Man, woman, and child(48)

^'Thanks, Herb. But Vd like to unwind a bit."

Harrison now sidled up to him.

''Beckwith, you can't leave me with Moncourget and those other characters. They're lightweights. I won't be sharp for my paper. I mean, that Taylor is an absolute—"

"Sorry, Herb, but I'm really too keyed up. If I can take a little walk I'll be fresher for your performance."

"No, Bob," the colleague pleaded. "Besides, it's dangerous. Didn't you hear about the bomb they threw?"

"That was last week, Herb."

"But there are bound to be reprisals. The concierge told me there'd be some big march today. Thousands of rabid students in the streets." (Harrison always cringed when he said "students.")

"That's okay," Bob replied. "I've had rabies shots." And he started down the cobblestone street.

"Beckwith, you're deserting a colleague," called Harrison.

Tough shit, thought Bob. And prayed for the day he might actually shout it

He headed toward the Place de la Comedie, stopping every so often to admire the elegant eighteenth-century town houses. The closer he came to the center of town, the louder became the noise of the marching students. He could not help noticing police vans crouched in the tinier off-streets. Like tigers waiting to pounce. What could they possibly be expecting? ,

''Saldud! Putain de flic! Espkce de fachaudr Ahead of him in the narrow street, several policemen had stopped two female students in jeans.



They had made them turn and place their hands against the wall. What kind of bust was this? he wondered. The cops were frisking the girls, especially their hindquarters. They can't be carr}dng weapons, Bob thought. Their pants are too tight.

He drew closer. The dialogue between the police and the women was growing steadily more acrimonious, though Bob could not understand all they were saying. He stopped about ten feet away to watch the scene.

''He toi—quest-ce que tu fous U?'^

One of the policemen had noticed Bob and politely asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing.

"Nothing," he replied in his best Yale French. But now both officers were moving toward him.

''Tes papiers/' ordered the one who had just addressed him.

His papers? Both his passport and his driver's license were back at the hotel. And his tie and jacket were back in the lecture hall. He didn't look too professorial. The two policemen were now upon him. "Ef dors?'' said the junior officer.

*Tm an American," said Bob, hoping that would solve matters.

"Parle Frangais, conard'' snarled the larger officer.

'Tm a professor," Bob said, again in French.

''Sure," said the cop, ''and my ass is ice cream."

"Leave him alone," called one of the two girls, "or he'll have Nixon bomb your prefecture/"

This threat did not deter the officers, who were now crowding Bob against a wall. "Where the hell are your papers?" they demanded, grabbing him by the shirt.

"In my hotel, dammit," he said angrily. "Metro-pole, room 204."



'^Bullshit," said the cop, and slammed him against the house. Bob was now frightened and put up his hand to fend off a blow he sensed imminent.

And he was right, for he suddenly felt a sharp crack at his forehead, which stunned him. One of the girls ran up and began a torrent of abuse which somehow made an impression on Bob's aggressors. They began to back off, warning, ''Next time carry your papers."

Bob was shaking as they marched to their car and, ignoring the women, sped off.

"Thanks," he said to the girl who had saved him. She was slender and raven-haired. ''What exactly did you tell him?"

"I just showed the pig you were wearing your hello card."

"My what?"

She pointed to his shirt pocket. Pinned to it was his conference name tag, courtesy IBM:

hello! my name is:

Robert Beck with

MIT

U.S.A.

"Sorry about your head," said the girl. "You'd better let me take a look at it."

Bob put his hand to his temple. It was swollen and bleeding. And starting to throb.

"The bastard punched me," he muttered. He had never been struck in his life. "Maybe I should go to the hospital."

"No need. I'll make a house call. Or you might say a street call."

"You're a doctor?"

"Yes. And Simone over there is a third-year student. Come on, I've got my stuff in the trunk."



Bob walked, a bit unsteadily, to the red Dauphine convertible the girls were driving. Simone opened the trunk and handed the doctor her kit. She opened a bottle and began to dab Bob's wound.

''It's fairly superficial/' she said as she placed several gauze sponges on the injured area and wrapped a pressure dressing around his forehead.

''How's your equilibrium?"