Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book Two ~ Age of Reckoning - Jan David Blais - Страница 6

WITH JONATHAN AWAY I’VE INHERITED THE JOB of research assistant. Not my cup of tea, but if it helps us finish I’m okay with it. Every day I enter my observations into the computer. I am also reviewing his draft but have given up on that editing program, all those squiggles and underlines. Just another damned gadget I don’t want. Give me paper and a red pen any time. As I do this I have been trying to figure out why Dennis is helping us and what Jonathan can add to the program. My guess, Dennis wants to pin the screwups where they belong, on that bunch of Bush amateurs. I felt bad about Paul’s boy, but what spunk! None of my neighbors built an airplane, let alone in a garage. Nor did I ever have one who made me look reasonable by comparison, whatever that means.

Last night Jonathan called, very upbeat. A bad connection but I gather they’ve made contact with the “target.” He is really into this cloak and dagger stuff. Home runs are fine, I tell him, but singles and doubles win ball games. You need to get back here and shorten up on your bat.

* * * * * * *

THE WARMEST INAUGURATION DAY IN HISTORY saw Ronald Wilson Reagan sworn in as the fortieth President of the United States. So out of place in Sacramento and look where he is now. Despite my misgivings, I wished him well. We needed help and if he was the one to provide it, more power to him. The lavish festivities – even Barry Goldwater clucked his disapproval – ushered out Carter-era austerity with a vengeance. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. If you don’t, what’s wrong with you? The very day Reagan took office, minutes after the swearing-in, the Iran embassy hostages were free. More exquisite timing? Or did citizen Reagan break the law to get himself elected? Once again sizzle beats steak – the American public had given up on steak. Sizzle’s a lot more fun. The day of the hostages’ tickertape parade I interviewed a number of my Vietnam Vets. Many couldn’t care less, but others vented their bitterness at the welcome given this latest batch of heroes compared with the scum treatment they received.

For the Gazette’s end-of-January business review I would survey the oil scene and venture to project what was coming under the new administration. Reagan’s views augured well for U.S. business, but the outlook for the consumer wasn’t so good. As government restraints were eased, companies would raise prices. Night still does follow day. Protection against dangerous products and misleading practices would suffer as well.

Sitting around Fred’s table scoping out the story, our team realized the real news was the multinationals. American firms readily leap-frogged our borders, sending work to Mexico, South America, Korea, Taiwan, even China – in some cases even setting up factories to exploit cheaper labor. The dark side of this coin – well-paying domestic jobs were fast disappearing. Free-market capitalism equated to globalization in action, and in our view would only increase under Reagan. Euphemisms like “downsizing” and “rightsizing” were in common use. Could the unions stem the tide? We thought not. Their debilitated condition made them easy prey, and Reagan, the former union chief, would be no friend of theirs. In fact, soon he would deal them a blow from which they would not recover.

My piece of what became a three-part series afforded me a trip to Paris to interview officials at the IEA, also Brussels for talks at the European Union where much was in flux including the vision of what it might become. I spent a couple of days in our Paris bureau and was able to corner Didier Lemaire for a private talk. When I asked whether he was still interested in having me join his team, he said he’d like nothing better.

We found ourselves agreeing that if we could pull it off, I’d cover European politics as well as business stories. Also the impact of Washington – its quotas, tariffs, and regulatory actions (what’s left of them). From here I was able to steer Didier to something that would make the assignment much more compelling. “How about an occasional commentary?” I asked. “Business, yes – but politics, culture, sports, too. And I can describe how expats see the U.S. from a distance.”

“Opinion pieces, like you do now.” Didier paused a moment. “For coordination you would submit your idea first, correct? Also to be sure you are aware of the subtleties here.”

After a moment Didier started nodding his head. “Well then, I think that could be a very good addition for you,” he rubbed his hands together, “and for the Gazette.”

I left buoyed by Didier’s enthusiasm. I tried to reach Pat but he was out of the country. Just as well, I thought, no time this trip for a decent visit. On the plane ride I replayed my conversation with Diane about Europe, worried that I’d taken this further and faster than we had envisioned. But she was still positive, had even sounded out her parents. “Mother said it would be hard but it would be very good for your career.”

“What about your father?”

“He reminded me, it was he who pushed to send Penny and me abroad. He said some time in international banking would be a big plus.”

I needed to bring Fred into the loop fast. He was out so I got on his calendar his first day back. If he liked the idea he would help sell it to Harlan Kenny. The daily grind was becoming more difficult, but I told myself, snap out of it. Oil was my idea and it was working out well. I was television more, twice as a guest panelist on Meet the Press, and interviewed several times as an oil expert. I owed oil, for sure, but it was time to move on.

In mid-February, I heard from LTN and Harry Firth. “You’ve been spreading your wings. I liked that globalization piece. Somewhat broader than your usual work, no?”

“Not by oil alone doth man live. I’ve been following international for a while.”

“You’ve been on TV more, too. You come across well.”

“It’s a nice break from reporting.”

“I’m thinking it’s time I put you and Mr. Latimer together. What do you say?”

“That’d be fine. Do you have something in mind?”

“I think you might be TV news material. You’d need a lot of polishing, of course, but we may have something to talk about. Let me speak with him about that.”

We left it that he’d get back to me in a few days. When I told Diane it immediately prompted a fit of misgiving about Europe, but I said Harry’s call was speculative, nothing to count on.

The weeks went by with no follow-up, and I put it out of mind. To complicate matters, whenever I ran into Charlie Stebbins he invariably prodded me about Washington. Still on the middle burner I’d tell him. Not that Washington would have been bad. The national scene was going to be fascinating, considering the uproar Reagan and his gang were bound to foment. But I had Europe on the brain.

I was a little embarrassed that Fred had already heard from Didier, but I needn’t have been. “This could be a very good move,” Fred said over lunch, in a nice place for a change and my treat. “Sometimes sideways is the best way up, though that’s not fair to Foreign, a lot of people have made a fine career of it. Now a personal question – am I wrong or are you getting antsy?”

“It doesn’t show in my work, I hope.”

“Not at all, but a certain kind of person can stay with one thing only so long. That’s you.” I didn’t disagree. He ordered another bottle of wine. “I have an unusually slow afternoon, don’t know how that happened. I hope you don’t have too much on your plate.”

“I’d better not after this,” I said, lifting my nearly empty glass.

“So. Harlan will tell Didier we’ve talked. As far as management’s concerned it’s a go. We’ve already cleared it with Tom. You and Didier better set up a timetable.”

I was surprised he’d taken it so far. “How much time will you need to find a replacement?”

“No offense but we already have somebody in mind. A month at most. The limiting factor is you. It’s a big job, moving a family – overseas is that much more complicated.”

“I’m not looking forward to that part of it.”

“Get yourselves settled by the start of school. If I’m not mistaken French schools start earlier than ours. Get to know Monique Desjardins, she’s Didier’s right hand. She’ll help you find a place, schools – she’s very good.” The waiter appeared with the second bottle. “Well, here’s to your new adventure. We’re going to miss you.”

“You make it sound like a fait accompli,” I laughed.

“I wish I had your way with languages. You keeping up the Arabic? That’ll come in handy for France. A big immigrant population and not all of them happy campers. By the way, how’s your wife feel about the move?”

“A lot better than I expected, thankfully.”

Didier and I agreed to target the third week of August. “Everything shuts down in August so we need to set it all up ahead.”

It helped that Fred had picked Linda Dobbins to replace me. She had good instincts, plenty of experience, and knew the players. When I was settled she’d come over and I’d give her the tour, introduce her to the European scene she didn’t already know.

A BUZZ DEVELOPED IN THE CITY ROOM one morning in late March, people crowding around the TVs. “It’s Reagan! He’s been shot!”

We watched the scene outside the Washington Hilton – all the majors were carrying it plus the new all-news cable channel, CNN. Spokesmen were downplaying it but fact is, the President was in George Washington University Hospital undergoing emergency surgery. He’d been hit in the chest and that’s never good. Jim Brady, his well-liked press secretary, was critical, shot in the head by the young gunman who also wounded a District police officer and a Secret Service agent. My first reaction – this can’t be happening. But it was. One of the channels cobbled together a review of assassination attempts – Gerald Ford the last, actually two for him in a seventeen-day period in 1975. Both times he escaped injury.

It was seventy-nine days into Ronald Reagan’s presidency.

As the day unrolled, we learned a bullet traveled through Reagan’s lung and lodged an inch from his heart. In the ordeal his body lost half its blood. The surgery was successful but there was fear of infection. Brady was paralyzed, possibly for life, but there was optimism Reagan would make a complete recovery. His spirit was incredible. “Honey, I forgot to duck” – that’s what he told his wife in the ER. And just before he went under the knife he remarked to the surgical team, “please tell me you’re all Republicans.”

An attending doctor who turned out to be a liberal Democrat, got it right. “We’re all Republicans today.”

Despite my animosity, I couldn’t help feeling compassion for the man, as my own near-miss came back in focus. I called Gus, remarking that we had shared one of these before and telling him of my reaction. “It’s entirely understandable,” he said, “don’t be ashamed of it.”

I laughed. “Hey, I didn’t call you for counseling. Don’t worry, this is not going to change my opinion about the man’s policies.”

“Nor mine.” Then, as usual, he offered a twist. “But for a lot of people it will.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ll bet you a sixpack this gives his legislative program a tremendous boost. For the next six, nine months, the man can do no wrong.”

And that’s exactly what happened. Who knows whether Reagan’s budget slashes and tax cuts would have sailed through Congress without John Hinkley’s revolver, but they did.

DIANE AND I POUNDED THE LATIN QUARTER PAVEMENT the first week in April in the company of a real estate agent Monique had directed us to. We would start out renting, see how it went. We quickly found a third-floor walk-up appartement, large by Paris standards, in the 5ème arrondisement on a quiet street off Rue Monge, downhill from the Pantheon and Place de Contrascarp. They didn’t even mind Max – that would have been a deal killer. Available August 1, time to move our furniture from the condo, about the same size, plus children’s essentials and as many treasures as we could fit. We also interviewed several women to help out with the children and settled on one, Mme. Colbert – Fernande – who seemed suitable.

Diane took a day to visit Goldman’s Paris office. “These days so many deals have foreign players, this will be very good for me,” she said, adding that she already knew some of her new colleagues. This trip we did get together with Pat and, though Michel was unavailable, Lucie made a foursome for dinner. Pat still hadn’t found a publisher for his thesis, and he had other bad news. His father had died a few months earlier, a total surprise.

“I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t know.”

“We wanted to keep it small, private.”

“I hope your mother’s doing okay.”

“As well as can be expected. Grand-maman is still going strong.”

“Give them my best.”

“Grand-maman was disappointed you never stopped by when you were in Boston but I told her you had a few other things on your mind.”

“That’s true, but it’s no excuse. You’re still teaching?”

“No,” he said, brightening. “I’ve been working for Sotheby, you know, the auction house. I’m their specialist for Surrealism and Art Deco, Dubuffet, Duchamps, but I help with everything. I do journal articles too, to keep my name in play. By the way, papa never said so but apparently he forgave me. He treated me very well in his will, though most of the estate went to my mother, of course. At long last the pressure is off.”

Pat was thrilled that we would be near neighbors, “near compared to what we are now. I’m looking to honing my uncle skills. So far Meg and Clyde have denied me the opportunity.” I said nothing. He echoed the advice that we were wise to enroll our kids in an American school. I had pushed for Peter to attend the local école élémentaire but Diane disagreed and I didn’t object. We’d revisit the issue next year. We found a pediatrician right in the neighborhood, a Dr. Charpentier recommended by Monique

Lucie mentioned she had a trip to New York upcoming, on a joint exhibition with the Met she was curating. Diane acted agreeable when Lucie said she was hoping for a tour of the City, but made it clear to me later she wasn’t interested in spending time with her or Pat in either city. “If you want to show that woman around, be my guest. And I would never leave my children with that friend of yours or his roommate either. I don’t trust people like that.”

“That’s ridiculous. They’re harmless.”

“How do you know?”

“I know Pat. I’ve known him for twenty years.”

“You didn’t know he was a homosexual. What else don’t you know about him?”

Frustrated, I shook my head. “Let’s just say we won’t ask them to babysit.”

Diane also slammed Lucie for uncomplimentary remarks about our new President. “What business is it of hers we finally elected a man with character and ideals?”

“Reagan will affect France in quite considerable ways. That matters to her.”

“That is not what she was saying. She doesn’t like conservatives which is her prerogative, but she could show some deference.”

“She was easy on him compared with the criticism he gets at home.”

Diane glowered. “You’re taking her side against me. And as for that friend of yours, I am truly worried about him and you make fun of me.”

“Sorry,” I said, feeling frustrated. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

“See? You never take me seriously.”

I almost said, I give you the respect you deserve, but I bit my tongue and said nothing.

WHILE I WAS AWAY HARRY FIRTH CALLED. I rang him back and he asked if I could meet next morning with Mr. Latimer. I told him I was no longer available, but he pleaded with me to be at the Latimer Building at nine-thirty tomorrow. Repeating my caveat, I agreed.

Entering through the art deco doors of the Latimer Building in Rockefeller Plaza, once the Eastern Air Lines Building, I rode the elevator to the 55th floor, exiting into a plush carpeted area. I took a seat and began perusing the Times. A few minutes after nine-thirty I looked up.

“Paul! Good of you to come!” Harry shook my hand warmly. He seemed out of breath. “Here, this way.” Passing through a long corridor I scanned a display of pictures and memorabilia documenting the Latimer media empire. The end of the corridor opened into an expansive waiting area and a doughnut-shaped desk manned (wrong word!) by an absolutely stunning girl with dark skin and jet-black hair in a tight low-cut blouse that left little to the imagination. “The boss ready for us? Oh, this is Paul Bernard. Paul, meet Melanie.”

“A pleasure,” I said, meaning it.

“Let me check.” She spoke a few words into her headset, then nodded, giving me a brilliant smile. “Go right in.”

We stepped around one last corner and found ourselves before an imposing wooden door. Under his breath Firth said, “Melanie’s really very bright. Come for the tits, stay for the smarts, that sort of thing. Her mother’s Maori.”

Firth rapped lightly on the door. I followed him into a brightly lit room with three window walls, a fishbowl opening on a magnificent view of Manhattan to the Hudson River and New Jersey. Latimer stubbed out a cigarette, jumped to his feet and came around his desk, hand extended. “Mr. Bernard! I’ve heard about you.”

Latimer was a good head shorter than me, a fireplug with broad shoulders and a thick neck, a big head and a broad face. Tightly wired too, it appeared, as he blinked rapidly. Think Edward G. Robinson on a caffeine high, with a New Zealand accent.

I shook his hand, finding his grip firm but not excessive. He gestured toward a low table surrounded by four leather chairs. “Coffee’s there,” he said, pointing at a credenza with several pitchers. I followed Firth and picked a mug bearing LTN’s logo, an eye with L in the center.

“So you’re with the Gazette,” Latimer began as we took our places. “Frank Astell and I go way back. How long have you been there?”

“Nearly twelve years.”

“And before?”

“Vietnam.”

“Of course. Everybody knows your work. Impressive what you’ve accomplished, really, the injury and all.”

“Thanks. Actually I’ve found it a help. It’s opened some doors for me.”

“I hear what you’re saying.” Latimer held up his left hand which was missing the last two fingers. “Picked a fight with a chain saw when I was a kid. Not the smartest thing I ever did, but it didn’t hold me back.”

I nodded. Didn’t know about that.

“I’ve seen you on TV – you come across well. Let’s get down to cases.” He glanced at Firth. “I understand you have an interest in television news.”

Firth’s face was reddening. He seemed to be in serious pain.

“I told Harry that a while back. From what I’ve seen of TV work it’s something I’d like to pursue down the road.”

“Ah yes, down the road.” Latimer steepled his hands in front of his face. “Harry mentioned something else.”

“I’m starting in Paris for the Gazette this summer, covering European news – business, economics, politics.”

“What would it take to make you change your mind?”

“I’m pretty well committed.”

“Committed.” He frowned. “Contracts are made to be broken, you know.”

“I’m familiar with that approach. “What did you have in mind?”

Latimer nodded at Firth. “I’ve recommended to Mr. Latimer that we bring you on as a field reporter. Not little stuff, of course – big stories. Cut your teeth, see how you do, then work you into the newsroom. Ultimately we see you as a commentator, possibly at some point an anchor. Depends on a lot of things.”

I nodded. “That’s very flattering. Too bad we didn’t get together sooner.”

Latimer looked like he’d swallowed something unpleasant. “Unfortunately my nephew dropped the ball. For me a missed deadline is a capital offense, but lucky for Harry, his work’s generally quite good. Are you interested in hearing our terms?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Firth stepped in. “Three hundred thousand to start, increase to four in six months if things go well, an increase every year. Within five years you’re looking at a million plus.”

Latimer interjected, “I ride my people hard but those who make it earn top dollar.”

I swallowed hard. Better than triple my salary even with the overseas increase. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check. If you’re offering one, that is.”

Latimer smiled, this time cold and hard – the real Latimer, the one you read about in the tabloids. All but his, that is. “I make no guarantees, but who knows, a few years as a foreign correspondent may make you an even more attractive commodity.”

I paused for a moment, sipped some coffee. “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Every time the Gazette gets into financial trouble your name comes up. Are you interested in acquiring us? Off the record, between us.”

Latimer sat back. “What do you think?”

“Where there’s smoke there’s usually fire.”

“A lot of smoke ends up nothing but smoke. But no, it’s no secret I’ve wanted a New York print presence for some time. I’d have to get around the FCC, of course, which is not impossible. The Gazette is a fine paper. Frank has done admirably in a terrible economic climate, so draw your own conclusions. I will say, that would be a way to get Paul Bernard on the cheap.”

I laughed. “That crossed my mind, too.”

He lit a cigarette. “Let’s get one thing out in the open. Everybody knows where I stand on issues. A couple of op-ed pieces Harry showed me make me think you have liberal leanings – then there is Berkeley, of course. But from everything I’ve seen you’re a pro, you don’t wear your positions on your sleeve.”

I raised my eyebrows. “At Berkeley I was probably as conservative as you on some issues.” I wondered where that ATTILA sign was... like to have a look before I leave.

“That I doubt,” Latimer said, taking a deep drag on the cigarette.

“Tell the truth, so do I. I’ve asked myself what kind of a fit it would be.”

“We don’t require a loyalty oath, if that’s what you’re driving at. Officially the network maintains a neutral posture, though that’s not easy with all the liberal crap flying around these days. I find it advantageous to hire people with a variety of positions. As long as they don’t get sideways with our basic thrust, that is.”

“Sounds like you have me pegged as the token liberal.”

“Actually, let me amend what I said. Berkeley isn’t all bad. They field some excellent rugby teams. You follow rugby?”

“Baseball’s more my speed.”

“But you know the All Blacks.”

“Of course. One of the best.”

We chatted a while longer, then Latimer looked at his watch and stood up. “Paul,” he said, shaking my hands firmly, “good of you to come by. I admire loyalty, fine quality in a young man – rare, these days, very rare. Stay in touch. Meantime I’m sure you’ll do a bang-up job for Frank in Europe. Sooner or later you’ll be looking around and who knows, something may work out between us.” He winked, “or you might find yourself part of a package deal.”

I walked out with Harry. I was disappointed Melanie wasn’t at her desk. As we passed it, Harry started in. “Between us, uncle’s memory is selective when it serves his purposes. The day after I called you I sent him a memo. Let’s have Paul in for a chat kind of thing, consider making him an offer. Not a word. I called, left messages, finally confronted him personally. Good idea, he said, I’ll get back to you. Here we are, four months later, and guess who missed the deadline.” He shrugged. “Way it goes, I guess, working for a hard charger. Some people have their own drum, Rudolph Latimer has his own rhythm section.”

IN EARLY MAY ANOTHER SAD, MADDENING DAY, John Paul II shot and seriously wounded in St. Peter’s Square. The crowd overpowered the gunman, a professional assassin wanted for the murder of a Turkish editor. It took five hours of surgery to stem the massive blood loss and repair abdominal wounds. Like Reagan, John Paul came closer to death than we were told. Speculation had the Soviet Union behind the attempt, as payback for his support of the Solidarity movement. Ever since his 1979 pilgrimage to his native land the Pope had been a nightmare for its Communist leaders, an outspoken, eloquent witness. “Be not afraid!” His words and his presence inspired Poles and gave hope to other Eastern European peoples. I was tremendously relieved to see him recover so well, for his sake of course, but mine as well. I hoped to report on his doings, possibly meet him at some point.

One afternoon in July, Lucie called. She was in New York for a few days, had just finished a meeting with her Met counterparts and wondered if Diane and I were free for dinner. “Sorry for the late notice – I didn’t know how long my meeting would run.”

“I’m on deadline tonight, won’t get out of here until ten or eleven.”

There was a pause on the line. “How about tomorrow? I’ll be at the Cloisters but I should finish by mid-afternoon. Perhaps the two of you could come up and I’ll show you around. You can give me the New York tour another time.”

“Diane won’t be able to make it,” I replied, sounding more definitive than I meant to, “but I’d love to. And plan on dinner afterward.”

“Then I will meet you aux tapisseries Licorne. Three o’clock, would that suit you?”

“Three is fine.”

“If I’m late, enjoy those wonderful works. I’ll arrange a pass for you au guichet.”

After an easy drive up the Henry Hudson to Fort Tryon with only one wrong turn, I found Lucie’s tapestries. The Hunt of the Unicorn, six in all plus two fragments. Slowly circling the room I stopped in front of The Unicorn in Captivity. Here, enclosed by a low wooden fence, the mythical beast rests in a grassy, flowered area, leashed to a tree bearing what look like oranges. After a few minutes I sensed someone beside me. “Allo, Paul.”

I stood. “Lucie! Bonjour! How good to see you!”

We embraced lightly. As we kissed each other on the cheeks, I remembered... in this very place I gave Diane that friendship ring, the one that matched her eyes.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Just a few minutes. As instructed, I’ve been enjoying your tapisseries.”

“Oh, if only they were mine! I see you found my favorite, the unicorn in the castle garden, under the pomegranate tree.”

“Pomegranate. How about that.” I looked at the red marks on his side. “Give him credit, the little beast put up quite a struggle, but something doesn’t make sense.” I looked around the room. “In the far panel he’s attacked, then he’s dead, lying across that horse, full of stab marks, his horn’s even broken off, but here,” I pointed to the unicorn in his pen, “here he is full of life. How do you explain that?”

Lucie shook her head. “The easy answer, they are from tapisseries made at different times and simply collected here. The more romantic answer, legend has the unicorn as a Christ symbol and these tapisseries represent his suffering and death. On that assumption, here the animal represents the risen Christ.”

I laughed. “Whatever... I’ll take alive over dead any day. But it’s a bittersweet ending for the unicorn, isn’t it? He survives but he loses his freedom.”

“Most scholars interpret this unicorn as joyful, not sad.”

“How can they tell?”

“His tether, it is loose, and the fence quite low. A unicorn could jump it easily, don’t you think?”

“I stand corrected.” I pointed at the greenery behind the unicorn. “We played a game as children – how many animals can you find in the tree.”

“I do not know that game.”

“It plays just like it sounds. But I don’t see any animals here.”

“You missed the frog? In the lower right corner there is a little frog.”

I went up and peered at the hanging. “So there is! See, you do know how to play.”

“And you are out of practice.” She stood and took my hand. “Enough unicorns for one day. Come, let me show you my work. It is one floor below.”

We walked through another room with more tapestries. She led the way down a set of stairs and through rooms of tomb effigies and medieval artifacts, stopping in front of two heavy glass doors. Through them I saw a dimly-lit space.

“The highlight of the tour!” she said excitedly. “What I will show you was produced in France, a century before the Unicorn. Par ici.”

We entered a low, dark room. Glass vitrines mounted on opposite walls, under carved wood panels portraying Christ’s life and Passion. She stopped in front of a case containing several tiny books with pages open to colorful paintings. A heavy cloth the width of the case had been folded back to expose the glass top. Illuminated manuscripts... I knew that much. Like Kells but the real thing. “‘Books of Hours,’ these are called.”

“Basically they’re prayer books, right?”

“Yes, but much more, even without considering the quality of their art which is spectacular. Psalms, Litanies, Church Calendar, Office of the Virgin, Office of the Dead. They take their name from the Canonical Hours. Prime, Matins, Lauds...”

“... Terce... Sext... None...”

“Ah! You’ve spent time in a monastery.”

I laughed. “Four years.”

“With the Jesuits. Pat has mentioned them.”

“He was not a willing participant.”

“He mentioned that also.”

Lucie turned to the display. “The example here is Les Heures de Jeanne d’Évreux.”

“Almost your namesake.” I bent down and examined the book. “It’s so small!”

“Nine centimeters by six centimeters, environs. Most are not quite this small.”

“Amazing.”

“It was illuminated about 1330 by Jean Pucell, a Parisian. This art shows clear Italian influence though it is unknown whether he ever visited Italy. Jeanne was the granddaughter of Saint Louis, Louis IX, and at the time herself Queen of France. So this was a fabulous commission for Monsieur Pucell. Now over here,” she moved a few steps, “this is Les Belles Heures de Jean de France, Duc du Berry. Completed in the early years of the fifteenth century by three brothers, les frères Limbourg, all under the age of fifteen when they began the work. Pol, Jean and Herman.” Lucie tapped on the glass and looked up, beaming. “This is what my exhibit is all about. And to think I’m bringing it to the Louvre!”

“Sounds like a major accomplishment.”

“It is, and I haven’t told you the best part. France has a similar work, Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, owned by L’Institut de France and held at the Musée Condé in Chantilly. Les Riches Heures was begun by the Limbourgs shortly after completing les Belles Heures, but malheureusement, the brothers died soon thereafter, presumably from the plague. Over the next hundred years it was worked on and completed by other artists.”

“That is quite a story.”

“Yes. If you haven’t already guessed, de Berry was more aesthete than warrior. He commissioned at least twenty Books of Hours, in fact after Jeanne bequeathed her Heures to the French crown, it not surprisingly found its way into the sticky hands of monsieur le duc. After many years of trying we have persuaded l’Institut to make an unprecedented exception and loan the Très Riches Heures for this exhibition. We will set these two masterpieces side-by-side with learned commentary by him and, of course,” she smiled, “myself. As incentive the Louvre is offering its considerable resources to assist in conservation of this treasure, as well as a share of exhibition income, of course.”

I picked up a magnifying glass lying nearby and examined the book. Considerably larger than the first one, but still. “Unbelievable! What workmanship, and such a scale.”

“Illustrators did everything the great painters did, but in miniature.”

“You must know a lot about the techniques.”

Lucie nodded. “The processes, they are part of my expertise. The parchment paper, the pens and inks, the brushes and paints, the bindings, our exhibit will cover all of it. In fact,” she said, her face animated, “I am proposing to create a workshop replica for the visitor to walk through, examine the tools, watch work in progress.”

“When will all this happen?”

“In about two years. It takes time to put something like this together, especially with three museums involved.” We strolled the other rooms of what, for good reason, is called the Treasury, until a guard told us the museum was about to close.

“Many thanks,” I said as we made our way toward the exit. “You’ve packed a lot of learning into a short time.”

“Mon plaisir,” she replied. “I do wish Diane were here to join us for dinner.”

No you don’t, I thought, nodding solemnly... and neither do I. “Let’s do something local. Do you like Caribbean food?”

“The little I’ve had, certainment. I’m not afraid of hot food, if that’s what you are asking. In my quartier there is a Thai place whose sauces remove paint from furniture.”

I looked at my watch. “A bit early by New York standards,” I said, “or Paris.”

“Pas de problème. Allons-y!”

Thus it was we ended up at one of my favorite spots, La Cocina in Washington Heights, about a mile from the Cloisters. The owner greeted me warmly and showed us to a corner table overlooking the room. At this early hour we were almost alone, a family occupying the big table in the middle of the room, a couple of old guys hunched over the bar.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said as the waiter delivered two bottles of Dos Equis, “you know so much about Catholic practices, are you a religious person?”

She shook her head. “I was brought up Catholic but I don’t attend Mass. Some of my friends wear that as a badge of honor, but I feel sad I am not motivated to do more. Spiritual laziness – that must be one of the cardinal sins, I don’t remember which. And you?”

“I try. I’m bringing my children up Catholic.”

“You say ‘I.’ What about Diane?”

“She doesn’t interfere but it’s hard not being able to share something that important.”

“Is your time in that college connected with your fidelity?”

“I’m sure, but it started much earlier. I grew up in a semi-observant family,” I smiled.

“But the college solidified your positions. What was it called? Pat has told me...”

“Holy Cross.”

“Ah, yes. Les croisades. Not one of the Church’s finest moments,” she said, then caught herself. “Moments? They lasted what, three centuries?”

“Something to be said for perseverance.”

“Not that kind, I fear. You know, Paul, I must tell you something about my little books. For me they have been a marvelous window on the medieval world, not just the doctrinal aspects, but the cultural as well.”

“How is that?”

“If you examine the pages under a glass, in the margins are all manner of goings-on that don’t belong in a devotional book. Fantastic creatures, dragons, fighting rabbits, bare-bottomed monks, drunken priests, sex with animals – it was a way for the artist to let off steam and show his virtuosity. After all, how many Annunciations can an artist create?”

“As many as people will pay for, I’d suppose. I’ll take a closer look next time.”

“From there it was a short step to immerse myself in the history of the time, and zut! What a chaotic, bloody time it was.”

“My monastery didn’t stress that. Medieval experience as defined by Aquinas.”

“The philosopher.”

“Philosopher, priest, Doctor of the Church, saint. Rational thought, beautiful systems. Every piece of the puzzle in place, every problem with an answer. Intimations of a perfect world.”

“You obviously took something of value, but you missed what was happening outside the walls. The fourteenth century was not an ideal world, nor your saint’s thirteenth.”

“Nor any other, I dare say. With hindsight I would describe the experience as a systematic attempt, in my case largely successful, to avoid the ‘is’ and promote the ‘ought.’ The real world was the starting point but it didn’t hold the best minds, ours either, not when you believe the point of this life is the next one. Worse yet, those great minds failed to check whether their lofty conclusions bore any relation to where they started.” Having said this I exhaled and began smiling.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, just a dumb joke.”

“Tell me. I insist.”

“Okay. What does a Jesuit education prepare a person for?”

“I don’t know. What?” A smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.

“It prepares him for life – in the thirteenth century!”

She roared. “I shall have to use that.”

“The problem is, what you’ve shown me proves it isn’t true. The joke isn’t true.”

She nodded. “You’re right. Such learning wouldn’t have helped you in the rough and disorderly world. You’d have been eaten alive by the wolves.”

“They’re still out there, you know.”

“You’ve noticed that too.”

After dinner we headed south in the Volvo. It was still early, an hour before the sun slid behind New Jersey and the lights of the City winked on. Driving back it occurred to me that I should have invited Lucie to see Kells’ illuminated manuscript. Next time. I dropped her at the Waldorf, the doorman watching discretely through the open door as she leaned over and to give me a kiss on the cheek which, as I turned toward her, ended up full on my mouth. Surprised, we both laughed.

“A toute a l’heure,” she said, looking back through the open door.

“Bien sûr,” I said. “Bonne chance et bon voyage.”

The next day I picked up a book Lucie said I had to read, Barbara Tuchman’s A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous Fourteenth Century. “I rarely trust American authors on European topics,” she had said, “and it is rare I will attempt six hundred pages in English, but this book is exceptional. It will open your eyes to life outside those walls.” As I walked across town toward my office paging through the book, it struck me how different Lucie and Diane were. When was the last time Diane recommended a book? I had no idea.

TWO MORE TRIPS TO PARIS to confer with Didier and check on the appartement. Didier was very pleased, taking full credit for landing a Pulitzer Prize winner for his shop. Didier’s Editor of Arts & Culture, Celeste de Joinville, was impressed that I knew Lucie, apparently a well-known source about medieval art and often quoted. Edouard LaRoche, a courtly gentleman near retirement, had been the Paris Bureau’s Business Editor for years, predating even Didier, and would stay on as I shouldered some of his reporting duties. He wasn’t at all perturbed by my appearance. “En fait, this gives me more time at my country home in Giverny – you know, the water lilies.”

I saw Pat once on these trips but didn’t have time to look Lucie up. I was still plowing through her fourteenth century, 596 pages of small print (679 with notes and index) and a slow go. I also had a problem with the author’s thesis. My “monastery” may have stressed positive thinking, but Tuchman took things to the opposite extreme. No doubt kings, nobles and churchmen were vain, greedy and incompetent, but I refused to believe people in power weren’t decent Christians some of the time, at least some of them. And the life of the common folk couldn’t have been as miserable as she made it out to be, could it?

We had decided to sell Diane’s condo but rent the Glen Cove house, figuring we’d be needing it again. Now nine, Peter was the most aware and enthusiastic of our three. Paul Junior and Emma were doing well at their private French lessons but Peter was a definite Pièrre. We brought French books home from the library and allowed them to select some from the local bookstore. Eloise, Babar, Asterix and Obelix were familiar company, The Red Balloon, Babar, and travelogues on our big TV. Peter would be entering fourth grade and I was interested to see how the American school fit him. He loved le foot, the French national game, and played at a level I hoped would let him hold his own.

A natural charmer, Emma easily wrapped adults around her little finger. I knew when she did it to me but I didn’t care, I enjoyed it so much. Watching her go off to kindergarten in her sweater and skirt, her skinny little legs in tights, melted my heart. Emma made me realize how much Diane meant to me, almost more than our time together did. She would do well, six years old and the world at her feet. The French environment would only help, I was convinced.

My namesake was the enigma. As outgoing and positive as the other two were, Paul was moody and given to long periods of silence. These could come unexpectedly, even during conversation when a stray thought seemed to carry him off. He also had a self-centered streak which I hesitated to call selfish or mean, but sometimes came close. He excelled at putting his little sister down and could even confound Peter with a sharp word. Sharing wasn’t high on his skills list, nor taking direction. To me it was odd how Diane doted on Paul, actually seeming to prefer him to the other two. Yes, I know the puppy is more lovable than the dog, but still.

Part of it I chalked up to Paul Junior’s appearance. While Peter and Emma shared my round face, dark hair and swarthy complexion skin, Paul Junior took after Diane, his angular face and slight frame, his blond hair a junior version of hers. I wanted to think of him as wiry but at times he simply looked frail. He still went monthly for injections – this would continue the rest of his life. We went on heightened alert whenever he started sniffling or one of the myriad of childhood illnesses came around. Diane acknowledged some favoritism, saying “he needs my help more than the others.”

Despite my efforts to engage him, Paul Junior hadn’t embraced the move. I worried about how he would adapt. Even in matters of religion he was odd man out, Peter and Emma interested, he diffident to an extreme. It would be too easy to say Peter and Emma were Bernards and Paul Junior an Archer, but that conclusion was there for the taking.

As the months dragged by there was no movement on the condo. We had plenty of offers but none of them came close to Diane’s price. Diane quarreled with the agent as she pushed to make a sale and Diane held firm. None of that would matter except – and it embarrasses me to tell you this – Diane had announced she wouldn’t leave until we sold the condo. At first I thought she was joking, but she said no, she’d lose money selling it with bare walls and floors. The furniture had to stay, which meant so did we. That makes no sense, I said, we can rent furniture. As for the house, we had turned down several promising tenants. Let’s get moved, I pleaded, get the kids settled and finish the deal from Paris – that’s what agents are for. But she was adamant. July flew by and it was obvious we’d miss our deadline. Often she and I had harsh words. Your obstinance is holding the children hostage, I would say. She would break down crying, bolt from the room and slam the door.

Now we were tentatively targeting Christmas. We agreed a clean break mid-way through the school year would be the least bad alternative at this point. For me it would come down to a hellish commute, four days in Paris, two days at home, the rest over the Atlantic. Fred was working on approval for the Concorde to minimize travel time, but what an awful beginning for our big adventure. When we broke the news to the kids their confusion and dismay really upset me. We had done such a good a job preparing them and now there was... nothing. They would mark time in their old school. Paul Junior sank into a deep funk. He must have been looking forward to it more than he admitted.

Then I had an idea. I called Diane’s father and said I had to see him, alone. One day I met him after work at the Club and explained the situation. “It’s her money but these are my children and it’s creating a big problem for them. In fact Paul Junior is taking quite badly.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said after hearing me out. “My eldest daughter has a mind of her own.” He shrugged. “I always thought you were a brave man to take Diane on.”

“You never told me that before.”

“Does a car salesman point out the rust? You’ve been with us long enough that I can speak candidly.” Mr. Archer nodded. “Let me see what I can do.” Next day he called. “I think you’ll see movement. Not even Mrs. Archer knows. I devised a way to make Diane whole. To the extent she falls short I said I’d make it up, one way or the other.”

“That is very generous of you.”

There was a pause, I could practically see him shaking his head. “Paul, I’ve been in many tough negotiations but my daughter, your wife, is up there with the best of them. If the realtor is as good as you say, you’ll be under contract by this time tomorrow.”

And so we were. Plus, the realtor was able to resurrect one of our tenant prospects, a family named Fields who were desperate to get settled before the school year.

My imminent departure provided a good chance to be in touch with old friends. Benny asked about Hamid and I told him to watch out for the English translation of his short stories. Nathan, I had really neglected. He had taken courses with Benny and had him as his academic adviser in the doctoral program he had just completed. Completed! Just the other day he was doubtful about returning to college. He was excited to tell me he’d landed a teaching job at Brooklyn College.

My Gazette colleagues treated me to a sendoff at Kells, presenting me a plaque and a Ray Archibald engraving of Hydrocarbon Man in a beret. Diane and I stayed in the bare condo one last time, on sleeping bags and air mattresses. The Beemer was in storage, the wagon already on the boat. Rare simplicity, flat on our backs looking at the ceiling, we here, our possessions elsewhere. Tomorrow we’d close, hand over the keys, scoop the kids and be on our way. Diane said her father had broken the logjam but gave no details, nor did I ask for any. Not even sure she was aware of my initiative – I had pledged Mr. Archer to secrecy. I wouldn’t soon forget the favor he did us, nor would I easily get over Diane’s power trip. I would miss New York but couldn’t wait to take up my new challenge. Allons-y!