poor, watching the safety nets being shredded just when they’re needed most.

      As I saw the reader response and basked in my superiors’ praise, I realized that America’s lurch to the right was going to be my ticket out of business reporting, though it will take time and a deft touch. Meantime, of course, I’ll do my “real job” well, give the Gazette what it wants, plus a whole lot more.

      Our Paris newsroom was an obvious and altogether unsuccessful

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