LITMIR.BIZ

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it than you Americans.”

      “Au contraire,” Michel observed. “As an example, we have no equivalent for your expression ‘male chauvinist pig.’”

      Lucie laughed. “Pour les Français, c’est une tautologie. By the way, it opens July 1, though of course you will all be invited to le vernissage. The behind-the-scenes work is a bit behind but we will catch up.”

      “I was interested to see your articles comparing French policy with that of the United States,” Michel noted. “You appear to be having quite the revolution back there.”

      “The right wingers will fall short but a lot of people will be hurt in the process. Our hope is they look so foolish they discredit themselves for at least a couple of election cycles.”

      “I also read the article,” Lucie said, “I and must caution you, the enviable position of la belle France is rather recent. For a long time after the war things here were not so good.”

      “And now after such a spectacular beginning Mitterand is faltering,” Michel added. “The economy does not respond. He pushes the levers and nothing happens.”

      “Perhaps they’re not hooked up to anything.”

      “That is the fear.”

      As we left the bistro, Pat pulled me aside. “I have a tip for you.”

      “I’m all ears.”

      “You’re aware of the sickness that’s been showing up in gay men.”

      “AIDS. I’m starting to follow it.”

      “It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I’ve already have lost a couple of friends.”

      “What’s your suggestion?”

      “How the French are handling it compared with those holier-than-thous in Washington. The government here puts money into research while we point fingers. ‘You brought it upon yourself, you deserve whatever you get.’ It’s disgraceful!”

      “I’ll look into it.”

      “I’ll be your research assistant – informally of course.”

      MEANTIME, ON THE WORLD STAGE, Reagan-Brezhnev continued to sputter. Reagan had stepped up military funding. Deter, yes, and bankrupt the Soviet Union while we’re at it. Stretch the USSR far enough, possibly it will break, though who knew what the consequences of that might be. In early eighty-two, angered by the Communist crackdown in Poland, Reagan approved economic sanctions against the USSR and we were picking up rumors that the CIA was now free to provide covert assistance to the Polish rebels. As for the nuclear freeze movement, people continued taking to Europe’s streets to protest NATO’s nuclear missiles on their soil.

      In early May, Reagan made a remark that astonished the world. Those people in the streets want a freeze, he said in a speech. I’ll go them one better – how about a reduction! We’ll reduce our delivery systems if Moscow will. Reagan’s dovelike turn floored his military advisors, though recognizing the offer covered only land-based delivery systems, not submarines where the U.S. had clear superiority, the Soviet leadership saw through it. Still, his remarks caused me some consternation. They didn’t square with my picture of the man. I cautiously filed the event away, wondering if he had something more up his sleeve.

      In March the U.S. embargoed Libyan oil imports to penalize Colonel Qaddafi’s support for the P.L.O. and other terrorist groups. But internationally, the big event of the spring was an actual shooting war. On April 2 Argentina mounted amphibious landings on the British-held Falkland Islands (Malvinas, to the Argentines) in the South Atlantic 500 miles east of Argentina. Their sovereignty had been long disputed. After some difficulty, by late June the British had retaken one of the two large islands and the war was over. During the 74-day conflict 649 Argentinian servicemen were killed, 258 British. British national pride soared and the chances of the Thatcher government surviving the upcoming election substantially improved. In Argentina the military government was discredited and in elections the following year the country returned to constitutional rule.

      IN MID-JUNE WE CELEBRATED THE END of the school year. Peter did well, he always did well. An almost painful copy of me at that age, he was bright, diligent to a fault, wanting to please. He excelled at math and science, but unlike me had the kind of athletic skills I only dreamt about, especially soccer which he played with passion. Success came more easily to Emma, thanks to her selective approach to learning. She knew how to direct her energy. Gymnastics interested her and she showed good if not exceptional ability. Soon after we moved to Paris it started – sparks flying between Diane and Emma, then that became a routine occurrence. The two of them disputed little things that seemed to me not worth fighting about. Hair length. what to wear to school, when could she listen to her Walkman, how often could she sleep over at Sophie’s.

      Diane shrugged it off. “It’s a mother-daughter thing,” she would say.

      This was news to me. What was indisputable, the little girl Diane wanted so badly had become a real handful. As for Emma and me, we got along fine. Not one to draw lines for the sake of drawing lines, at times I put my foot down but more often she got her way. That’s probably why we got along so well.

      Once again, Paul Junior was odd man out. As school made more demands, his performance deteriorated. He turned in unfinished work, acted up in class. We met with his teacher who said he was having difficulty paying attention. Our pediatrician said this is not uncommon among children who have recovered from serious illnesses. Keep an eye on it – if it doesn’t come around have him see a psychiatrist. The other thing that upset me, there was nothing, no school subject, no game or activity he seemed really interested in. I’m tempted to say he was developing a tepid personality but when he turned on his wonderful smile it lit up everything and banished all negative thoughts. Until the next time.

      I counted it a big improvement that my children weren’t growing up terrified of nuclear annihilation. They were curious about the protesters they saw in the papers, on television, sometimes encountering them in the streets, and we discussed why they were out there, but it wasn’t the grinding type of fear I lived through. Nor were they haunted by the specter of eternal damnation, the approach of their CCD teachers night-and-day different from my nuns and brothers.

      One day in mid-July, just after Bastille Day, I arrived home to find a letter from Gus.

      Dear Paul,

      Akiko died, on the 30th. She didn’t want a fuss so we kept it very small. I was going to call but I figured with the distance and anyway you’re busy. The last year was very hard. She needed a wheelchair to get around. At one point it looked to be under control, but not so. Her last days were peaceful and at the end she was serene, Dylan Thomas to the contrary notwithstanding.

      I trust you are doing well and look forward to seeing you one of these days.

      Your friend,

      Gus

      I sat down and re-read the letter. Tears came to my eyes. Be good to her, God. Poor Gus. I looked at my watch. Nine hours, it’d be mid-morning there. I went into the study Diane and I shared and picked up the phone, then I put it down. What kind of friend am I? I’d known for a year Akiko was ill and what did I do? Nothing. Okay, a letter at Christmas, but no call, no visit, nothing. I remembered their coming to see me... my face felt warm. I had let my friend down. I took a deep breath. Suck it up. I picked up the phone and punched in Gus’ number. He answered on the first ring.

      “Gus, it’s Paul.”

      “Paul, how are you?”

      “Terrible. I just received your letter.”

      There was a pause on the line. “It was her time, it’s for the best. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.”

      “I am sorry, Gus, really sorry. I wasn’t much of a help.”

      “Don’t worry about it. I had plenty of help.”

      “Is

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