LITMIR.BIZ

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with that father or brother who never made it back from the crusade. Same old story, the boy scout and the old lady don’t sell papers. Or historical narratives either, I guess.”

      “That would have been a different book, but Paul, what if there is no God, no afterlife? Those people would have put their faith in something that leads nowhere.”

      What she said made me think of the monk and the man in white... was I taking the Inquisitor’s side here? Putting that discomforting thought aside, I went on. “If your beliefs help you treat people fairly, be generous to your friends and loving to your family, what’s so bad about that? And as Pascal said, there is always the chance that when you close your eyes that last time perhaps there will be something else.”

      “I wouldn’t have taken you for a betting man.”

      “Normally I’m not. You know, Lucie, you asked if I was resentful – the answer is no. But I do feel anger at those who abuse people’s trust. Let me give you a tip – when you see someone abusing his power, look carefully. At the heart of it is lying. Without fail, lying. I have a personal investment in this, it almost got me killed.”

      “You just smiled. That’s nothing to smile at.”

      “I was thinking of my mother. When I was small she warned me about people in authority. Unfortunately that went over my head too.”

      “One should always listen to one’s mother.”

      “She was more perceptive than the so-called intellectuals I ran with later.”

      We parted, Lucie to her workshop, I to my newsroom. We gave each other a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. I told her I looked forward to seeing her again. She said the same.

      At home that evening I offered to give Diane an account of our visit but she declined.

      “Sorry, I just don’t like that woman.” Then she added something surprising. “She makes me feel uncomfortable.”

      “Uncomfortable?”

      “She’s so self-righteous. Oh, let’s drop it. I really don’t want to talk about your Lu-cie.”

      I shrugged and turned back to my book. Later that evening other snippets of conversation came to mind and I asked myself, could it be Diane’s jealous? I had never thought she lacked self-confidence, but deep down, was that her problem? And another thing – if she’s jealous of Lucie, maybe she has reason to be.

      BY OCTOBER BREZHNEV AND THE SOVIETS, fed up with Poland, forced out the Party’s First Secretary and replaced him with the reliable General Jaruzelski. But the situation worsened and Solidarity’s leaders threatened a general strike. On December 12 Jaruzelski imposed martial law, suspending Solidarity, arresting Lech Walesa, and thousands of others. Having encouraged the stirrings of freedom, John Paul II prayed and, ever the patriot, maneuvered.

      We spent Christmas of 1981 in our new home, putting off the complication of a ski vacation with three little people for another time. I avoided the office the week after Christmas, working from home as Diane took Emma back to New York to visit with her parents. I was happy not to go, having just returned from my first Harlan Kenny seminar which got old very quickly. The boys and I cruised around Paris, revisiting the store windows and Père Nöel’s workshop in Printemps. The week before Christmas Diane had taken them into la Samaritaine where they sat on the great man’s knee. Paul was upset that Santa spoke French and wasn’t fat enough. “This doesn’t count! I won’t get any presents.”

      One afternoon I showed them to the office then ambled along the Champs d’Elysées as the tree lights came on. At an outdoor market we visited the chalets, enjoying sausage and cheese, gingerbread and hot cider. That evening I chanced a concert at Sainte-Chapelle, one of my absolute favorite places. I was congratulating myself for making it through Bach and Palestrina, but at intermission Paul complained of a stomach ache. We got to a restroom just in time for him to throw up something a ginger-colored sausage mix. Right away he felt better but I steered us to the Metro and packed him off to bed.

      Early in the new year I scheduled interviews for a story about British tariffs against French wine imports, also was researching the Reagan-Thatcher duo, and caught up with Hamid. He was supervising the translation of his Arabic stories and verses into several other languages. He was also teaching a writing class at his old school, but his main focus was his next opus, as he told me over dinner, a historical novel about Ya’qub bin Laith as-Saffar, founder of the Saffarid dynasty. “From eastern Iran, humble origins, a coppersmith, that’s what saffar means, then he turned to banditry, built an army and eventually gained control of most of what is now Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan.”

      “Talk about an impossible job. When did all this happen?”

      “Second half of the ninth century. He’s credited with bringing the Persian language back after centuries of domination by Arabic. His luck ran out when he was defeated in Baghdad. After his death his brother Amr succeeded him but the dynasty faltered and the territory shrank. It’s end date is generally considered to be 1003.”

      I laughed. “I thought I was into antiquity but you’ve got me beat. I’ve been reading about the fourteenth century. In Europe, that is.”

      “This is a departure,” Hamid said, “though I suppose most of what I write, what anyone writes, is historical, one way or the other. If the author puts made-up characters in a made-up world, he’s writing a fantasy and he can do what he wants. But if he uses the quote-unquote real world he has to get it right, which means history. My world here was once real and so were the characters, so it’s doubly demanding. And I am not trained as an historian.”

      “How much longer?”

      “Two years, eighteen months if I get lucky.”

      “You’re slowing down in your old age.”

      Hamid laughed. “Don’t we all? You’re doing well. You already have a Pulitzer.”

      “And you almost a Booker!”

      “Almost a Booker. From time to time I come across your articles, though I haven’t seen you on television yet.” He sat back. “You know, the other day I was thinking how different what I do is from what you do, I mean on the point of truth-telling. Very different approaches. Not only can I lie, I must lie. That’s what storytelling is all about. Now, if you did what I did you’d be out of a job.”

      “Come on, what you do isn’t lying.”

      “Oh, but it is. I make things up. That’s what I do for a living.”

      I shook my head. “Lying implies malice. That’s not what you’re about.”

      “Not deliberately, but if Plato was right, society’s mythmakers do a lot of harm. Not to mention its musicians.”

      “In a structured state they make it more difficult to keep order. But that’s hardly what we’re talking about.”

      “No? What about Elvis? Or the Beatles? The Sixties – you remember them.”

      I shook my head. “Sorry I brought it up.”

      “Do you hear from Gus? I haven’t talked with him in a while.”

      “Occasionally. He takes full credit for our achievements, you’ll be happy to know. Incidentally, Akiko has been ill, some sort of nerve condition. It’s pretty serious.”

      ONE MORNING IN FEBRUARY JUST AS I ARRIVED Didier intercepted me, all excited. “New York’s going crazy. I called your home but you’d left. A drilling rig off Newfoundland just sank in a storm. They need somebody out there but Linda can’t do it...”

      “She’s due about now.”

      “Exactly. Tom O’Connor wants you to cover it. Can you spare a few days?”

      I thought a moment. “What I’m working on I can put in shape for Edouard.”

      “There’s

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