Free I Am Having So Much Fun Without You by Courtney Maum

that we don’t do deliveries by the artist and so forth, but . . . they’re incredibly persuasive.”
    â€œWait, so you talked to this guy. A guy. ”
    â€œYeah. The Dave fellow. They’ll cover your travel expenses, plus a thousand euros.”
    I crossed my arms and tried to make sense of it. And couldn’t.
    â€œBut, why?”
    â€œApparently, they practice this New Age form of art collecting. He said it was part of the process that you deliver the work yourself.”
    I got up and started pacing. “You have to agree, right, that this is a little too coincidental? Who else would want me to go all the way to London —and how am I going to do that, by the way, the thing’s bloody gigantic—except for her ?”
    Julien picked something from his teeth. “I admit that it’s unusual. It’s definitely strange.”
    â€œWhat if it is her? What would that mean?”
    â€œI guess it would mean that she wants to see you again. And that she has an inordinate amount of free time. I don’t know what to say. Do you think you’ll do it? The guy says they might not buy it if you won’t.”
    I exhaled hugely and looked up at the ceiling that was yellowed from all the cigarettes that had been smoked beneath it.
    â€œAnd when do they want me to do this?” I asked.
    â€œI told them you had some time off coming up, over the Toussaint.”
    â€œYou suggested my vacation ?”
    â€œYou’ll be in Brittany,” he replied. “Just a ferry ride away. Bring your family with you. Visit your parents. Turn it into a vacay.”
    â€œRight, fantastic. A reunion between my ex-mistress and my wife.”
    â€œWell, you need to think about it. I told them we’d get back to them in two days.”
    â€œDo you think it’s Lisa?” I asked, sitting.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t. But now . . . I guess it might be.”
    We sat in silence for a while; I worked on biting the nail of my thumb off, and Julien stuck his into the rubber tunnel created by his telephone cord.
    After a while Bérénice came back with the sandwiches. Faux crab for Julien and some kind of grilled vegetable concoction for me. She claimed—preposterously—that they were out of ham.
    As we sat there eating lunch, thoughts about conspiracies trampled through my head. Why would the U.S. government go to such transparent lengths to prove that weapons of mass destruction existed when even their men on the ground said that they didn’t? Why would any self-respecting boulangerie be out of ham baguettes at noon? What would I do if Lisa was the buyer? Could I really deliver a painting to her doorstep and take off without delving back into the horizontal and upright and other corporal positions that had gotten me into so much trouble in the first place?
    â€œI wanted to tell you,” attempted Julien through a mouthful of baguette, “I have a potential buyer for that painting of the bikes. Which leaves me with, what’s next? Do you have anything in mind?”
    â€œWell, you’re not going to like this,” I said, scratching the back of my head. “But I was thinking—and it’s just thinking—about maybe doing something on Iraq?”
    â€œPolitics?” He frowned. “I don’t know, Rich. I don’t really think of you as a political guy.”
    â€œBut this is cops-and-robbers bullcrap,” I said. “It’s a farce . Have you seen the headlines?”
    â€œSo, what—you want to do some paintings of George Bush on a stick horse?”
    I laughed. “That’s good, actually. But no. I was thinking,” I ran my hand down my pant leg, inventing an itch. “I was thinking that I might go back to installations.”
    â€œAn installation.” He grimaced. “About Iraq?”
    I folded my arms across my chest. “I want to do