Beyond Homer. Benjamin W. Farley
suspects!
Upon returning to my floor, I walked down to Christine’s room and knocked on her door. She had left the dining room earlier, glancing secretively at me.
“Hello!” she said, as she opened the door. “We still on for tomorrow?”
“Yes! You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
“Heavens, no! Remember, I have quite a story for you. But I want it to wait till tomorrow.”
“Will I like it?”
“Maybe!” she cooed, with teasing eyes. “Tomorrow! After we’ve eaten dinner, I’ll tell you. At the café-bar! Ok? Just come for me up here.”
“Sure! There’s a great little place on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, I’ve been wanting to try. We’ll go there.”
She opened the door enough for me to step in. “Kiss me,” she said. “I need a kiss, till then.”
I complied and returned to my room.
7
A delicate, translucent blue sky stretched across the morning horizon. I had awakened earlier than usual and had pulled back the curtains to peer out the windows. After so many gloomy and rainy days, it portended better weather. I glanced at my watch. It was 6:08, too early for breakfast down stairs. I shaved, showered and dressed and decided to catch a cup of coffee at the little news kiosk on the corner of the street just up from the pension. Its proprietor, a Greek, often managed a smile when he saw me coming. Usually, I didn’t visit his stand until mid-morning. We would banter for a few minutes. Afterwards, he would steam up his machine and serve my coffee.
“Ah! My American friend, a bit early today! The sky is très joli, isn’t it? You should be visiting my country. The smell of our coffee! The aroma of the beans! The odor of fresh baked loaves! Our cheeses and goat’s milk—all fit for the gods! What will it be?”
By now he knew, so I stood there until he served up his Peloponnesian version of mud-thick coffee, which I drank without sugar or cream.
“Remember. Sip it. Don’t gulp it.”
I paid and bought a copy of Le Miroir Français. I had not read Gibert’s paper’s columns for over a month now. I preferred Le Monde and the international edition of The Herald Tribune. Even then, I read them less than twice or three times a week. My own work consumed inordinate mental energy. What little free time remained, left practically none for papers. Reflecting on each day’s study, my findings, translations, writing, and walks claimed any residual vitality.
I sat on a bench near the metro entrance and turned to the editorial page. There was Gibert’s column. “De Gaulle’s Third Force and its Meaning for France.” I knew that de Gaulle had abandoned the presidency less than a year ago and that Gaullism, as it was called, was fast fading as a polestar for a post-de Gaulle France. But as I skimmed the article, it was clear that Gibert was still wed to the old General’s vision of France as a troisième pouvoir, a third independent power, between the British and Americans, on the one hand, and the Soviet Union and its Eastern Block, on the other. He feared the thought that de Gaulle’s successors would surrender that objective, and that France would reel back into political weakness. I looked for the major thread of his piece:
We have lost our North African Empire, our prestige in Chad and in the Cameroon, our honor and pride at Dien Bien Phu. Who listens to us in London, Moscow, or Washington? Or takes us seriously even in Quebec? Or Cairo? Or Lebanon? Our voice has been silenced, our langue intermingled with the dialects of a hundred
alien tongues. Our cultural achievements but monuments to a grandeur that is passing away. Who comes to our shores now, to our treasures of art and history, but the curious, the profligate, the philistine? That is not the France of the future, or with a future, but with a vestige of decay.
Like it or not, France must interject herself again upon the Moulin Rouge of modernity. Fighting Cervantes’ windmills in rusting armor no longer charms the world. We must command a say in the political affairs of the globe, in Eastern Europe, in the Middle East, Palestine, and the Far East, if we are to reclaim our place in history as a people worthy of her past. Yes, that may require a military force, prepared to protect and enhance French interests and culture, wherever either faces risk. Yes, it means continued opposition to NATO, when NATO excludes our interests.
Yes, it means a courageous Non to American imperialism, when that imperialism imperils our own destiny and fate. De Gaulle sought to make us proud again. Yes, he made mistakes. He could be vain, pigheaded, and, yes, wrong. But in his heart of hearts, he was right. He was French. He was a nationalist, through and through. He tilted in the jousts of the greatest kings of the crown. Charlemagne, along with the Valois, the Bourbons, and Napoleon, would have understood his cause, embraced his zeal. No state is perfect; no king, emperor, or president is without fault. No nation of sovereign people has ever existed without revolutions, quarrels, and defeats. But how I despair to see our country become a stripped and silent mannequin in the shop windows of a decadent world, coming of age.
There was an advertisement at the bottom of the page for his forthcoming book; but no date of publication was mentioned. I turned to the arts and fashion section to see if Mme. Gibert had written anything. No, she hadn’t. But the paper announced Mme. Monique Gibert’s plans to conduct a guided tour of Fontainebleau, to include the chateau, its new furnishings, as well as a walk about the park. The date was the second Friday of May. One could reserve a seat on the tour bus by simply calling the number listed. The bus would leave from Sainte-Chapelle, promptly at eight that morning. I tore out the number, glanced through a few more articles, then dropped the paper in a nearby waste drum. I decided that I would sign up for this événement. Besides, Mme. Gibert had captivated my interest, and being in her presence again would be exciting and pleasurable. Her eyes had searched my own so invitingly, her glances at once flirtatious and monitorial, seductive and remonstrative. I would have to be prepared.Prepared or not for Mme. Gibert, I was unprepared for what erupted upon my return to the pension.
“Another robbery!” shrilled the French, red-haired woman, who had scolded her daughter the night before. “Will it be murder next?” she all but shouted in Madame Dufavre’s face.
“Please, Madame, control yourself. I have called the police. They will be here soon.”
I could have sworn I saw a man in the Madame’s apartment. He had slunk behind the door the instant I looked his way. He had been slipping into his coat, as if to depart. I knew what Angleterre would conclude.
“My jewelry, Francine’s, a watch, and my money—all, all are gone!”
“Ah, Professor Clarke, you are always so calm!” Dufavre addressed me, as if that mantra would bring solace to the woman.
“How does that help?” wailed the young French mother. “We shall have to move if it can’t be found.”
Dufavre looked away with grim intensity. Suddenly, Angleterre appeared with a torn pillow slip in her hands. “I found this on your balcony. It was caught on the inside window latch. Money and jewelry are still in it.” She handed it to Dufavre, to verify her discovery.
“That’s mine!” said the woman, snatching it from the proprietress’s hand. “Thank God! What a hell of a place! What a way to start the day! At least, the bastard dropped it!” She immediately looked inside to see if anything was missing.
The man in Dufavre’s apartment had still not come out. If he had been the thief, then how did he get off the balcony? Had he simply walked out through the woman’s room? No! The pillow slip got caught in the window. He must have exited that way. We heard a siren in the street. The gendarmes would soon be in the hall. I went back to the stairwell, climbed the steps to the fourth floor, and returned to my room. I would forego breakfast, study awhile, and take a walk. It was difficult, however, to concentrate on my work. Pascal was a thousand miles removed from my thoughts, as were Rousseau, Baudelaire, Descartes and Kant. Fighting distraction, I picked up a book of Rainer Rilke’s poems and began reading. Like Baudelaire, Rilke had a way of inserting