On Sunday, I went first to the flea market at Vanves to see an antiquarian book dealer I know, picking up a 1924 edition of Sir Richard Francis Burton's The Kasidah for a client who collects Burton. Then I went to check out the boquinistes on the banks of the Seine, finding two very fine maps that I was pretty sure my favorite map collector client, a man by the name of Matthew Wright, would be happy to see.
In between all these jaunts, I drank gallons of coffee and read piles of newspapers. As far as I could see, the news in Europe was pretty much the same as it had been last time I'd been over. According to the papers, the Italian government had once again declared war on organized crime, their last effort, presumably, having been as unsuccessful as all previous attempts. French truck drivers had declared war on their government, as had British farmers on theirs, and Irish fishermen, eager to join in the fray, had declared war on Spanish fishermen, who they claimed were fishing illegally. Some relief from all this bellicose behavior could be found in a story about an arts administrator in Germany who had denied that his comments about a rival's race had been anti-Semitism, but instead a glowing comment on the diversity of the new Germany, and another about an Italian businessman by the name of Gianpiero Ponte who had left his Milan office of a Friday afternoon, and rather than going straight home to his wife and children, had driven instead to his weekend home in Tuscany. There Signore Ponte had either fallen, jumped, or been pushed over the edge of a cliff. While death by misadventure had not been ruled put—there was some rather lurid speculation on that subject—an investigation into his business affairs had begun, and it appeared that he had suffered some rather serious financial setbacks in the days before his fatal plunge. Photos of his grieving widow, the rather lovely Eugenia Ponte, and his gorgeous children, were much in evidence.
The one moment of excitement, if not fear, in the midst of days of increasing boredom peppered with worry about Rob, occurred as I was window shopping on a little street off the Boulevard St. Germain. Before I knew what was happening, I was swarmed by a group of Gypsies, one of whom grabbed at my handbag. I backed up against the wall and held tight to my bag, but I couldn't figure out how to get away from them. I did the only thing I could think of: I started yelling. In a matter of seconds, help came in the person of Antonio, who waded into the crowd and pulled me free.
"Multo grazie, Antonio," I said.
"Very bad," he said in careful English. "You must watch more carefully."
"Can I buy you a drink?" I said. "Or a coffee or something? To say thank you?"
"I am not supposed to have intercourse with you," he said. "No speaking," he added, no doubt because of the startled expression on my face.
"But it is important for me to practice English," he said. "We speak English, okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"Then it is possible for us to have a drink together. Do you think there is Italian wine?"
"I'll ask," I said. The waiter looked horrified. "French wine only, Antonio," I said.
"Is okay," he said, but he didn't look any too happy. I ordered a nice Cotes du Rhone.
"How goes your work here?" he asked after a few tentative sips.
"Slowly."
"Yes," he said. "Do you think we will be many more days here?"
"I sure hope not."
"Me, also," he said. "I'm not certain about that man you had meeting with," he added, putting his hand over his heart in Boucher's favorite mannerism. "I think he wants to be success, but always, he fails. It is not good to be with men like him. They pull you down. You become like them."
"That's an interesting observation, Antonio," I said, and it was. Antonio was not only good-looking, he was also rather perceptive. He'd pretty well summed up Boucher, and he'd done it from a considerable distance. "But Mr. Lake wants me to deal with him, so what else can I do?"
"I know," he said. "You are not married?"
"No."
"You have a boyfriend, though."
"Yes, I do. He's a policeman."
"A policeman! That is dangerous work. It is a worry?"
"Yes. I'm worried right now."
"Too bad. I worry also, about my girlfriend. Her work is not dangerous, like your policeman. She is a bank teller. But still, I worry. Do you have photo of your policeman?"
"You know, I don't," I said. "Perhaps I should have."
"Too bad. I have a photo," he said, taking a rather dog-eared picture from his wallet. "Here."
"She's really lovely," I said, studying the photograph of a rather conventionally pretty young woman. "What's her name?"
"Teresa," he said. "And she is lovely. That is the problem. She is like the most beautiful flower, and there are many bees who admire her. I am afraid that while I'm away, another bee will take my place."
I tried not to smile. "Antonio, you are very good-looking yourself," I said. "I'm sure she will be glad to see you when you get home."
"Looks are not enough," he said. "Teresa is feminist." We both thought about that for a moment. "That is why I have taken this work, to watch for you," he said. "My employer pays very well. Teresa is very interested in money."
"You don't work for Mr. Lake on a permanent basis, then?"
"No," he said. "From time to time only. This time only until you have done what he wants."
"I'll try to do that just as quickly as possible," I said.
"That will be very good," he said.
"So what do you do when you're not working for Mr. Lake?"
"Many things. I am an actor, with the Corelli Ponte agency. It is very important agency in Rome," he added, having judged correctly by my vacant expression that I had no idea about Italian agencies. "But usually there is no work, so I do many things: cook, waiter. But I hope one day to be famous. Like Gian-carlo Giannini, you know. Work in Italy, but also Hollywood. That would make Teresa very happy. It is for this reason I must practice English, and why I have intercourse with you now."
"You know, Antonio," I said. "Given that this is an English lesson, I think that intercourse expression . . . perhaps you should say have a conversation, or speaking instead. Technically it is correct, but your meaning might be misconstrued." He looked slightly baffled. "Misunderstood, I mean. Someone might interpret it a different way."
"Like what?"
"I was afraid you'd ask me that question. Well, um, now it tends to mean having sex."
"Ohhh," he said, slapping his forehead with his palm. "That is very bad. I was taught that in school by my teacher of English, Signora Longo. She was very old, and we, the other boys and I, were certain she was a virgin. Perhaps she knew only the old expressions, or," he said, smiling suddenly, "she knew more about life than we thought."
We both laughed. "It is good you tell me this. I save you from Gypsies, and you save me from being mis-con-strued. Very excellent new word for me. Before, we are associates only. Now I think we are friends, no?"
"We are friends," I said.
"Being a friend is a responsibility, I think."
"Well, yes, I suppose, but it's also . . ."
"A joy?" he said.
"Yes, exactly," I said.
"I think so, too," he said.
We finished our wine. "And now," he said, "we will return to before. You work. I watch you."
"Okay," I said. "Thank you again for coming to my rescue."
"It was for me a pleasure. Also speaking with you in English. Thank you for French wine," he said. "Is not so bad."
"Prego, I said.