“Mais oui. Well, enough of that,” she smiled. She looked at me, surprisingly, with something of interest. She brushed her dyed rusty-blonde hair to one side and then back across her neck. She was wearing a long burnt-red dress, black hose, and black low heels. Actually, she wasn’t bad looking, but her chin seemed a little too large for her face. “Till a later time,” she said, as she reentered her apartment.
What am I getting into now? I wondered.
I glanced at my watch. It would be nice seeing Julene again, as well as a pleasant challenge to converse with Sullivan. Why had Julene been so silent, and for so long a time? I would soon find out, I reasoned, as I reclimbed the stairs to my room.
5
By dinner time the rain had ceased, and a cool, silvery mist had settled over the park. The Garden was unlocked, which permitted me to cross an edge of it on my way to St. Sulpice. The gates were usually locked by dark, to discourage transients and street people from sleeping in it, as well as to deter crime. Occasional gendarmes walked their beat around its perimeter or along the major streets that bordered it. None was present that evening, however. I had worn a light tan jacket and walked hastily along the Garden’s western aisles. I exited by the Rue de Vau, sauntered across several streets and down the sidewalks of two more, until I came to the restaurant.
Two large red yang dragons flanked the door. Their tongues of yellow fire and elongated ivory teeth greeted me with the sweet pungency of oriental chicken, shrimp, and pork. The redolence of starchy rice and buttered noodles scented the glowing evanescence.
Julene was in the doorway, smiling. “This way,” she beckoned. She hugged me as I stepped inside. She looked stunning in her pink dress and pearl earrings.
“Where have you been? I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you.”
“Shhhh! Hush yo’ mouth, man. You know it’s mutual. Carl is king tonight, and don’t you forget that.”
Her dark brown eyes searched mine playfully. A lusty quality lurked behind them. They glowed like coffee beans in tiny pools of rich cream. I slipped my arm around her waist and kissed her neck.
She slid free, her pink dress making a sound as she did. Suddenly, I noticed the large diamond that glittered on her left ring finger.
“Yesss!” she whispered. “Act surprised.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. It felt like an inflamed thorn, burning its way into my esophagus.
She led me to a table, spread with a red cloth and white dishes. Carl struggled to his feet and extended his hand.
“Congratulations!” I offered, as I nodded toward Julene’s ring. “I assume you’re the lucky gentleman.”
“Philosophers should never assume anything,” he smiled. He shook my hand and reseated himself.
I assisted Julene to her chair. Sullivan looked up somewhat chagrined, but unperturbed. “Sit down!” he half-ordered, half-commanded, in his gruff voice. “At least you know what I wanted to run by you.” He smiled proudly toward Julene, leaned sideways, and kissed her cheek. “We plan to get married next week at the American Embassy. You’re invited to attend.”
“That’s quite an honor. What brought all this on? I thought you were cousins, afraid to marry, plus prohibited by law.”
“Now, now! Don’t act impertinent. Julene told me she explained our relationship.”
Julene blushed. “Go on, honey, and tell him the rest. He’s dying to know,” she eyed me in her luscious way.
“My attorney telegrammed us from Alabama. I had asked him earlier. ‘You can do it in Paris, at the embassy, and it’ll be legal,’ he said. ‘The law can’t touch you when you return home.’’’
“But what about children? Won’t you be afraid?” I studied Julene’s face for her reaction. A twinge of sadness fell across it. She dropped her glance and fidgeted with her napkin. “Forgive me if I’m still being impertinent.”
“I welcome the concern,” Sullivan replied. “Yes, we’ll be uneasy. And who knows what we’ll do.” He turned toward Julene to observe her discomfort. He patted her hands.
“Love is strange” she added. “Taking you places you never thought you’d go.” She glanced up, her face aglow with promise and relief. “It’s been long in coming.” She kissed him on the mouth.
“Now, now!” he said, with embarrassment. “We’ll just have to take chances. What a hell of a character flaw!” he moaned, in reference to himself. “I’ve been mining the classics too long.”
We ordered our food—a variety of shrimp and pork dishes, accompanied by vegetables, fried rice, and hot tea. The waitress brought us chop sticks, at our request.
“Look out!” warned Julene, as she flipped rice and slick peas on Carl and herself.
We laughed, ate, and sipped our tea. In between gulps, we lapsed into conversation.
“Just when is the event? And should I rent a tux?”
“Next week, on Thursday, at eleven a.m.,” answered Julene.
“No tux!” added Sullivan. “But bring some champagne. The embassy will provide glasses. Or so they said.”
“The Giberts will be there, too. We’ll be lunching at an exquisite place on the Avenue de l’Opéra,” said Julene.
“And the honeymoon?”
“Paris!” laughed Julene. “My goodness, mon vieux!”
Carl smiled at both of us. “No, not Paris. We’ll be off to Greece, ancient Peloponnese, Troy, and Crete. Then, my sabbatical will draw to a close.”
“I shall have to strain my brain for an appropriate gift.”
“No gift!” pleaded Julene. “But I’ve got one for you.” She reached beside her chair and produced a cardboard tube. “Go on, take it.”
I accepted the “gift” and slid out its contents. It was a watercolor of the Roman ruins at Nimes.
“That’s where we’ve been for the past few weeks,” drawled Sullivan. “She’s returned to her painting, thanks to you.”
Julene seemed deeply self-conscious. “Don’t you like it?”
“Yes! Of course! It’s magnificent!” I held the un-scrolled watercolor in both hands. Julene had captured the circular grandeur of the old Roman amphitheatre, its pale salmon colored walls, arches, and gateways at sunset. It was done in pastels of beige and blue and coral. I smiled at her.
“Just wait till I get to Greece and Troy!”
“I will always treasure this,” I said.
“There you go again!” growled Sullivan. “‘Always,’ like ‘assume,’ is too nefarious for a philosopher to use. But, the picture is charming.”
“Incidentally, thanks for the copy of From the Minoans to Homer. I’ve enjoyed rereading it.”
“You’re quite welcome. I’d covet your assessment of the last chapters, as I’d like to explore some new ideas with you. My next book takes me into Plato and Aristotle, and I’m not pleased with the conclusions I deem forced to draw. Sweetheart,” he turned toward Julene, “give him our phone number. Maybe we can meet,” he directed his invitation to me, “and pursue some ideas.”
“What’s the new book about?”
“Beyond Homer. That’s its title and subject. With the rise of philosophy comes the death of tragedy and the decline of myth. Oh, not that it ever died! My God, what is Christianity, if it isn’t a myth? The continuation of the death and rebirth of Dionysus? And the resuscitation