inconspicuousâwhatever that meant. In the Venice bus they were busy practicing holding their documents up. They waved as they drove off.
Robert chose me to sit next to him; the seats were very comfortable and you could barely hear the motor. Not one loud word disrupted our gentle flight along the dark autobahn. As if it were a familiar routine, I left the bus at each stop with everyone else, joined the dash for the restroom, and while we waited stuffed my mouth with a hard-boiled egg from Mamusâs picnic box.
Just before midnight we reached Frankfurt Airport, the tripâs first sightseeing stop. We wandered the deserted departure halls, reading the names of airlines, and greeting the dark-skinned cleaning ladies, who responded by turning away.
The French had no interest in our bus, and we were first aware of France at our next pit stop. Mamus was snoring softly. It was dawn before I began to feel tired. I saw dark gray hanging over the Paris suburbs, and the next thing I knew we were driving through the city. It was drizzling, and the sky looked even darker. It wasnât until the Place de Bastille that I figured out where we were. From there on my sense of orientation worked without hitch or flaw. I displayed my brilliance for Robert and Michaela, but even I was amazed to be driving along the Boulevard Henri IV and see the islands emerge on our right and, yes indeed, Notre-Dame. 36 I prayed the mantra of our yearnings: Quai de la Tournette, Quai de Montebello, Quai St-Michel, Quai des Grands Augustins, and gazed at the old familiar booths of the
bouquinistes.
Even as I was prophesying the Louvre right on time, I felt uneasy. I was shooting off the fireworks of our knowledge of a faraway world without feeling a thing. Maybe it was simply that you werenât there, or maybe I suspected that within an hour it would sound as profane as a taxi driverâs chatter. Ah, at that same moment it degenerated into the know-it-all lectures of a paterfamilias who has conscientiously done his vacation homework.
We drove north across the Pont de la Concorde, past the Madeleine and St-Lazare, and up the Rue dâ Amsterdam. I presumed Sacré-CÅur would be our next goal and was hoping that with the first ray of sun and some coffee things would improve somewhat, when the driver announced that we were on our way to the most famous âmousetrapâ in the world. We made two turns, taking them very slowly, while our bus rocked back and forth and was lifted up as if on a wave before we were rolling again.
Then I saw the women lining the sidewalksâwhores at eight in the morning. Conversation in the bus died; the driver blustered on about love for sale. In the middle of his babbling there was a thump underneath us as if we hadnât cleared something. The driver cursed, and with a crackle the loudspeakers went silent. We drove on slowly. Everyone stared out the window in a kind of devotional silence. The monstrosity of being able to select a woman for a bit of cash! Robert turned to me with a crazy grin, hesitated as if about to ask a question, but then gazed straight ahead again, his forehead pressed to the glass.
Suddenly one of the women stepped away from the facadeâher skintight pants opened from the calves down to wide bell-bottomsâand ran along beside us. Her hair was covered by a bright scarf wrapped around her head pirate-style. She approached our window, moved closerâshe was very youngâkissed her hand, and pressed the fingertips to the window right where Robert sat. Even though she had to run to stay even with us, she gazed earnestly inside, but the women behind her had burst into laughter, buckled over with laughter, and we could hear their catcalls and yowlsâa cordon of women laughing at us. She rapped on the window three times, then the whole scene vanished.
Patches of red emerged on Robertâs neck. âShe just liked you,â Michaela said, trying to put him at
Robert chose me to sit next to him; the seats were very comfortable and you could barely hear the motor. Not one loud word disrupted our gentle flight along the dark autobahn. As if it were a familiar routine, I left the bus at each stop with everyone else, joined the dash for the restroom, and while we waited stuffed my mouth with a hard-boiled egg from Mamusâs picnic box.
Just before midnight we reached Frankfurt Airport, the tripâs first sightseeing stop. We wandered the deserted departure halls, reading the names of airlines, and greeting the dark-skinned cleaning ladies, who responded by turning away.
The French had no interest in our bus, and we were first aware of France at our next pit stop. Mamus was snoring softly. It was dawn before I began to feel tired. I saw dark gray hanging over the Paris suburbs, and the next thing I knew we were driving through the city. It was drizzling, and the sky looked even darker. It wasnât until the Place de Bastille that I figured out where we were. From there on my sense of orientation worked without hitch or flaw. I displayed my brilliance for Robert and Michaela, but even I was amazed to be driving along the Boulevard Henri IV and see the islands emerge on our right and, yes indeed, Notre-Dame. 36 I prayed the mantra of our yearnings: Quai de la Tournette, Quai de Montebello, Quai St-Michel, Quai des Grands Augustins, and gazed at the old familiar booths of the
bouquinistes.
Even as I was prophesying the Louvre right on time, I felt uneasy. I was shooting off the fireworks of our knowledge of a faraway world without feeling a thing. Maybe it was simply that you werenât there, or maybe I suspected that within an hour it would sound as profane as a taxi driverâs chatter. Ah, at that same moment it degenerated into the know-it-all lectures of a paterfamilias who has conscientiously done his vacation homework.
We drove north across the Pont de la Concorde, past the Madeleine and St-Lazare, and up the Rue dâ Amsterdam. I presumed Sacré-CÅur would be our next goal and was hoping that with the first ray of sun and some coffee things would improve somewhat, when the driver announced that we were on our way to the most famous âmousetrapâ in the world. We made two turns, taking them very slowly, while our bus rocked back and forth and was lifted up as if on a wave before we were rolling again.
Then I saw the women lining the sidewalksâwhores at eight in the morning. Conversation in the bus died; the driver blustered on about love for sale. In the middle of his babbling there was a thump underneath us as if we hadnât cleared something. The driver cursed, and with a crackle the loudspeakers went silent. We drove on slowly. Everyone stared out the window in a kind of devotional silence. The monstrosity of being able to select a woman for a bit of cash! Robert turned to me with a crazy grin, hesitated as if about to ask a question, but then gazed straight ahead again, his forehead pressed to the glass.
Suddenly one of the women stepped away from the facadeâher skintight pants opened from the calves down to wide bell-bottomsâand ran along beside us. Her hair was covered by a bright scarf wrapped around her head pirate-style. She approached our window, moved closerâshe was very youngâkissed her hand, and pressed the fingertips to the window right where Robert sat. Even though she had to run to stay even with us, she gazed earnestly inside, but the women behind her had burst into laughter, buckled over with laughter, and we could hear their catcalls and yowlsâa cordon of women laughing at us. She rapped on the window three times, then the whole scene vanished.
Patches of red emerged on Robertâs neck. âShe just liked you,â Michaela said, trying to put him at
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