Searching for Joan

Wasn't there a famous play or a book called Rumors of War? he thought to himself.  These days it was like that at work, a power struggle between the New York Office, where he worked, and Continental’s headquarters in Houston, where Clayton Favre was from.  While the competition was far above him–between two vice-chairmen–he, like everyone else was being forced to choose sides, like a civil war between East and West.  Such were the ominous thoughts Robert Morrison was entertaining during his short flight from Copenhagen to Paris.  He had been scheduled to go back to New York this weekend, until he got a cable from his boss telling him to stop off in Paris on his way back and meet with Clayton.  That was the entire message, except for the warning, "Be extremely guarded in what you say to Favre."

The plane was late arriving at Orly, close to five o'clock instead of four.  Robert queued up at the baggage section with the rest of the passengers and waited.  He used to be indifferent about claiming his bag but four weeks earlier in Milan a guy walked off with his suitcase and it took him three days to get it back.  He had a brown, fiberglass three-suiter that every American businessman seemed to own.  You had to be a detective to tell them apart.

At the back of the building a metal door abruptly swung open and the bags came gliding in on a roller conveyor.  Robert gave a porter his claim check and waited at the customs stand.  Within a few minutes, an official waved them through making only nationals open their bags.  Between his suitcase and his attache case he was lugging an extra twenty-five pounds all over Europe, and paying excess baggage if the planes were even close to fully loaded.  When he left New York, six weeks before, he was well under the 18-kilo limit or 40 pounds.  The excess now was all company records and papers that he had picked up along the way.

He told the taxi driver, "L'Hôtel Lotti," and leaned back in the deep seat of the Citroën 1D 19.  Tossing his raincoat on the seat, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose.  As he was tired, he kept his eyes closed for a few minutes.  Hearing a plane pass low overhead, he frowned, automatically assuming it was on its way to New York.  After six weeks of working alone, eating alone and talking to himself, he was sick of traveling–and yet he didn't want to go back, either.  Not to the home he left or the problems that awaited him there.  He felt like a refugee, a man without a country.

In a little while he reopened his eyes to take in the surroundings, for it was an event of sorts.  His second trip to Paris in four years.  That first time he was on a four-week vacation, taking the Grand Tour of Europe.  He was twenty-nine then, and while his dreams were years away from fulfillment, everything seemed attainable in time.  With Korea behind him there was nothing to block his path unless he came down with the black plague or fell under a bus.  Yet, though he had no inkling of it that summer, a year later he would find himself married, and with it his whole life turned upside-down.  It was truly ironic, because most guys in his office envied him.  A rich wife, a celebrity in fact, a luxurious home in Greenwich, membership in the N.Y.A.C. (New York Athletic Club), Brooks Brothers suits; everything in fact except the smallest chance of being happy.  

Glancing at the small map of Paris that the Tourist Information Desk had given him marking the hotel, he vaguely remembered the area, near the Tuileries and Place de la Concorde.  He had learned it was an advantage to know the approximate location of a hotel, especially if you were coming into a strange city at night, as was often the case earlier in his trip.

Taxi drivers working at night are a special breed.  They don't have as many fares as the day drivers so they have to make the most of their opportunities.  This usually means an unannounced tour of the city, passing close by your hotel several times en route.  Then as the meter is about to run out of numbers the driver turns a corner and, "voila!" the hotel.  On goes the light and he breaks out a book that computes the special night rates, and a half fare again for "les bagages, monsieur," and perhaps a tax or two he has just dreamed up.

He tells you the total but you don't know what the hell he's saying so you give him a big bill, say, a hundred francs.  The driver takes out the fare plus a generous tip and gives you the change.  He sits there waiting, expectant, looking back at you.  You know in your heart and soul you're being taken, but then you're an American, right?  So you look down at the ten franc note and the few coins that he's given you, and hand him back the ten francs.  "Merci," he says grudgingly.  No smile, nothing, for it's a hard life driving a taxi at night.

They were inside the city now, in the Left Bank area, where the parked cars and Sunday traffic slowed them down.  Robert opened the window wide to let in the air.  It was much warmer than Scandinavia and in spite of himself he had to admit June was an ideal time to see Paris.  He watched some young teen-age girls as they crossed the street and then disappear down into the Metro, while others climbed aboard the back of an old Renault bus.  At nearly every café the outer row of tables was occupied–people sitting in the late afternoon sun, sipping espresso and reading the papers.  There was something warm and nostalgic about it, even after endless weeks of packing and unpacking and living like a nomad.

He was reminded of another scene from that first ride into Paris, his first stop in Europe in '57.

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