Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
We hung around Innsbruck for a few days while Dick cleaned out his room complete with his life-size black and white poster of his sweetheart. The big blue steamer trunk I had foolishly brought to Europe was still in 'The Room' when I returned. That's my last memory of it! Did I ship it home? Who knows? I don't! I borrowed a 'mummy style' sleeping bag and a rucksack with a greasy stain on it from Bob Dunlap. He didn't make me pay for them but made me swear a blood oath that I would return them to him in due course. Where and when this return would take place was never determined. I haven't seen him since and that's over fifty years ago. Also I don't know where his rucksack and sleeping bag are!
I was a true pack rat and saved almost every piece of paper I was given while in Europe. That's why I can't figure out why I don't have a receipt for our train fares from Innsbruck to Genoa. We were so tight we squeaked, though, so I can't imagine we paid a great deal, riding in third class as was our custom. We made a slight detour through Switzerland hoping to buy some cheap pesetas in anticipation for Spain but figured later that we hadn't saved a great deal more than the extra cost of the tickets. Well, you can't win 'em all; it usually worked!
'Who the hell is that?' I said as we looked up at a robed statue atop a great high pillar in the centre of the port city of Genoa. He was gazing fixedly to the distant west.
'Lord Nelson?' Dick said.
'Nelson?' I scoffed, 'Nelson was an Englishman for Chrissake! His statue was in Trafalgar Square in London the last time I looked.'
'Right! Must be someone else, then!' Dick said blandly. We walked up to the column base and examined the inscription. We didn't understand Italian but we we did understand 'Cristoforo Colombo'.
'I thought he was Portuguese.' Dick said.
'I think he was,' I said, 'but Queen Isabella of Spain came up with the cash for his voyage.'
'Good investment!'
'Amen to that!' I said. 'The miserable pricks!'
We found a reasonably priced restaurant and naturally ordered a couple of plates of spaghetti and meat sauce and a litre of red wine. We were disappointed; the meat sauce was almost as runny as the wine. Better than the other way around, I figured!
We had planned to head southwest along the coast but were virtually ignored by the traffic. Near the edge of town we were standing in a lay-by next to a big four-wheeled wagon on rubber tires with a drawbar resting on the ground ahead. There was a wooden gate covering the bottom half of the back entrance.
'Whatta you reckon that is?' I said.
'It looks like some kind of a transport vehicle for livestock.' Dick said. He reached up for the top of the gate and pulled himself up far enough to peer in,
'Anything in there?'I asked.
'Just a bunch of straw scattered around.'
'Any animals?'
'Nope"
'Maybe it's 'Rent-a-Manger'
'I don't see any Wise Men, and that includes us!'
It was late in the afternoon and and we didn't have much trouble convincing each other it would be a good place to spend the night. We had soon both scrambled in and unrolled our sleeping bags. We were fast asleep not long after the sun had set. I woke in the morning to the constant buzzing of the little Vespa motorcycles that dominated traffic in Italy.
We were out on the highway soon after sunup and rides were scarce but very interesting. The local folks were friendly and curious and we made it only as far as Albenga that day. We were not exactly in a hurry. All the peach trees were in bloom and the hills seemed covered with pink icing that dripped down from terrace to terrace on the hillsides.
We spotted a solitary house by the waterfront and calculated the sign in front advertised food and drink. We managed to make the food and drink portion of the evening last for nearly three hours. Meanwhile, we had gorged ourselves on mussels, fried squid and potato salad all washed down with several bottles of Cinzano and soda. By the time we paid our bill and ricocheted off the doorframe back onto the beach it was already dusk. We spotted a large concrete structure on the beach which we concluded was a wartime bunker supervised if not actually constructed by the Germans. To our dismay we found the steel doors securely locked and bolted.
Fortunately there was a gibbous moon and we were able to see sufficiently to recognize a sandy patch of level ground not far from the bunker. It seemed to have been used by someone as a small vegetable garden even though the ground was sandy.
'Look!' I said, holding up a thin carrot-shaped object I had found next to my sleeping bag. 'See, here's a baby carrot they've left here.'
'Remarkable!' Dick mumbled; he was already in his mummy bag and nearly asleep. I marvelled at his ability to go to sleep so quickly. Any place, any time! seemed to be his motto. Strangely similar to narcolepsy! It was damned cold on the beach that night so I wasn't tempted to lie snuggled up in my sleeping bag the next morning, I had been wakened by the sound of what I thought were firecrackers but later found out it was the farmers, using tiny cartridges of birdshot to shoot vine-raiding sparrows.
'Wakie, wakie, sport! Drop your cock and grab your socks, it's time to move along!' Dick growled and sat up, rubbing his eyes groggily.
'It's kind of chilly here,' he said.
'That it is, that it is; By the way, you haven't been farting a lot during the night, have you?'
'Don't look at me!' he said indignantly. 'why would you ask me a question like that, anyway? You know my farts don't stink!'
'Yeah, right!' I said sarcastically, 'unfortunately your shit gives you away!' In the meantime I had been examining the tiny object that I had concluded was a sand-covered carrot the night before.
'I think I've just solved the mystery.' I said, dropping the 'carrot' abruptly.
'Mystery? What mystery?'
'The mystery of the apparently causeless flatuosity!'
'The what?'
'The farts! Those of arcane origin--these aren't carrots at all--these are turds--human turds! They're using them as fertilizer. The Chinese call it 'night soil''.
We walked hurriedly out to the road and limbered up our thumbs again. Neither of us had much appetite for breakfast. This time we got lucky and were picked up by a farmer and rode in the back of his pickup truck until he turned north at San Remo. We disembarked and went into a handy shop and bought some food and a bottle of 'vin ordinaire' then went out and wandered up to a wall where we had a good view of the sea and the sun was pleasantly warm. Soon we were perched on a rustic stone wall eating oranges, cheese and crisp French bread.
'I feel sort of anxious,' I said. 'I think it's probably due to indecision.'
Dick looked at me skeptically. 'What decisions do you have to worry about?' he asked.
'Well, for instance,' I said, 'if we hear a car coming, do we jump up and try to thumb a ride, or do we just sit here and let it go by?'
'Good point!'
'Also I have to sit here and decide whether to eat more of my orange or to have some brie on bread, or to have another swig of wine first; all this while wondering what the rich people are doing.'
'I can see your problem,' Dick said. 'You may get so anxious you'll just drop off to sleep!'
'This sort of reminds me of a quatrain from 'The Rubber Boat of Hymie Cohen',' I said.
'You mean the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam don't you?'
'Yeah, didn't I say that? Anyway, you know how it goes: A book of verse beneath the bough,/ A jug of wine, a chunk of cheese, and thou, / Singing in the wilderness ... and yadda yadda yadda...'
'You're fairly close,' Dick said, 'but I think it's supposed to be a babe 'beside you, singing in the wilderness...'
'Aw, what the hell, I was close wasn't I?'
Dick shoved the rest of the bread, the rest of the cheese and the wine bottle into his rucksack and jumped back onto the roadside.
'C'mon, let's make a mile before you put me to sleep again.'
I climbed back down groggily and joined him by the roadside. We were obviously on a lucky streak because after a couple of minutes a late-model Renault pulled over and waited till we ran up to it. The driver leaned over and rolled down a window.
'Where are you going?' he asked in passable English.
'Spain, actually!' I replied.
'Jump in!' he said with a laugh, 'I can take you as far as Cannes.' Since Dick's command of French was virtually zero I climbed into the back seat and let him sit next to the driver to give him an opportunity to practice his English. I'm talking about Dick, of course.
Although traffic was light, our host had the French compulsion to pass everything he approached on the road. He was a young French doctor from Paris who also had a speech obsession and babbled on continuously as he passed car and lorry alike even as cars approached ominously at high speed from the opposite direction. The car had no seat belts so I found myself in my customary attitude, crouched on all fours on the floor behind the front seats waiting for the inevitable collision. We were on a high mountainside road as we passed by Monaco and the rocky beach at Nice. 'Not the kind of beach I'd want to lie on for long,' I observed as we gazed down on them.
'You'll enjoy Cannes much more,' the doctor said, 'it has lovely sand beaches.'
'I don't like them very much, either,' I said cynically.
A few minutes later the road dropped down almost to the seaside and we drove directly into the centre of Cannes.
'I think you've gone out of your way to get us here,' I said. 'You're very kind!'
'Cela ne fait rien' he said lightly. 'It was nothing! Have fun!'
'Thanks, we'll try!' I said as we stepped out onto the street. 'Not a bad type,..for a Parisian!' Dick said as the car drove off.
'You've been talking to too many tourists who've been to Paris,' I said.
'I've been there myself; I know what I'm talking about,' Dick said. 'You may get to find out for yourself some day. The country folks are quite different, of course--lovely people.' He was correct; I did find out about the difference in due course.
The main street in the little town was a block back from the waterfront and we managed to find a hotel with cheap rooms where we could stow our luggage and wash out a few things. Then we headed for the beach. We were surprised to find that the beach was partitioned off with each section under the jurisdiction of a hotel in the town. We got into conversation with a fit-looking Frenchman in bathing shorts who was in charge of one of the sections. It was well before the holiday rush and the beach was virtually deserted.
'Come in,' he said 'there is no charge for you at this time of year. Perhaps we can play a bit of volleyball'
'Won't you need a partner?' I asked.
'I don't think that will be necessary,' he said with a smile. I knew that Dick had played beach volleyball in California and was competent at the game. I was virtually useless, not having played the game in years and never in sand. We played three games and were regularly skunked, getting two or three points in each game. The last couple of games had drawn a small audience of two men who were leaning on the wire fence bordering the sidewalk above the beach.
'I'm pooped,' I said. 'You can play some more if you want, Dick, but I've had it.'
'Nah, this joker's too good for me, I'll pack it in too!' We went and shook hands with the Frenchman, (his name was Jean) then went over and sat on the concrete steps leading up to the sidewalk.
'Are you gentlemen interested in a little game?' Jean said to the two chaps up on the sidewalk.
'You mean one on one?' asked the taller of the two.
'Mais non, I play you both at once if you like!' The looks on the faces of the two changed perceptibly. I suspected that they fancied themselves as volleyball players. They came down the stairs, laid their sports jackets over the back of a bench, removed their shoes and socks and rolled up their pant legs. The proprietor was standing on one side of the net tossing the ball up in the air as he waited.
'We could make it more interesting for a few francs,' he said casually. We were about to see how highly the Americans (no problem figuring that out) regarded their capabilities when the wager was decided.
'Would twenty francs be all right?'
'Aw, what the hell,' said the tall one, 'let's make it worth while; how about fifty?'
'All right, if you wish it, do you wish to serve first?
'This could get interesting,' I said to Dick. "Did you notice that Jean was completely unfazed when they upped the ante?' It wasn't long before we understood why! The tall American started with a vicious hard serve that took the Frenchman by surprise and won the point for the Americans. The other man made a much softer serve which Jean dispatched with ease then proceeded to serve twelve winning points in a row. He soon regained the serve and finished off the game. I expected them to see the light and call it quits but they seemed to be convinced that they were not going to be beaten by 'any damn froggie'! So the bet was doubled again and they were once more subjected to the clinical athletic surgery of the Frenchman. He had, however, allowed them to play much more effectively, giving them the false impression that they were on the verge of a breakthrough. By this time they were down four hundred francs and the tall one had to convince his buddy that the next game would eliminate their debt.
'Okay, one more game for eight hundred,' said the tall American.
'Tres bien, double or quits,' said Jean. 'You serve,' he said graciously.
Miraculously, Jean seemed to have regained his top form and finished the two 'marks' off in about ten minutes. They were both perspiring profusely and puffing when they returned to the bench to put their shoes and socks on. They walked glumly down the sidewalk, by which time Jean had carefully folded his winnings and tucked them into the front of his bathing trunks.
We remained at Cannes for several days, visiting our friend Jean at the beach each day, watching him try various ploys to lure unsuspecting tourists into volleyball games. No one beat him as long as we were there. Once again the train station was the location of the restaurant with the best and most inexpensive food. The shops along the main street were obviously targeted for the wealthy gourmet types who flocked south from Paris during holiday time in August; every other shop was either a chocolate merchant's or a pastry specialist.
We were standing in front of one of the chocolate shops one morning trying both to keep from drooling excessively and to make our feet move on.
'Lucky for me I have no interest in chocolate,' I said.
'Me neither,' Dick said. 'I'm allergic, actually!' he lied glibly. There was an elderly couple standing next to us, both white-haired. The man, whom I guessed to be close to eighty years old, was smartly dressed, wearing a vested suit, shirt and tie, a grey Homburg hat and was carrying a black lacquered walking stick.
'I take it you young men are American,' he said with a smile. He spoke with a slight New England accent.
'You're close,' I said. 'My ancestors immigrated to America in 1704 and settled along the Mohawk Valley. They remained loyal to the British king, unlike the ancestors of my buddy here.'
What do you mean?'
'I mean his ancestors were revolutionaries; the main difference is that they didn't have Madame Guillotine!'
'Oh, I think that's awful!' said the elderly lady.
'I guess my ancestors didn't think it was too hot, either; after the war the Yanks confiscated all their land and property and told them to bugger off up to Canada with their beloved king.'
'But King George was a despot.' said the old boy.
'I agree; nevertheless, if we'd had George Washington on our side the British probably would have won the war, then you would all be speaking with Oxford accents instead of those funny ones you have now.'
'Our revolution was about taxation without representation,' Dick said.
'You think you're much better off now?' I said.
'Good point!' Dick said.
'Cheer up, we're worse off in Canada!'
'What line of work are you boys in?' the old fellow said, deciding it was time to change the direction of the conversation. Loud laughter ensued.
'Work? Who said we were in 'a line of work?' We're just bumming around Europe.'
'Well, I compliment you for that; I'm nearly eighty years old and I've worked every day of my life. I've got more money than I can spend now but a day never passes that I don't think I should have taken off and done what you lads are doing. Good for you! I'm too old for it now, I've waited too long!'
'I've figured out what that old boy could do with some of his surplus money,' Dick said as we were walking toward the beach after saying goodbye to the old folks.
'I can't possibly guess what it might be!' I said.
We occasionally passed groups of middle-aged and older Frenchmen heaving heavy melon-sized balls about. They were playing a strange European game called 'boules'. I think I figured out its 'raison d'etre' eventually. English lawn bowling is an elitist sport requiring large areas of carefully groomed grass, a clubhouse and so on. 'Boules' is played on any reasonably flat unprepared surface and requires only about seventy-five feet of space. Each ball weighs fifteen or twenty pounds and the rules are similar to lawn bowling. The aficionados wear ordinary labourer's clothes and sport colourful kerchiefs. Like any other game it looked boring to casual onlookers but greatly competitive and fascinating to the participants. We thought it looked boring.
There weren't many babes around at that time of year and it was always difficult to decide whether they were just nice young local damsels or 'working' girls, if you get my meaning. Dick had latched onto an acceptably handsome local girl and had been spending what I considered to be a reasonable amount of time in which to ascertain her status. Actually, all he had to do was ask. Maybe there was something about the relationship he wasn't telling me! It all became academic one morning when we noticed the streets virtually teeming with young American swabbies on shore leave. And sure enough, anchored prominently offshore between the town and the Iles de Leains was an imposing grey naval vessel flying the American flag and pointing its twelve inch guns ominously forward.
'Good Lord, the fleet's in!' I said. 'This is going to have a significant effect on prices--of everything!'
Dick's relationship with his new friend, about to blossom, suddenly began to wither, if I may use that expression. She was more difficult to pin down, as it were, and frequently was not in her single flat, as she had been in the past. At least she seemed not to be home, since the door was not answered even after repeated knocking. I was never able to ascertain how far his relationship had proceeded with the young lady but his dejected behaviour indicated to me that he had been outmanoeuvred by the American Navy at the critical moment. Was money involved? I did not consider it prudent to ask.
We decided the next day that there was not room enough in town for the American Navy and two young studs like we.
'Methinks it's time we made a mile,' I said.
'Methinks I've forgotten something I should have remembered,' Dick said. 'Where's that map of the Riviera you picked up at the American Express?' I dug out the detail map of Cannes and the surrounding countryside.
'There it is, plain as day!'
'There what is?'
'Vence, the home of Chagalle and the site of the famous chapel designed by Matisse!'
'Of course, I knew that!' I said earnestly.
'Bullshit! You've never heard of it before!'
'You'll never know,' I said in a weak attempt to cover my ignorance. 'Anyway, what's the significance?'
'The oldest sister of my oldest brother's wife lives there; I was told not to miss visiting them.'
'I should think you would be just dying to see such a close relation,' I said dryly. 'It looks like about a two hour bus trip; shouldn't you 'phone first?'
'They don't have a phone.'
'Great! Sounds like everything's right up to date,' I said sarcastically. 'Ah, well, we've got bugger all else to do! Let me make a cautious comment, however; I suggest we don't give up our room until we know for sure that they're in place.'
'Good thinking,' Dick said. 'We'll tough it out one more night with the swabbies!'
'Glad you agree,' I said.
I was right about the length of the journey and we wound our way up steep mountainside foothills for what seemed endless hours before reaching the village. I was wrong about what I expected to see. There was a stone wall surrounding the village itself which could not have been much more than ten hectares in area. Cobblestone streets converged from various directions into the town square which was centred by a delightful water fountain. Fruiting trees surrounded the square; lemon, peach, orange, it was a miniature paradise. We felt that washing off the travel dust was permissible since a woman with two perky poodle dogs had just finished doing the same for them.
I won't even attempt to tell you of the 'conversations' we carried on trying to find out where the Hamiltons were living but we finally worked our way up a side street until someone nodded vigorously and pointed at a front doorway we asumed was our target. Dick knocked loudly for several minutes before a gray-haired man came to the door and eyed us as though we were canvassing for the poor. His expression changed miraculously when Dick identified himself.
'Well, for Christ's sake! he exclaimed. 'Come on in! Elsa! You'll never guess who's here!'
'I bet I will,' cried a voice from above the stairs. 'I'll bet it's Jack's brother from back home!'
'You win,' he said, 'that's who it is all right!'
We were ushered up the stairs and introductions were completed.
'I cheated just a bit,' Elsa said. 'Janet wrote to me some weeks ago and warned me that you would be lurking about the territory. Anyway, your timing is perfect; we'll be having lunch shortly and there's plenty for everybody!'
'I thought you'd met Dick.' I said jestingly.
'Oh, we know Dick, all right,' Elsa said, 'there's still plenty, even for him!'
We were ushered into a living room decorated with a variety of Spanish and North African Moslem mementoes. The floors were made of squares of glazed porcelain but were half-covered with colourful cotton rugs. I don't remember a bedroom, bath or kitchen because we were ushered out onto the large sun porch and seated in comfortable lounge chairs.
'What a magnificent view you have here,' I said. The sun was shining but didn't seem particularly hot and the air had a crystal clarity about it that seemed to bring the buildings on the distant hillside into lucid focus.
'This is a favoured village for painters,' John said. 'They claim the light here is perfect for their work.'
'We have very 'tony' neighbors as a result,' Elsa added. 'Marc Chagall lives here, I'm sure you've heard of him. Very Jewish; I expect he left the country during the war. They say he's not been at all well lately. Look across the valley about where I'm pointing; see that odd-shaped building with the cross on top? That's the chapel that was designed by Matisse, although I suspect Chagall had some input because he's been into that sort of thing lately.'
'If I could just get you to 'belt up' for a minute I could offer these boys a drink; we have some excellent red 'vin du pays' you might like.'
'Sounds good!' Dick said.
'I wouldn't say no!' I added.
'Good! Men after my own heart!' he said and left in search of liquid refreshment and glasses.
'As soon as John returns I'll bring out the lunch,' Elsa said.
'Where are we?' I said. At Elsa's look of bewilderment I added, 'I don't mean 'where in France?', I mean 'Where in Vence?', like, is this a stone building we're in, or what? I'm confused.'
'Well,' Elsa explained with apparent pleasure, 'Vence is an old walled town dating back to at least the year 1500; we're sitting in a part of that wall.'
'You mean to say that this whole apartment is a part of the ancient wall?'
'That's right,' Elsa said with a smile, just as John came back out with glasses and an uncorked bottle of the local vintage.
'I'll take mine with me,' Elsa said as she rose to go to the kitchen.
'Get some of that into you,' John said as he poured the wine, 'it''ll do wonders for your outlook!' I picked up my glass and took a deep sniff and let it rattle around my sinuses for a moment or two; it had an encouraging bouquet. I opted to abjure my usual grunting and gargling under the circumstances.
'Lovely, just lovely,' I said, 'just the ticket for a couple of thirsty travellers. What say you, Richard?'
'Perfect!' he replied, having finished more than half his glass already.
'Do you get much rain here?' I asked.
'Would you believe we've gone three months now without a drop?'
'But everything's so lovely and green,' I said.
'That's the thing,' John said. 'Apparently the dew at night is so heavy that the plants can subsist on that moisture alone.'
'Incredible,' Dick said as Elsa returned with a loaded tray which she set on the centre table.
'Dig in, boys; if you want something else you're just out of luck. Actually, I'm just kidding, there's more in the kitchen!'
There was a mind-boggling amount of food on the tray; centred by a large bowl with what appeared to be a sort of quasi-Waldorf salad; big chunks of tuna, celery, lettuce and walnuts with a creamy white dressing. There were plates of thinly sliced smoked ham, Swiss cheese, big sardines in olive oil, dishes of crisp radishes and carrot slices and a fresh baguette of French bread,--and all washed down with red wine! I actually heard Dick say something I never thought I'd heard him say,--'No more for me, thanks!'
Conversation lagged while we dozed in the sunlight,--after all, it was France and it was siesta time! We became animated again about mid-afternoon and we tried to get the conversation up to speed again but without much success.
'You folks are welcome to stay here tonight if you like,' Elsa said, 'we don't have beds but we have a couple of foams and I presume you have sleeping bags.'
'We've slept on much harder, I assure you.' Dick said. 'Thanks for the kind offer, but we still have a room at a hotel in Cannes; I think we'll try to make it back there tonight so we can get an early start tomorrow morning.'
'Thanks for the lovely lunch,' I said. 'Your flat is incredible; perfect for retirement. Please let me know if you ever decide to give it up!'
'You'll be the first to know,' Elsa replied with a laugh.
What I didn't say was 'What do you do when one of you dies?' Do you stay here on your lonely? Do you go back to the States to be near your family? It was all idyllic until you started to contemplate the ultimate ramifications.
After all the customary messages to be passed on to Dick's family and in-laws and a five minute discussion of the bus schedule we took our leave. Before we made it to the bus station we had hitched our first ride and two rides later we had made it back to Cannes just at nightfall.
The next day we were out on the highway before the American Navy had come ashore, not that we'd ever have been mistaken for 'swabbies'--'slobbies' maybe, but not 'swabbies'. I stood at the roadside holding up my British flag and smiling broadly; we had learned that a smile had a significant effect. It seemed to be most effective on the farm trade and we spent a series of rides sitting in the back of pickup trucks. The delivery service was beyond reproach, however, and in Marseille we were left off in front of a row of hotels next to the embankment that faced along the waterfront toward the bay. This was not the Cote D'Azur and we checked in at the Hotel Nacional after checking the rates. Our room was damp and smelled faintly of disinfectant. The heavy oak beams in the ceiling had been whitewashed and were peeling in places.
'Not too bad for half a buck,' I said to Dick.
'The usual flop house rates,' he said with a grin. After leaving the hotel we stopped at a small seafood bar and had mussels, fried squid and potato salad, washed down with Cinzano and soda.
We wandered along the main drag with nothing special in mind until we spotted a 'Fusball' table in one of the bars. We had always called the game 'Mumble Puppy' and it was extremely popular in Europe. Weeks in Innsbruck had polished our game because there was a table at the back of the bar at the Central which was there for the entertainment of the French troops but frequently available for our use. We had become adept at the swift nudge of the ball sideways and the quick snap of the wrist to fire it at blinding speed toward the opposite goal.
We played a couple of games 'mano a mano' before attracting the attention of some of the bar hangers-on who came over and watched the action. It wasn't long before a couple of them suggested a game of doubles. We agreed and beat them without too much difficulty on the first game. They seemed to improve somewhat on the second game and we noticed that the audience had gradually grown to about a dozen spectators. There was then some noticeably excited comment in the group when a couple of determined-looking individuals joined the audience.
I could read a bit of French but the quickly slurred language of these individuals was completely 'Greek' to me. It soon became obvious, however, that the new arrivals were the local 'fusball' champions and had been summoned to the bar, but not to become lawyers, if you get my meaning! It wasn't long before the two antagonists we were playing decided they had urgent business elsewhere and we were faced with the 'specialists'. A suggestion was made, in broken English, of course, that we play the next game for a moderate wager. 'Whatta you think, Ron?' Dick enquired.
'I think we're being set up!' I replied.
'Really? Why do you say that?'
'You must have a short memory. You saw what happened to the two Americans at Cannes, didn't you?'
'Oh, yeah! I take your point.' We refused the offer on the basis that it was contrary to our religious beliefs and commenced play. They were very good but we managed to edge them out. No one was smiling.
'Where are we, anyway? I said to Dick. He looked surprised.
'We're in Southern France, of course; what a stupid question.'
'That's a hell of a long way from home, isn't it?' I said.
Dick looked bewildered for a moment then glanced around at the grim-looking faces surrounding us.
'I take your point,' he said. 'What do you think we should do?'
"I think I should suddenly remember that appointment we have,' I said, glancing at my watch.
'Oh, yeah,' he said, the penny finally having dropped. He glanced at his watch and started toward the door. 'Let's go,' he said. I was right behind him.
'I keep thinking I'm going to get a stiletto up my ass,'Dick muttered.
''Don't look back, just keep walking,' I said.
— The End —