LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Thank you, Your Holiness,” I managed, “you are most kind to remember him.”

      “Go in peace, young man, and never forget, your profession is vital to the cause of freedom. I pray you will have the courage always to speak the truth.”

      I walked away, dazed.

      Buoyed by the encounter, my maudlin thoughts gone, I couldn’t wait to get back. Diane was subdued, welcoming. I wondered whether her mother had a talk with her. She asked me about the trip, my meeting with the Pope. Peter was interested in the prayer cards with the picture of John Paul. Three mementos – one for Emma, one for Peter and the third, Paulie’s. “Keep this one,” I told Peter, “Paulie would like you to have it.”

      He looked at me with an intense expression. “I know. He told me so.”

      “You mean in the hospital?”

      “No, last night. Paulie and me, we talk all the time.”

      I nodded. Nothing is impossible.

      A month later General Jaruzelski lifted Poland’s state of war. Fear is the glue that holds dictatorships together, I wrote, and when you see the glue dissolve...

      I CALLED PAT AND A FEW OTHERS to let them know about Paulie. A week after my return a letter arrived from, of all people, Meg. She said how sorry she was and hoped I was bearing up. A brief account of her medical practice, said she and Clyde were expecting their first, then she went on.

      I know I made the right decision, but for a long time I’ve been ashamed of how I treated you. I didn’t know how to say I was sorry. You deserved better and I hope you’ve found it with Diane. You are a good man and I think fondly of you. Perhaps this will clear the air. I hope so. Take care. Always, Meg

      I put the letter in my desk. What’s past is past. I felt warmed by her words, and perturbed. Her comment about Diane... if she only knew.

      Speaking of Pat, a couple of weeks later he called and I rang him back. He reminded me that this was the year, the twentieth anniversary of our pledge to re-enact our event on Mount St. James. “I take it you don’t plan to be back there anytime soon,” I said.

      “Hardly.”

      “Let’s do it on Montmartre? Nothing says we can’t have a new venue.”

      And so, the first Saturday morning in July, a breezy, balmy day, I met my old friend on the butte Montmartre, highest point in Paris, on a bench under the brow of Sacre Coeur, overlooking Clichy and Rochechouart, former site of a risqué nightlife scene, now a sprawling marché aux puces. “I often come here to clear my head,” Pat said as we observed the panorama. He opened his backpack and took out a paper bag. “Need to keep this little beauty out of sight. Here we are, only steps from Paris’ last working vineyard but the flics know nothing of history. So how’d your meeting with John Paul Deux go? You two an item yet?” He uncorked the bottle and filled two plastic glasses with vin rosé.

      “Hardly, but something remarkable happened.” I related his comment about my injury and his prayer for Paulie.

      “He must have a good advance man.”

      “It’s more like I do.”

      “Well, cheers,” Pat said, raising his glass.

      “Santé.”

      Pat took a round of cheese from his pack. “Folks, you may wonder why I called this meeting. Simple – we take stock after lo, these many years.” He looked at me. “I figured you’d have put it off it you weren’t up to it.”

      “Yeah.” I paused. “You know, I was really touched by the Pope’s comments. He is a genuinely holy man, practical and saintly both. A rare combination.”

      “I’ll take your word for it. But look at that,” he said, gesturing at the white monolith behind us. “Will he disavow that? Sure, it’s interesting architecture, but for the price they could have fed and housed a lot of people down on their luck. When did Christ ever tell Peter and the boys, go forth and build me one of those? They met in homes, in caves, under cover. Christ was a subversive! I tell you, Paul, the Church celebrates Constantine but he was a disaster for Christ’s message, for his ministry.”

      “You sound like Gus.”

      “Gus and I were on the same page, I saw that right away.”

      “He’s leaving Cal, coming back east. His wife died last year.”

      Pat sighed. “Too much of that going around.”

      “How goes it with you?” I asked.

      “I love it here. Michel and I get along so well it’s scary. The only trouble is nobody wants to publish my thesis – though I’ve pilfered it so much for articles, a lot of it has seen the light of day. So how about you? 60 Minutes was spectacular. You’re headed for the big time, no question.”

      “That was a big deal.”

      “So you’re on your way to your goal.”

      “Goal?”

      “Remember? You’re going to change the world for the better.”

      I laughed. “Thanks for the reminder. Nothing like inexperience to inflate your ambitions.”

      “But seriously, you’re making a name, you have a platform and I figure a modest following at least. You could be President if you put your mind to it.”

      “As you artists say, it’s not on my palette.”

      “So, how goes it with you and Diane? She doesn’t like me but, frankly, so what?”

      I paused. I hadn’t talked about this with anyone before... but why not? “Not good,” I began. “She’s not the same person I married. Not a good scene. She wants to move back.”

      “Sorry to hear that. But have you ever considered you’re not the same person she married, either? No offense, but it goes both ways.”

      I nodded. “You’re right. I’m not that easy to live with.”

      “Well, hang in there. The alternative can get pretty nasty.” He handed me a piece of cheese and bread. “Of course, there’s always Lucie.”

      I laughed. “Diane doesn’t like her either.”

      He raised his eyebrows. “Who does she like?” We fell silent. After a minute he asked, “More wine?” I held out my glass. He looked around and pulled out the paper bag. “Will we see you at Lucie’s opening? You got an invitation, right?”

      “Yeah, and I’d better r.s.v.p. For one.” I looked hard at him. “You know, I’m really glad you’re here. It helps a lot.”

      He turned away. “I don’t know about that...”

      “No, I mean it. Having an good friend here makes a big difference.”

      LUCIE’S PARTY WAS A BLAST. Le Monde would call the exhibition “stunning.” Our Sunday Gazette, “an extraordinary blend of beauty and scholarship. Don’t wait for the Met – hop a plane to Paris today!” I made sure Didier gave it special treatment and he managed to lure Pam Snyder, recently promoted to Arts & Culture Editor, to cover the show, teaming her with Celeste and assigning Max Brodeur, his best photographer. Max worked the room, capturing me in several shots, one of which made it into our “In and About” page the next day. Costumed musicians strolled around, sounding suitably medieval. I caught up with Pam, bubbling over about her new assignment. During the evening, I noticed a number of people staring, trying to figure out where they knew me from. Several introduced themselves, said how moved they were by 60 Minutes, how much they liked my work.

      Lucie had prevailed. The exhibition was ensconced in the medieval wing where it clearly belonged. Uncanny, seeing her plans come alive. I spent a lot of time in the workshop with the craftsman

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