was relieved at Roxy’s position, that there would be no divorce.
Margeeve and Chester, in California, were not so sure.
Because of the strange experience of hearing my name from the beggar of Notre Dame, I had formed the habit of listening and feeling apprehensive when crossing in front of the great cathedral, feeling the eyes of the carven saints on me, and the beggar, always there, turning his blind stone eyes toward me, holding his cup. But he never spoke again. But then one day as I was walking Gennie home, slowly because for some reason I did not have the stroller, Gennie on her little legs, me impatient, I again heard someone say “Isabel.” Almost fearfully, I looked around at the beggar, and saw, just near him, coming out of Notre Dame in the horde of tourists, Oncle Edgar, the Persands’ uncle, coming toward me, still limping slightly but walking morebriskly than he had at the time I had met him. He gave Gennie a kiss and shook my hand. He was dressed rather grandly in a light suit, in his buttonhole some sort of charity flower that I had seen people selling on the quai.
“La petite Geneviève. Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Cosset,” I said, startled.
“You should just say, ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ ” he said. “I saw you another day, coming this way,” he added. This confused me. Had it been he, not the blind man, who spoke? Or had he told the man to speak? Or neither? And why was I not to use his name?
“Unless you are pressed, we have time to offer Geneviève an ice cream.” He lifted Gennie up, and carried her as we continued on our way. I had an unaccustomed attack of shyness, maybe from seeing him on television, and couldn’t think of anything but to answer his questions like a child, yes I was content with my time in Paris, yes Roxy was doing okay. We installed ourselves at the Vues de Notre Dame, the cafe where I had met Charles-Henri.
“Apéritif? Café?”
We both had coffee. He had an instant of silence, during which it perhaps sank in that he had condemned himself to a half hour with a wiggly three-year-old and a California au pair girl, non-French-speaking.
“I think it’s great the way you stick up for the Bosnians,” I heard myself say, in the most horrible Valley Girl voice, a voice that fell on my own ears as if I were hearing a skit on Saturday Night Live . My remark seemed to startle, then to amuse him.
“Do you? Thank you. Why do you think so?”
This Socratic maneuver struck me silent again. Why did I think so? But I am a good student, and know how to give the professor what he himself has said.
“You’d think people would remember history,” I said. “The First World War started like that, with Balkan conflicts.” He made no comment.
“And the moral issues. How can we just stand by and permit terror and rape?” This was the argument I really believed.
“You are right.” He smiled, perhaps without irony. Hisviews exactly. “Gennie, mange ta glace comme ça . And do you think that the Europeans alone, or that the Americans too, should fight the Serb?”
“The Americans too,” I said. “But the Europeans have to start, or else the UN, or Americans won’t come in like they did in World War One, or Two.” Mrs. Pace’s good little historian.
“Though it may surprise you, I was not alive during the First War,” he began, smiling. “I was born in 1925, and thus was just old enough to have served in the Second War. Later I served in Indochina.”
Indochina! Something thrilling in that. Though I am not usually ill at ease with men ( au contraire , Roxy would say), I was ashamed of how silly I sounded, how impudent to be talking of war and European politics to a man who had stood at the side of the President of France (I had seen them on television, in Lyon for a ceremony).
At this memory, Oncle Edgar and the President of France, as we were speaking, I felt my palms moisten with deepened self-consciousness. I felt young and absurd,
Margeeve and Chester, in California, were not so sure.
Because of the strange experience of hearing my name from the beggar of Notre Dame, I had formed the habit of listening and feeling apprehensive when crossing in front of the great cathedral, feeling the eyes of the carven saints on me, and the beggar, always there, turning his blind stone eyes toward me, holding his cup. But he never spoke again. But then one day as I was walking Gennie home, slowly because for some reason I did not have the stroller, Gennie on her little legs, me impatient, I again heard someone say “Isabel.” Almost fearfully, I looked around at the beggar, and saw, just near him, coming out of Notre Dame in the horde of tourists, Oncle Edgar, the Persands’ uncle, coming toward me, still limping slightly but walking morebriskly than he had at the time I had met him. He gave Gennie a kiss and shook my hand. He was dressed rather grandly in a light suit, in his buttonhole some sort of charity flower that I had seen people selling on the quai.
“La petite Geneviève. Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Cosset,” I said, startled.
“You should just say, ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ ” he said. “I saw you another day, coming this way,” he added. This confused me. Had it been he, not the blind man, who spoke? Or had he told the man to speak? Or neither? And why was I not to use his name?
“Unless you are pressed, we have time to offer Geneviève an ice cream.” He lifted Gennie up, and carried her as we continued on our way. I had an unaccustomed attack of shyness, maybe from seeing him on television, and couldn’t think of anything but to answer his questions like a child, yes I was content with my time in Paris, yes Roxy was doing okay. We installed ourselves at the Vues de Notre Dame, the cafe where I had met Charles-Henri.
“Apéritif? Café?”
We both had coffee. He had an instant of silence, during which it perhaps sank in that he had condemned himself to a half hour with a wiggly three-year-old and a California au pair girl, non-French-speaking.
“I think it’s great the way you stick up for the Bosnians,” I heard myself say, in the most horrible Valley Girl voice, a voice that fell on my own ears as if I were hearing a skit on Saturday Night Live . My remark seemed to startle, then to amuse him.
“Do you? Thank you. Why do you think so?”
This Socratic maneuver struck me silent again. Why did I think so? But I am a good student, and know how to give the professor what he himself has said.
“You’d think people would remember history,” I said. “The First World War started like that, with Balkan conflicts.” He made no comment.
“And the moral issues. How can we just stand by and permit terror and rape?” This was the argument I really believed.
“You are right.” He smiled, perhaps without irony. Hisviews exactly. “Gennie, mange ta glace comme ça . And do you think that the Europeans alone, or that the Americans too, should fight the Serb?”
“The Americans too,” I said. “But the Europeans have to start, or else the UN, or Americans won’t come in like they did in World War One, or Two.” Mrs. Pace’s good little historian.
“Though it may surprise you, I was not alive during the First War,” he began, smiling. “I was born in 1925, and thus was just old enough to have served in the Second War. Later I served in Indochina.”
Indochina! Something thrilling in that. Though I am not usually ill at ease with men ( au contraire , Roxy would say), I was ashamed of how silly I sounded, how impudent to be talking of war and European politics to a man who had stood at the side of the President of France (I had seen them on television, in Lyon for a ceremony).
At this memory, Oncle Edgar and the President of France, as we were speaking, I felt my palms moisten with deepened self-consciousness. I felt young and absurd,
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