Free GOOD AMERICANS GO TO PARIS WHEN THEY DIE by Howard Waldman Page A

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admiration. Seymour sees much more leg than that. Louis is shocked
when Seymour describes calves. He strikes Seymour as very
strait-laced for a Marine even for an ex-Marine. They go on arguing
about what they see.
    The little gray-smocked middle-aged man who
had disgraced himself on the stepladder enters the room. His filthy
beret is moronically pulled down to the eyebrows and he wears a
fearful chastised expression. He’s bearing a pile of clothing with
names pinned to them. He places the pile on one of the beds.
    He’s prepared to leave when Seymour invites
him to arbitrate the quarrel. What does he see outside, carriages
or cars? And how high are the women’s skirts? Can he see just their
ankles or their calves too?
    The man doesn’t even glance at the window.
“No carriages, no cars,” he says in a hoarse whispery voice. “No
ankles, no calves, no legs, no titties, no belly, no nice warm wet
cunny. No women. Nothing. Just fog.”
    “Fog? Look at that sunshine.”
    “Fog,” the man persists.
    “Look outside. You haven’t even looked.”
    “Fog. It’s always fog.”
    The scented fussily-dressed young
functionary enters the room.
    “Oh go away, disgusting old Henri,” he says.
“You be careful, you. You’re not supposed to talk to Arrivals. I’ll
report you if you don’t leave.”
    The little gray-smocked middle-aged
functionary looks scared and leaves.
    “Three’s company, four’s a crowd,” the young
functionary adds, in perfect mid-Atlantic English. He smiles
stiffly at bare-chested Louis and explains his command of the
tongue and its colloquialisms.
    “Back then, outside, I had oodles of
American friends, heaps of English too, plenty of Australians, the
odd (not to say queer, hi-hi!) New Zealander. That was long ago,
back then. Why don’t you take your towels off and put on your nice
new warm clothes?”
    “Don’t you see your friends any more?” says
Seymour, just to change the subject and evade the invitation. The
functionary’s face turns petulantly tragic.
    “That was a fib I just told, pure fantasy.
We don’t remember how it was before we came here. All that’s left
at my echelon are fragments. It’s punishment. I don’t remember for
what. I remember remembering lots of things but I don’t remember
what they were. Now it’s just scraps, like eating oysters with a
marvelous boy, a street at twilight, a bridge, a public garden with
flowers and butterflies on them, I don’t know what color. I don’t
know which public garden or the name of the boy or the street.
Outside of that, it’s all fog. I talk to Arrivals like you and they
tell me what it was like. I like to think I had all those handsome
English-speaking friends. I woke up here God knows how long ago
with my excellent knowledge of English. I’m so lonely. Be my
friends, please. I’m called Philippe. That’s what they call me when
they don’t call me other things. Philippe isn’t my real name. I
don’t know what my real name was. But call me Philippe anyhow.”
    “Why don’t you make new friends outside?”
says Louis. He can’t stomach nancies but the generous impulses of
his heart combat the censorious impulses of his stomach in this
particular case. The nancy seems to be on the brink of tears.
    “ Oh, we can’t leave the Reception
Department of the Préfecture .
Ever. Ever. You’ve certainly heard the old French saying:
‘The Préfecture de Police is where bad functionaries go when they exit.’”
    “You mean you’ve all died too?” says Seymour. The
functionary recoils.
    “ Don’t ever use that D-word here! Say
‘fuck’ and ‘ enculer ’ all you
like but never that D-word, M-word in French, never here! Of
course, to answer your crudely formulated question, everybody here
has exited, like you. But we’ll never be transferred out there. I
wish I could taste oysters again. One day if all goes well for you
(though I don’t think it will) order a dozen big juicy 00
grade Marenne oysters
out there,