Free B004MMEIOG EBOK by John Baxter

of street theater, as well as the view and the warm breeze. As usual in summer, chattering groups occupied every table, and the man who managed the wooden boxes of Marennes oysters was furiously opening them by the dozen while impatient waiters lined up to fill orders. Overhead, the blue canvas marquee fluttered, agitating the words “Le Méditerranée” written in a flowing hand any Parisian would recognize instantly.

    Jean Cocteau’s drawing for the restaurant La Mediterranée
    “Ever heard of Jean Cocteau?” I asked.
    In 1960, Cocteau had lunched here with friends and was preparing to depart. I could imagine the camel hair coat draped over his shoulders, the soft felt hat being molded between those long white fingers, ready to be placed on that leonine head; the only sight more impressive than Cocteau entering a restaurant was that of him leaving. Before bowing him out, the management asked him to sign the livre d’or , the guest book. Ever flamboyant, Cocteau never just signed anything. Instead, he decorated an entire page with a drawing so striking that the restaurant redesigned its linen, crockery, and marquee to incorporate it.
    “Wow!” said the husband softly as I pointed to part of the design woven into the burgundy carpet outside the front door. They stared at it, then looked up at the marquee. A corner of this city that otherwise would have passed unnoticed came alive. I suddenly remembered a passage from The Great Gatsby that I’d read a thousand times, but never would again without a twinge of recognition.
         It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
             “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
             I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

Chapter 16
The Man Who Knew Too Much
    The secret of being a bore is to tell everything.
    VOLTAIRE
    T wo mornings later, Dorothy and I met again in Les Editeurs.
    “You ambushed me,” I said accusingly.
    “Well, a little. Sorry.” She didn’t look contrite.
    For the ten of us who assembled on rue de Rennes for the literary walk, the biggest surprise was the youth of our guide. About forty, blond, tanned, and soft-spoken, Andrew could have passed for Robert Redford’s nephew. A couple of women in the group regarded him with not entirely academic interest, while the older ones wondered if they could keep up with someone so fit.
    They needn’t have worried.
    At Deux Magots, Andrew positioned himself with his back to the café, facing busy boulevard Saint-Germain. Staring over our heads, he announced, “Here we are at one of the most famous cafés of Paris, Deux Magots. Established in . . .”
    Literary memoirs often describe how a charismatic teacher ignited their interest in literature. “I longed for the next class when we would gather round the skirts of Miss Wilkins, hanging on every word as she read Emily Dickinson . . .” Whatever quality those educators possessed, Andrew had it in reverse. Having memorized Parisian cultural history down to the price of a pipi in the toilettes of Le Sélect in 1928, he wanted to be sure we knew every bit of it. One could feel the interest of the group drain away, as if sucked down some intellectual plughole. A few of us cast glances toward the chairs and tables set out on the sidewalk. What if we sat down, just for a minute, and ordered a coffee, or even a glass of champagne . . . ?
    “I wasn’t sure,” Dorothy said. “But I’d heard things. People said he was a bit . . . dry.”
    Dry? Andrew was more than dry. He was parched. Desiccated.
    He spared us nothing. History. Statistics. Quotations. Dates. And more statistics after that. Then he produced his latest book and read—or rather droned—a couple of pages. The desire with which some had looked on him