LITMIR.BIZ

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      “It was interesting, her little books, the Unicorn. I owe her a call.”

      “Are you interested in skiing this year?”

      “I don’t know, I haven’t given it any thought... you know.”

      “You’d do fine. And the French Alps are wonderful – I know some great places.”

      “I have friend in London who skis. He might be interested.”

      “Who’s that?”

      “Hamid Rashid. You know, the writer.”

      “I missed him that time in Berkeley. Maybe over Christmas – give it some thought.”

      “I have to spend time with the in-laws and there’s a command performance at the home office in December. But I’ll think about it.”

      THE SIMPLICITY OF THE SCHOOL SITUATION was a great relief, all three enrolled in the same school – fourth, third and first grades. The first week Diane drove them up the hill to the Place Contrascarpe and Mme. Colbert walked them home. After that they were on their own for mornings, though school activities complicated the afternoons. Under the weather one day, I accompanied them on the twenty-minute walk. Interestingly, the school was around the corner from the Lycée Henri-IV, one of Paris’ most prestigious secondary schools. I had no idea whether we’d still be here when they were ready for high school but if so, what a fabulous opportunity. I wondered if foreigners were welcome – I’d have to check.

      The American school offered exercise and music as part of the curriculum and each kid was enrolled in sports programs, soccer for Peter and Paul, gymnastics for Emma. All three were taking private piano lessons from Mme. Peyroux, a noted concert performer in earlier days, according to the framed clippings on her wall. Her studio was in her apartment one street over from ours. We bought a spinet, which set the movers a real challenge.

      I immersed myself in my work, getting into a good routine. I didn’t report on it, but I watched French TV avidly as large crowds demonstrated in European capitals, over three hundred thousand in Bonn echoing calls in the U.S. for a nuclear freeze and protesting deployment of U.S. intermediate-range nuclear missiles on the continent.

      We celebrated Thanksgiving at home, American style. Diane invited another recently-arrived family, the Collins, whose Sophie was Emma’s best friend in the American school. Pete Collins was a lawyer with Coudert Frères, Trudy a graphic designer. Diane proved again, when she put her mind to it she was a very good cook. The boys and I shopped for fixings in the épicerie down the block where prices were quite a bit higher than Carrefour and the other hypermarchés, but the intimacy was pleasant and I liked supporting our neighbors. We weren’t entirely faithful to les épiceries, though, for a regular Sunday stop after church was the Place Monge street market, where we loaded up on fresh produce, eggs and baguettes, and patisseries to reward a good week of school.

      I DIDN’T ORDINARILY SEE THE ATLANTIC, but just before Thanksgiving Didier left a copy of the December issue on my desk marked Must-read! Place-marked was William Greider’s article, “The Education of David Stockman.” A reporter for the Post, Greider’s name was familiar. At the top of the article a Stockman quote caught my eye. “None of us really understands what’s going on with all these numbers.”

      No kidding, I thought, settling down with the article. Greider reviewed Reagan’s slash-spending and cut-tax recipe for balancing the federal budget. As I’ve said, economists with and without axes to grind, Democrats with definite axes to grind, editorial writers and plenty of ordinary citizens – few believed Reagan’s approaches could work, separately or together. And grow our way out of the crisis? Not a chance. Didier was right, this was a bombshell. How on earth did Reagan’s canny Budget Director permit himself to drop his guard and speak the truth? That’s not the way of this administration or most others, for that matter. I rubbed my hands together – Dispatch material if ever I saw it.

      Stockman admitted he’d been wrong about balancing the budget. Hard to dispute him there, for after nearly a year at the helm, Reagan was still presiding over inflationary deficits. Declining markets signaled Wall Street’s disbelief. Interest rates had risen yet higher, squeezing farmers seeking their annual crop loans, killing auto and real estate sales. Many savings and loan associations were near insolvency.

      Stockman’s first telling revelation – he and the Reagan camp had jiggered the OMB computer models with optimistic assumptions about how the economy would respond to their plan. His second, he had no solid basis for thinking tax cuts for the wealthy would work for anybody but them. The whole effort was based on faith – conservative faith that the profit incentive would lead the country out of its malaise. But was it really faith, or something more ominous? Midway through the article, Stockman told us essentially that supply-side is nothing but a scam to benefit the richest Americans at the expense of the rest of us. Fair enough. One analysis I saw showed everybody but the top 5% paying more tax, not less! A giant step toward the hoary Republican dream of reversing FDR’s “leveling.” On the crucial question whether the economy might start to respond, eventually, to the stimulation of the tax cut, Stockman gave this candid and revealing reply – “who knows?”

      Can you believe it? “Who knows!”

      I began sketching out a Dispatch. To my mind the question was who gets hurt if the scheme fails, and equally important, who does not? The military is protected, its budget actually increased. The wealthy, they’ve already pocketed their tax cut. So the risk falls on the poor and middle class. For them an across-the-board tax cut is useless, and worse yet, the services they need are eliminated or cut up-front to pay for goodies for the wealthy. And through it all the Great Communicator leads the cheering. I ended my Dispatch by observing that the only thing certain about Reagan’s scheme is the Selfish Revolution it will produce. Quite a few nastygrams on that one!

      I interviewed Edouard Delors, the French Minister of Economics and Finance, several E.U. officials, a number of European CEOs and union leaders, and à la Alan Mauro, a sampling of gens-in-the-street. Nobody was surprised. The U.S. was odd and unfathomable, and given its recent choice for President, getting more peculiar all the time.

      By now, New York was expecting me to provide them with a Dispatch each month, and Fred hinted they might want more. Surveys showed our readers eagerly awaited them. Not that they always agreed with me, as the mail made plain – and I admit I salted the column with enough scratchiness to stir things up and keep it interesting. Fred also told me they were working on a plan for a Parisian newspaper they cooperated with, l’Express, to run my Dispatches in their pages, en français, of course. Formidable!

      I FINALLY MADE IT THROUGH THE TUCHMAN BOOK, prompting me to call Lucie and set a date to meet. Even though it would be the Louvre, Diane declined. She had leafed through the book and judged it boring, asking why I wasted my time on stuff like that. Think of it as a business book, I said. Kings and knights, CEOs and VPs – it’s all about the loot. I was waiting at the information desk when Lucie roared up.

      “I called your office but you had already left.” Her eyes were flashing. “Je suis si furieuse! I was supposed to receive final approval for the exhibition design and le salaud! – I shall leave him unnamed – is trying to persuade le directeur to change the location which would ruin everything! Pah! Here, come with me.” She raced down a flight of stairs. I followed, wondering why medieval art was always down a flight of stairs, but this was no time for a question like that. Stopping at a heavy door she inserted a large, old-fashioned key. “Sorry, but this has been an awful day.”

      “You know, if you want to put it off...”

      “No. Perhaps it’ll get my mind off my troubles.”

      The lock groaned as she turned the key. We stepped into a small, dimly-lit, windowless room. Lucie reached for a switch and brought up the lights. The low-ceilinged room was filled with ping-pong-sized tables covered by tiny models. Folded white sheets were draped over a chair in the corner, drawings, diagrams plastered on the walls. She stopped in front of a floor plan.

      “The exhibition

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