6. Café Casino, Avignon, France, 1973

John burst into the café resoundingly, like he’d come to do something about this damn situation. A man’s man with the demeanor of a coach, his dyed black hair gross against his ruddy skin, wearing cheap eyeglasses and an unpressed suit, he was also drenched and dirtied with rain. He’d had a run of luck at cards, and beamed with that mania. Among the elegant clientele of the staid café, he was disturbing like a loudmouthed drunk.

He strode through, grinning to the whole room as if they were his favorite people. Some of the diners shot him reproving looks, at which he nodded. Then it was over, he dropped into a chair and neatly out of the mirrors, the draconian French sense of what is seen erased him:

Denise looked up from her reverie, surprised.

“Hey, there, Dees. Look at the drowned rat, it’s raining like a Noah’s flood.” He passed a hand over his wet crewcut. “Oh, boy, I need a coffee.”

He made his gesture to the waitress – who, an Austrian, adored him, and knew his usual by heart, and was laughing as she already brought his café au lait – then turned to Denise again:

“Your dad’s not coming to lunch because I threatened to cut his throat. I said, Peter, in so many words, I will cut your dang throat.”

The waitress set down his cup, and he asked her to marry him. She said she would be pleased but her husband would not. He clutched his broken heart as she left and added, to Denise:

“I wouldn’t ever really cut his throat.”

“I would,” she said, taken. “I would, I detest him.”

“Whoa. Don’t you talk that way about your dad,” John said uncomfortably, and looked at the floor as if something had hurt his feelings.

“But, you wanted to cut his throat?”

“Well, never mind what I want to do. I’m a big fool for telling you.” He sat back and crossed his arms, unhappy. “Look, Dees, I gotta ask you a favor. It’s a kind of a favor.”

“Oh, I actually wanted to ask you something,” she said, startled. Then she’d already said it – it just came out. She was frightened again, although of course he wouldn’t say yes.

He said, “I think maybe . . .” and interrupted himself; with a thoughtful face, he asked, “I guess you’re looking forward to going back to school?”

“Oh, no,” she said factually. “I’m not going back to school. I did tell Daddy but I guess he never listens.”

“Sure, no kid likes school, I got you.” He fooled with his napkin, embarrassed. “Yeah, thing is, looks like Peter and me are splitting up for a while. I guess he’s tired of my company’s, the way it is.”

“He’s tired of you,” Denise said contemptuously.

John laughed, fake and big: “Hey now, you’re gonna make me think you like me or something, that’s no good.” Then he put both hands on the table, squaring up to her, man to man. “Thing is, I was wondering if you might want to team up with me for a wee while. Cause I’m going on to Spain, you know. Try to make some money for a change, but your dad’s got his heart set here. I thought you could keep me company, I don’t speak any of that Spanish talk.”

Offended, she plucked her napkin from her lap and began to fold it with brisk, adult gestures. “Dad asked you.”

“Heck, no! I asked him. Honest Injun, that’s how the whole riot started, him fussing and puffing. Should have seen him, steam coming out of his ears!”

“Oh, I do believe you,” she said, sarcastic. “Daddy would be just miserable to lose me.”

“Oh, well, if you’re going to be like that,” he said, mock-grumpy. “You just give it a good old think, and when you’re ready, tell me yes or no.”

The waitress brought him his Croque Madame, he told her “Gracias.” Pointedly forlorn, Denise turned to the window, to the other, serious world of rain.

Boxed into the pavement, so its mean pen of earth had puddled around its scaly roots, stood an old plane tree. It had fresh boughs low on its trunk, and the shadows of the leaves lay purple on the wet bark. They convulsed like fish in the poking rain: they couldn’t stand it: