Man, woman, and child(51)

"No. And I never will be," she replied softly.

"Oh," he said.

She reached across the table and touched his hand. "But I don't steal husbands, Bob. Fm not a Circe. I have been involved with married men, but only by mutual consent."

Somehow her hand did not have the reassuring effect it was ostensibly supposed to.

"Nicolel Salut, ma vielle, ma jolie professeur de

186



medeciner A voice more like the growl of a bear heralded the arrival of a red-faced old man wearing an open shirt.

*'Ah/' Nicole whispered to Bob. ''We're about to be honored by a visit from the mayor himself."

**Et comment va ma petite genie, ma jolie doctor esse?''

The old man threw his arms around Nicole and they kissed each other on both cheeks. He then turned to Bob.

**Salut. Je m'apelle Louis. Et toi?"

"This is Bob," said Nicole, ''a professor from America."

"America?" said Louis, an eyebrow raised. "Are you for or against the war?"

"Against," said Bob.

"Good," said the mayor, sitting down uninvited. "This calls for a drink." And he signaled the owner to bring out some of his usual muscat. He then lit a cigarette and turned back to Nicole's guest.

"So, Bobbie, what do you think of our revolution, eh?"

"Well, I really haven't seen much more than the end of a cop's club."

"They struck him?" Louis asked Nicole.

She nodded. "It was early in the morning and they needed to warm up."

''SalaudsJ' muttered Louis. "They should have been out looking for the bastards who bombed the GCT."

"WHiat's that?" Bob asked Nicole. He vaguely recalled Harrison's mentioning a bombing.

"Our big labor union  ," she replied. "A few days ago somebody tossed a Molotov cocktail at their office."

''FachaudsJ' Louis growled on. "But I tell you, Bobbie, the workers are going to win this one.



They've got the government pissing in their pants. I say the Crenelle accord will be just one step in the inevitable process. By the way, what do you think of Pompidou?"

"I think he's got every right to be nervous," Bob replied.

Louis laughed heartily. "Nervous? He hasn't got a dry pair of pants. For once the workers have made those big shots in Paris wake up. You know, we're not some sleepy fishing village. We have industry all around. They're building refineries in Frontignan. And we also manufacture engraisJ'

"What's engrais?'' Bob asked Nicole.

"Fertilizer," she replied.

"Nicole," said Louis, "did I tell you the fantastic slogan I conceived for the engrais workers? Listen. *No money, no shit!' Fantastic, eh?" And he roared with self-appreciation.

"That's—uh—original," said Bob.

"Listen," said Louis, precipitously switching the subject. "I have to go off and meet some of my enrages. You two come by tomorrow for lunch with Marie-Therese and me."

"I-I'll be going back to the U.S.," said Bob.

"Not unless you grow wings," said the mayor. "The proletariat has got the country by the balls. And we intend to make the fat boys in Paris sweat as long as possible. So you see there's nothing to do but drink and talk politics. And we'll do both tomorrow over lunch. CiaOy Bobbie. Bon soir^ ma petite.'' He kissed Nicole and ambled off.

"Quite a character, eh?" said Nicole to Bob. "Can you imagine what France would be if he replaced de Caulle?"

"Yes." Bob smiled. "It would be Italy."

She laughed. "You're funny," she said.



"No, I just think I'm a little high. Should I be drinking this wine at all?''

"Don't worry," she replied. "You've got a doctor in attendance."

He took another sip of Louis's muscat and then looked inquisitively at Nicole.

"You were just starting to explain why you would never marry."

"I just know I won't." She shrugged,

"But whyr

"Maybe I am crazy, but I don't think marriage is for everybody. At least not for me. I enjoy being independent too much. That doesn't necessarily mean being lonely."

"I'm sure," Bob interrupted, "someone as attractive as you—" He stopped himself. He had not wanted to express it in a way that revealed how strongly he was affected by her beauty. He had intended a theoretical conversation between two acquaintances.

"Don't you ever want children?" he asked.

"I've thought of it. I think I v/ill. If I find someone I like enough to make a child with."

"And you'd raise it yourself?"

"Why not?"

"That's pretty . . . avant-garde/'

VYou mean 'unbourgeois,' don't you? Anyway, I think I'm strong enough to be a parent on my own. And Sete is certainly not bourgeois. Shall we have another drink?"