I
HAVE AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FOR YOU, Dr.
Beckwith."
^Tm tied up right now. Can I get back to you?''
''Actually, Professor, Fd prefer to speak to you in person/'
An "urgent" phone call had summoned Robert Beckwith from the final departmental meeting of the term. It was the French consulate.
"Can you get to Boston before five?" the undersecretary asked.
"It's almost four-thirty now," said Bob.
*'I will wait for you."
''Is it that important?"
"Yes, I believe so."
Totally mystified, Bob walked back across the hall to where the five other senior members of the MIT Statistics Department were waiting. Citing the unimportance of their agenda when compared to the excellence of the weather, he moved that they adjourn until the fall. As usual, there was one objection.
"I must say, Beckwith, this is rather unprofessional," huffed P. Herbert Harrison.
"'Let's put it to a vote, Herb/' Bob replied. The score was five to one in favor of vacation.
Bob hurried to his car and began threading his way across the Charles River through the heavy rush hour traffic. Moving slower than the passing joggers, he had plenty of time to speculate on what could possibly be so urgent. And the more he thought, the more the odds seemed to suggest one thing: They're giving me the Legion of Honor.
It's not so impossible, he told himself. After all, I've lectured lots of times in France—twice at the Sorbonne. Hell, I even drive a Peugeot.
That must be it. I'm going to get one of those little red anchovies for my lapel. I may even have to start wearing jackets. Who cares? It'll be worth it to see the jealousy on certain faculty faces. God, Sheila and the girls will be proud.
"This message came to us by telex," said M. Ber-trand Pelletier the moment Bob sat down in his elegant high-ceilinged office. He held a narrow slip of paper.
Here it comes, thought Bob. The award. He tried not to smile too soon.
''It requests that Dr. Beckwith of MIT contact a Monsieur Venargu^s in Sete immediately." He handed Bob the paper.
"Sete?" repeated Bob. And thought. Oh no, it can't be.
"Charming little village, if a bit gaucho" said Pelletier. "Do you know the south of France?"
**Uh—yes." Bob grew even more uneasy when he noticed that the consular official wore a rather solemn expression.
"Monsieur Pelletier, what's this all about?"
"I was only informed that it concerns the late Nicole Guerin/'
My God, Nicole. So long ago, so well suppressed he almost had convinced himself it never happened. The single infidelity in all his years of marriage.
Why now? Why after all this time? And hadn't she herself insisted they would never meet again, never contact one another?
Wait a minute.
^'Monsieur Pelletier, did you say the late Nicole Guerin? She's dead?"
The undersecretary nodded.
'1 regret that I have no details. I am sorry, Dr. Beckwith."
Did this man know any more?
*'And who's this person I'm supposed to call?"
The undersecretary shrugged. Which, translated from the French, meant that he didn't know—and didn't care to.
"May I offer my condoleances, Dr. Beckwith?"
This, translated from the French, meant it was getting late. And M. Pelletier no doubt had plans for other things. It was, after all, a balmy evening in the month of June.
Bob took the hint. He stood up.
"Thank you. Monsieur Pelletier."
"Not at all."
They shook hands.
A bit unsteadily. Bob walked out onto Commonwealth Avenue. He was parked diagonally across, right near the Ritz. Should he get a quick shot of courage at the bar? No. Better make that phone call first. And somewhere private.
The entire corridor was silent. Everyone seemed to have left for the summer. Bob closed the office door, sat at his desk and dialed France.
''WuyT' croaked a sleepy voice with a thick Provengal accent.
''Uh—this is Robert Beckwith. May I speak v^th Monsieur Venargu^s?"
^'Bobbie—it is me, Louis! At last Fve found you. What a task... "
Even after all these years, that voice was unmistakable. The rasp created by the smoke of fifty million Gauloises.
'Touis the mayor?"
"Ex-mayor. Can you imagine? They put me out to pasture like some ancient dinosaur. The Council-"
Bob was much too tense for lengthy anecdotes.
'Touis, what is this about Nicole?''
"Oh, Bobbie, what a tragedy. Five days ago. Head-on collision. She was coming from a cardiac emergency. The whole town is in mourning. . . ."
"Oh. Fm sorry-''
"Can you imagine? She was so young. A saint, unselfish. All the Faculty of Medicine from Mont-pellier came to the service. You know she hated religion, Bobbie, but we had to."
He paused to sigh. Bob seized the opportunity.