is a long story,” she emphasized.
“Mademoiselle et Monsieur! What is your wish?” asked the waiter.
“Jack Daniels! You do carry it, don’t you?”
“Of course, Monsieur! Et vous, Mademoiselle?”
“White wine! Something from Bordeaux. Sweet, but not too dry.”
“Bon! But the wines from le-Midi; they are so truly superior.”
“She said, ‘Bordeaux!’” repeated Sullivan.
The garcon appeared offended, but held his head aloft, as if to signal that he was above such boorish reproach.
Just then Monsieur Gibert came out of the bistro and approached our table.
“Please, won’t you join me and the Madame inside,” he gestured with a gracious arc of his hand. “I was—shall I say—mesmerized by your speech. It would be an honor.” His English was close to impeccable. “I’m Jacques-Maria Gibert, with Le Miroir Français, one of its feature writers.”
Sullivan looked slightly shocked, if not annoyed. “Please, Monsieur, why don’t you and the Madame join us. I’m tremendously tired. I apologize, but I am.”
“And stubborn,” added the black girl.
“Eh, ma petite, may I ask your name, Mademoiselle?”
“Well, at least, there’s one gentleman in France,” she replied. “Julene Sullivan. Professor Sullivan and I are cousins.”
“Remarkable! I thought perhaps you were his wife.”
“Not by Alabama law,” she patted Sullivan’s hand. “I can’t speak for Virginia,” she looked coquettishly at me.
“You know the answer to that. Cousins are always marrying cousins in Virginia. At least, second and third cousins.”
Gibert motioned for his wife to join him. She appeared exasperated at his beckoning, but, clinching her purse in her left hand, she rose misgivingly from her chair and came toward the doorway.
Several waiters quickly brought two extra chairs to the table.
The maitre d’ came out. “I’ll be in charge,” he informed the waiters. “Monsieur Gibert, do you wish anything to eat. Non?”
Gibert glanced at each of us. “Mademoiselle? Messieurs?”
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Ditto!” remarked Sullivan.
“Non, Monsieur,” replied Julene. “But thanks.”
“Ah, bon! Then champagne for everyone,” suggested Gibert. “The night is too young to waste. Darling, you do remember these fine people, je crois?” he directed his comment toward his wife, who had just arrived by his side and was trying her best to act pleasant.
“Certainly,” she smiled, extending her right hand, first to Sullivan, as he struggled to his feet, then to me. A curious little pout formed across her mouth. She reached up and adjusted her beret. Her dark red hair glistened with strands of silver and platinum. She pursed her lips for me to kiss. It was all very charming, if not a tad affected.
I leaned down and kissed her cheek. She, in turn, kissed my neck. “Enchanted,” I managed to whisper. “Thank you for joining us.”
“Did I have a choice?” her eyes searched mine with a hint of a tease. “And you, Precious,” she turned toward Julene. “You’re not Française, I believe.”
“No. I’m not from one of your former colonies,” Julene stated, with abruptness.
“Now, now, Sugar, let’s be civil,” interrupted Sullivan. “C’est la France. Not Alabama.”
“Oh, I rather love it,” rejoined Mme. Gibert. “Really, I do. But I’ve never been to your Alabama; only New York and Washington,” she looked inquisitively at me.
“Well, you haven’t missed a thing,” growled Grumpy.
“How can you say that!” retorted Julene. “He doesn’t mean it, truly. We’re just northwest of Huntsville, a beautiful area, like you’ve seen in the movies, or Southern Living, if you’re familiar with our magazines.”
Mme. allowed the closest waiter to seat her. I couldn’t help but stare at her. Her skin was smooth, but ashen and pale, with a delicate hint of rouge; her lipstick glowed a green iridescence in the bistro’s neon sheen. “I edit the fashion page of Monsieur’s paper, here,” she nudged Gibert. “We’re quite familiar with your Vogue, but not your Southern Living, as you call it.”
She had turned toward Julene, but I could tell that her eyes and voice were intended for me to observe, for me to hear, if not to admire. Gibert noted her behavior, but seemed more interested in Professor Sullivan than in either Julene, his wife, or me.
“Can we talk about your Phaeton and your interpretation of the myth? Would you care to know what I think?” he said to Sullivan.
“I hate to interpret my own comments. But, certainly, I’d like to hear yours.” Sullivan took his spectacles off and cleaned them with his tie, then pushed them back on over his squat nose.
“Ah, Monsieur. Where to begin! Hubris: individual and collective! Mortal pride and immortal sorrow! An eternal balancing act that not even the gods can reverse. A miring down in the consequences of ones own undoing. N’est-ce pas?”
“That’s as good as any,” replied Sullivan.
“How France has paid that price across the centuries! ’Tis our national pastime, I regret to state. A glory in blood, revolution, empire, colonialism, grandeur and demise.”
“Don’t mind him,” laughed Mme. “He’s just building up to tell you about his own book.”
“How sauvage !” Gibert retorted with a glimmer of pleasure that she had mentioned his book.
“Which is?” I asked.
“Well, it’s still several weeks off. Actually, it won’t be out till June or later.”
“And?”
“Le Futur d’un Grandeur Passé. It’s a commentary on where we French have been and what still lies ahead, politically and culturally for us.”
“Sounds worthy,” Sullivan remarked. “I might need to see it.”
“Hopefully, you shall.”
“Too boring!” chimed Mme. Gibert. “Let’s return to Phaeton,” she said, with a peevish roll of her eyes. “I think it all has to do with the umbilical cord. After all, it was his mother who initiated the search. She knew it was time for the boy to grow up. Plus, she was irked at his father for abandoning her. Le batard had it coming,” she grinned mischievously. “Phoebus’s fake grief and all that! Parents can never predict or foresee the fate of their children. It is the way of all flesh. I think I’m
