GOOD AMERICANS GO TO PARIS WHEN THEY DIE (4 page)

Sub-Prefect Antoine Marchini takes instant command
of the situation. He understands that the long but patiently
awaited moment to topple his enemy has come. A Corsican proverb has
it that vengeance is a dish more delectable cold than hot. The
Burning Ladder proves that The Eye of the Supreme Echelon has
witnessed the scandal. That Eye is now focused upon him. Although
the privilege of judging and exiting the mistakenly Materialized
lies beyond his area of competence, Sub-Prefect Antoine Marchini is
strongly tempted to earn good points by short-circuiting the chain
of command, undoing the latest and most outrageous blunder of his
superior, Prefect d’Aubier de Hautecloque.

Not superior for long. Not prefect for long.
Sub-Prefect Marchini imagines himself promoted into that supreme
white uniform, dazzling his hierarchical inferiors with it. Above
all, he imagines himself promoted into more memories of his past
life, the most precious reward of that new echelon.

Another Corsican proverb has it that the
extent of authority is in inverse ratio to the expenditure of
energy necessary to assert it. Literally: “Facing his enemy, the
man with a rotten stick shouts, the man with a long keen knife
smiles.” Tight-lipped and impassive, the Sub-Prefect jerks his chin
an imperious centimeter in the direction of a spectacled
functionary and then again at the Arrivals visible or hidden behind
their pillars.

The designated functionary is small and
fat. Iron-framed bottle-thick glasses magnify his colorless eyes.
With his pepper-and-salt short stiff prickly hair and snout-like
nose he looks extraordinarily like a giant hedgehog (which is
actually his nickname among his colleagues: “
Hérisson
”). He pulls on gloves and trots stiffly
toward the Arrivals. A female functionary is prepared to take down
the information in shorthand as he goes from ankle to
ankle.

Hedgehog kneels before Seymour, delicately
lifts his ankle, peers at the tag and drones out:

“
Seymour Stein,
1925-1980. Sojourn in France: November 5, 1951 to
November 2, 1952. As winner of First Prize in a Martel cognac
raffle (two unforgettable weeks in Paris, all expenses paid),
issued a two-week visa, then a two-year temporary resident carte de
séjour. Legal Activities: 1. Four months as English instructor at
the Fry-Fitz Academy of Modern Languages. Discharged. 2. Three
months as English instructor for the OECD. Discharged. Illegal
Activities (none sanctioned at the time): 1. Failure to report to
the Tax Department income deriving from private English lessons. 2.
Contact-man for a criminal abortionist …”

All of the functionaries shrug at the first
offense and look scandalized at the second. Sub-Prefect Marchini
interrupts the sing-song recital.

“Enough. A preposterous error has obviously
been committed. Clearly, this individual is no Good American. In no
way does he merit Paris. Can there be any doubt that he deserves
instant exit?” Sub-Prefect Marchini scowls and ponders the
matter.

Seymour feels faint hearing that. He sinks
down to the floor in a uterine posture, hugging his jack-knifed
knees, head bent forward. That close to it, he can’t help seeing
the big white tag attached to his ankle like an ID tag on a morgue
inmate. The tag is shaped like a tombstone as well. On it is his
name and the date of his birth, bad enough, that first and
fundamental mistake. But also, worse, in terrible confirmation of
the giant hedgehog’s droning voice, the date of his death. He
hadn’t fucked up the Great Plunge Out after all.

Seymour’s brain, a high-strung neurotic
organ back in had-been time, can’t cope with the tremendous input
of inconceivable information. Broca’s Area is swamped and he’s
speechless. Now Wernicke’s Area and he’s deaf. His motor cortex is
overwhelmed and he can’t command a single muscle. Overtaxed neurons
threaten to pop by the billion. Protecting his brain from overload,
safety-switches are tripped. He blacks out.

When consciousness returns a few seconds later,
Seymour’s first thought is: so it’s true, all the mumbling
hocus-pocus obscurantist opium-of-the-people pre-scientific
mentality stuff he’d mocked in his wise-guy New York days. The
Bible Belt is humiliatingly right. Gimme that old-time religion, if
it’s good enough for grandpa it’s good enough for me. It’s no
bull-shit. There’s something after, after all.

You’ll get pie in the sky when
you die by and by
.

It’s no lie.

Except that it’s not in the sky you’ll be
getting your pie but in Paris, first stop the
Préfecture de Police
in the capital’s First
arrondissement
.

Get it, that is, if you’re American and Good, he
understands. He’s American all right but even by the loosest
definition of the word, he hadn’t been Good, he knows, oh does he
know that! Not just his association with the shady doctor, but
hundreds of other things, like the way he’d acted to that girl way
back in time here in Paris, the great love of his life for six
months, what was her name again? What did she look like?

Seymour Stein’s longing for void has
weakened. His brain and heart are flooded with nostalgic yearning
to see the nameless and faceless short-time love of his life again.
But that was back in 1951. It’s 1980 now. If she’s still alive
she’d be in her mid-fifties. Anyhow, he won’t be seeing her at any
age. Napoleon had just said he’d be exited on the spot. Exited
where? Where, oh where, and why again, my God? Oh God, in whom I’m
now forced to believe, tell me, tell me, why again?

Seymour blacks out a second time. When he
emerges, he realizes that the blackness is a preview of what he’s
going to be exited to and he blacks out for the third time.

Sub-Prefect Marchini emerges from
reflection. “Next!” he commands.

Hedgehog trots over to Helen. She passively
abandons her ankle to him. He drones out:

“HELEN RICCHI
NEE FORD, 1927-1988.

Two-year
carte de séjour
issued January 7, 1951 in view of studies in
French Literature at the Sorbonne. In July of that same year
returned to the United States of America and married. Returned with
husband to France in September of that same year. Husband
disappeared on third day of arrival and was never found. Cleared of
initial suspicion. Issued two-year temporary resident
carte de
séjour
November 23,
1951. Remained in Paris until April 3, 1953. Legal activities:
unsuccessful search for husband. No evidence of illegal
activities.”

The Sub-Prefect decrees: “Pending the inquiry
this individual will remain. Next!”

Hérisson
kneels before Max Pilsudski and reaches
for his right ankle and the tag somewhere beneath the hair. Max
pulls his foot back and growls:

“Hey, you queer, take your fucking paws off
of me or I’ll kick your teeth down your fucking throat.”

“What does he say?” the functionary asks
Seymour, in French, of course.

Seymour has recovered a little from all
those shocks. Maybe the word “exit” has some other meaning.

“
He would prefer that you not touch him,”
he replies in fluent French.
(
“Il préférerait que vous ne
le touchiez pas.”
)

Seymour is surprised at his perfect mastery of the
subjunctive, a stumbling-block during his long-ago sojourn in
France despite Marie-Claude’s patient explanations. Of course,
Marie-Claude was her name. Great trusting brown eyes. Ponytail.
Fragrance of cold-cream. Palm-tickling nuzzle of an aroused breast,
O my darling. My aging ex-darling. Fifty-five years old now. With
that thought, Seymour shakes free of her.

He advises Max not to make trouble. He isn’t
in a position of force here, he adds. So Max abandons his shaggy
ankle to the functionary’s pudgy hand. He doesn’t understand what’s
going on.

Little more than a second is necessary for
Hedgehog to transmit what’s inscribed on the tag.

“
Max Pilsudski
, 1950-2000,” the kneeling functionary chants. He
abandons Max’s ankle and stands up.

Seymour nearly blacks out again. The year
Two Thousand! Marie-Claude would be seventy-five by now. He feels
like weeping and is almost reconciled to his first interpretation
of “exit” as black nothing and nowhere.

“Continue with the further information!”
orders Sub-Prefect Marchini with brows like thunder-clouds.

“
There is no further information,
Monsieur le
Sous-Préfet,
” replies
Hedgehog, standing at attention.

“What do you mean, no further
information?”

“A perfect
blank,
Monsieur le Sous-Préfet.
” 

“Worse and worse!” exclaims Sub-Prefect Marchini,
thinking: “Better and better!”

No information. That means – inconceivable
precious blunder on the part of Prefect d’Aubier de Hautecloque! –
that this hirsute individual has never set foot in France. Since
1803, the
Préfecture de Police
possesses dossiers on all aliens who have stepped, however
briefly, on French soil (dossiers even on migratory birds who have
impinged on France’s aerial space, say some). The Good Americans
have, by definition, all dwelt in Paris at one time or another and
administrative documents necessarily exist attesting to that
sojourn. The celebrated adage, “Good Americans go to Paris when
they die” is wrongly put. It should read, “Good Americans return to
Paris when they die.”

The materialization of a voided allegedly
Good American (American perhaps, but there’s nothing that looks
good about this orangutan) who had never set foot in Paris is the
most glaring of blunders. Could it not set a
judicial/administrative precedent, opening the door to millions of
deceased Americans? There are, God knows, quite enough foreigners
in France as things stand, the Sub-Prefect reflects.

“An error of monumental proportions has
obviously been committed with this individual. Surely this
individual deserves instant exit.” Sub-Prefect Marchini ponders for
a minute. Again he postpones decision and commands: “Next!”

Hedgehog peers down at Louis’ right ankle,
then at his left ankle, then at his wrists. Before he can
investigate elsewhere, he sees the tag on the floor where Maggie
dropped it in her haste. He drones:

“LOUIS FORSTER, 1877-1927. Diplomatic visa
1899-1901. Marine guard at American Embassy, Paris. No evidence of
illegal activities.”

“With the exception of the activity recently
indulged in here,” says Sub-Prefect Marchini sarcastically. “His
status as a Marine only aggravates his case. In no way does this
individual deserve Paris. An error has obviously been committed.
Can there be any doubt that this individual too deserves instant
exit? Next!”

Hedgehog trots over to Maggie. Her body
still earthquaking, she offers no resistance to the pudgy rubbered
hand at her exquisite ankle. He drones:

“
MARGARET WILLIAMS, 1912-1994 Sojourn in
France: April 5, 1937 to July 30, 1938. Issued two-year Temporary
Resident carte de séjour. Legal or semi-legal activities: Cabaret
Fan and Bubble Dancer. Illegal activities: modeling for indecent
postcards. Sanctioned by a nominal fine, suspended sentence. In
addition, arrested and/or fined over a period of thirteen months
for: 1. Indecent exposure, bathing nude in the fountain of
the
Boulevard Saint Michel
at midday, causing public disturbance verging on riot. 2.
Nocturnal disturbance of the peace (
tapage nocturne
) aggravated by rebellion to Officers of the Peace
in the exercise of their function. 3. The lighting of a cigar from
the Eternal Flame of the Unknown Soldier at the
Arc de
Triomphe
. 4.
Shop-lifting in a
Rue de Rivoli
jewelry shop (charges later withdrawn following interview
with shop owner). 5. Shop-lifting in …”

“Enough!” commands the Sub-Prefect. How had
they been able to inscribe all that (and more to come) on one side
of a tag?

“
With your permission,
Monsieur le
Sous-Préfet
, one last
thing concerning this individual. She was expelled from France on
July 30, 1938.”

“I should hope so,” says the Sub-Prefect. He
draws close to Maggie, stares down at her and assumes an attitude
of profound and prolonged reflection.

Clearly the fate of four of the Five hangs in the
balance.

Max is still completely confused. He doesn’t
know what’s going on in this nut-house. The Yid’s right. This can’t
be Las Vegas, can’t be the States even, not with that foreign
jabbering. It has to be Paris, France, like he said. “Hey,” Max
booms, “What the fuck am I doing in Paris, France anyhow? What
happened to Rickie? And where’s Bess? I wanna put through a call to
Las Vegas to Bess.”

Max moves shakily toward the gilt Empire
table with the three phones, one of them awesomely gigantic. Before
he can reach it, two rubber-gloved male functionaries easily
overcome him. Normally he could have disposed of them in two
seconds flat, one hand tied behind his back. He’s keenly aware of
this and starts weeping at his diminished state as they drag him
back alongside Seymour. The functionaries upbraid him for making a
scandal.
“Pas de scandale!”
says one.
“Oui,
surtout, pas de scandale!”
 says the other.
Max collapses to a sitting position and
weeps like a little boy.