LITMIR.BIZ

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and our Department, Économie. Foiling the plan, people sat wherever they wanted, though bowing to seniority, the window wall was editor territory. But the biggest difference was the quiet. Hardly any shouting. For a conversation, people used the phone or walked. And no typewriter noise – keyboards and monitors on every desk, while in New York some sizable number of old-timers clacked on, their typewriters echoing a bygone time.

      Paris’ output was totally west-directed, stories filed by satellite with New York – the most important of them that is, since the system’s capacity was limited and there were frequent outages. New York had more control over our final product, which was often put to bed without my seeing it. After a review by Didier, typically my copy went on to Harlan Kenny’s Chief Editor, a stuffy Brit named Marshall MacLeod. From time to time I called him on his editing, complaining that what appeared in the paper bore no resemblance to what I’d sent in. For a while things would improve, then they’d slide back. I was planning to go one-on-one with Harlan in December, the first “seminar” I’d be attending.

      The Gazette didn’t publish a French language edition, and its ability to offer a same-day product to the European market was entirely dependent on Pan American and TWA. With everything working, New York’s first edition arrived in time to hit the streets in London and Paris and Berlin as a final. Our main competitor, the International Herald Tribune, jointly owned by the Times and the Washington Post, had a marked advantage, as it was printed in a Paris suburb. Our tekkies were working on electronic transmission for printing here, but the Trib was well ahead of us on that score too, and, of course, the Paris papers, Le Monde, Le Figaro, were in a class by themselves.

      Outside my scope, but two Middle East developments need comment here. First, the October assassination of Anwar Sadat by a radical Islamist Army lieutenant. Tellingly, no Arab head of state attended the funeral. Late in the year, Israel provoked an uproar with a law consolidating its control in the Golan Heights occupied since the Six-Day War. Don’t call it annexation they said, but there seemed little difference.

      Of Mitterand’s new initiatives, most controversial was his proposal to nationalize the leading banks and firms and form them into industrial groups. Given the French tradition of government control of the economy dating from the chaos after World War Two, many didn’t see this as such a departure, but the rightist opposition did, and of course the owners of the companies involved. I wrote several pieces including analysis by economists about the likely impacts. Post-war economic controls had led to Les Trentes Glorieuses, turning the “sick man of Europe” into a country admired for its growth, prosperity and civility. Then OPEC struck and the suffering began again and things hadn’t gotten any better.

      By now Diane was at Goldman four mornings a week part-time, though often she didn’t get back until after the children were home from school. She seemed happy with her professional life after the diet of children and homemaking. I found myself in Brussels a day or two nearly every week at the E.U., occasionally in Strasbourg to check on the European Parlement. At least I burned less time on long-distance travel. A forty-five minute flight or a two-hour train ride didn’t even count.

      WITH PARIS THE SAME LATITUDE AS NEWFOUNDLAND, a full eight degrees north of New York, by autumn it was dark even if I left the office at a reasonable hour. So apart from a brief assist with homework, my kid time was limited to weekends. Our building had a small courtyard barely large enough for a common garden and a bench, plus a slide and swing well used when rain or wind kept us from venturing further afield. We weren’t worried about the heavy gray skies of Paris winters, though expats warned that too many dull days without a break would mess with our heads.

      The Luxembourg Gardens was our backyard, and what a backyard! The children always made a beeline for Emma’s “horsey-piano,” the old-fashioned carousel. The boys could be trusted but she needed help to stay on. Invariably Peter chose an outside horse to snag one of the rings hanging at the attendant’s station, and his brother followed suit. With the wooden baton provided, Peter captured several each visit, Paul fewer, but he was beginning to catch on. In the park’s southwest corner near an apple and pear orchard was another favorite, the Théâtre des Marionettes. Emma’s day wasn’t complete until she had a yellow balloon tied to her wrist by the balloon lady outside the theater. For their part, the boys often brought their wooden sailboats and joined other children splashing in the Grand Bassin. On his leash, Max looked on longingly. We usually finished at the fenced-in playground for a round of climbing and swinging and sliding.

      Often I brought the children alone, to give Diane a break from baby farming. On nice days we made the half-hour trek downhill from the apartment, other times we drove. One crisp, bright Saturday a few weeks after our arrival I was getting them ready for an excursion and on the spur of the moment called Pat and asked if he’d like to join us. Though he and I had already got together for a drink after work, he still hadn’t met the kids.

      “Bien sûr,” I heard as I cradled the phone, fighting over Emma’s sneaker laces.

      We met at the Medici Fountain and Pat got acquainted as they dashed up and down the walkways either side of the long basin. After twenty minutes of this, the four of them collapsed on the bench beside us. Pat looked at me and shook his head. “Day in and day out I could never do that. You must be some kind of saint. How about a coffee? The kids like chocolat?”

      “J’aime bien le chocolat. Une tasse de chocolat, s’il vous plaît.” This from Peter.

      “Moi aussi!” Paul and Emma shouted in unison.

      “That is impressive.” Pat said, tousling Peter’s hair. “Allons-y! Au chocolat!”

      Diane and I spoke nothing but French to the kids. After a couple of months we saw the language taking hold, though Peter’s New York accent seemed impervious to change. The boys raced ahead to the little café, Emma lagging behind. Pat scooped her up and hoisted her to his shoulders. “Fun up there, isn’t it?” he said, craning his neck. “Hey, this isn’t so bad after all!” We regrouped at a table outside the café. A young man was standing in front of the nearby gazebo, singing.

      “The Magic Flute,” Pat observed. “Papageno’s bird aria, of course.”

      “Of course.” I smiled and shook my head. “Still haven’t made much progress.”

      “You’re really missing something,” he said, blowing on the hot coffee. “Get a season ticket to something, you’ll be hooked in no time.”

      “No time, that’s the problem.”

      “Go when you can, give your ticket to me if you have to. You have a Walkman?”

      “The kids gave me one for my birthday. It’s still in the box.”

      “Get some tapes, listen on your way to work. Not only opera but Bach Cantatas, Stravinski, Berlioz, Poulenc. Paris is very big in music history. Take advantage of being here. You’ll be surprised – before long you’ll be an expert.”

      “If I don’t get run over first.”

      “Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. He looked around the table. Peter looked shocked. “Sorry,” Pat said, “but you can be a drudge sometimes.”

      “That was a joke. I’m better than I used to be.”

      After finishing our drinks we walked around the gardens. For every sculpture Pat had a story. Mythological figures, Beethoven, Verlaine, Delacroix, when they lived, what they were famous for. Pat got on the carousel behind Emma and steered her baton out toward the rings. She snared one on her first try as Paul stared. She was upset when she had to give it back, also finding there was no prize. Success as its own reward, a new concept.

      Though Peter was still full of energy, Emma and Paul were at the end of their ropes. I decided to hail a taxi to take us back. “If you’d like to see the apartment...”

      “Some other time, thanks. Think they’d like a tour of the museum here?” he asked.

      “Peter might, the other two, no. If you want to promote art education stick to the sculptures. When they get bored

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