French Fried

Albertine and Carolyn were to meet us at the Avignon City Hall for the wine-canapé-and-welcoming-speech-from-the-mayor reception. I hoped, for Carolyn’s sake, that she was feeling better, didn’t drink the wine, and found the building of historic interest. While walking into the Place de l’Horlage, past the brightly lit carousel, I heard my wife calling and spotted her riding sidesaddle on a fantastical creature and waving. Albertine, looking much less happy, rode but did not wave. Mercedes, who had tagged along with us, cried, “Oh, there are your wives, professors. Aren’t they having fun? Seeing them makes me less worrisome about growing old.”

By then the carousel had come to a halt, the music had stopped, and my wife tumbled off into my arms, laughing and saying, “So you think Jason and I are old, Mercedes? But then you are so young. Whew! That was fun, but a mistake. I’m dizzy.”

I held Carolyn upright while she blinked and pressed both palms to her temples, and Albertine said, “From now on, Carolyn, you should listen to me. I am the most sensible.”

She wrinkled her nose and replied, “No matter what Albertine thinks, I am an amazingly sensible woman. When one has a concussion, a bit of dizziness is normal, and who wouldn’t want to ride on such a beautiful carousel?”

A professor from the Avignon university bowed to her and replied, “We in Avignon thank you, madam. We all agree that our carousel is the most irresistible to be found anywhere. If it were not for your concussion, I would be happy to accompany you on another ride.”

“Give me a few days, and we’ll do it. Oh, and Jason, I must tell you, Albertine has a brilliant idea about who is trying to kill us.”

Albertine had missed this interchange because she was walking her dog back on a leash, while the carousel operator, with whom the dog had been left, glared. Pierre—I couldn’t remember his last name, but who wanted to ride the carousel with Carolyn—took my wife’s other arm, and we all proceeded toward the city hall. “Look at that,” Carolyn exclaimed, “nineteenth century. Very rectangular and—ah—symmetrical, isn’t it? Twenty identical windows, five on each side on each floor. Sort of Palladian.

“Unfortunately, they tore down the livree d’Albano, the 1326 home of Cardinal Pierre Colonna, but they did leave the big square tower with the machicolations for defense.” She was peering at the tower behind the city hall. “Obviously they replaced the defensive part with the campanile and that spire with pinnacles. Can you see the clock and the figures on the little balcony? That’s all fifteenth century. The square is named for the clock.”

I dutifully looked up at the tower behind the offending town hall. Pierre, the modern professor, not the late cardinal, said, “Madam, I have fallen in love. You know the history of our beautiful city. Professor, you are a fortunate man to have a wife so lovely and so interested in things of importance.”

He was in love with my wife? I tried not to take it too seriously. Albertine remarked that Carolyn could be counted on to provide not only the history of places, but also the history of food, and Mercedes, if I heard correctly, muttered something about how boring that sounded and then asked me a question about a research problem. At that point we entered between the double-columned portico and through the rounded doors of the hall.

Albertine’s dog pranced forward to nuzzle my wife’s hand. “No, Charles de Gaulle,” ordered his mistress, and he stopped, very different behavior from his shenanigans in Italy.

“Just scratch his head or ears, Carolyn, so he knows that you like him.” Carolyn did that, and the dog shook himself with delight. “After the reception, we are going to a restaurant named L’Epicerie that Carolyn has chosen.”

“An excellent choice!” exclaimed Pierre. “May I invite myself along?” Before my wife could answer, a small pug dog with a violet ribbon around its neck, bounced toward us, dragging along Sylvie Girard, and attacked Charles de Gaulle. Albertine snarled, her dog backed up in shock taking the pug with him, and Sylvie said firmly, “Non, Winston Churchill.” Both dogs froze at the “non,” although Charles de Gaulle by then had his teeth fastened to Winston Churchill’s lavender bow, while Winston Churchill had his teeth in the fur on the poodle’s ankle and shook his head instead of letting go.

My wife, who knows nothing about canines and has never shown any desire to have one, separated the dogs. First, she shook her finger at the poodle and tugged the ribbon from his mouth, after which she said, “Bon—ah—what’s the French for dog?” Then she knelt by Winston Churchill and separated him from the poodle’s ankle by speaking to him gently. He immediately rolled over on his stomach and wiggled his legs. To Sylvie Carolyn said, “I’d give him a scratch, but I’m afraid Charles de Gaulle would take offense.”

Sylvie shrugged. “Winnie is also in love with Carolyn, and he took offense because she was petting the ears of another dog. Tell me, Carolyn, are you going to report my dog to the police, and after I spent three days showing you around Lyon?”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Carolyn, who was trying to get up and couldn’t without help. “I had a concussion, I was in pain, and the inspector asked who had known I would be at Catherine’s, so I told him. I didn’t say you, or anyone else I know, attacked me. At the time, I could hardly put two words together, and my whole body is covered with scrapes and bruises. And let me give you some advice, Sylvie. I have learned over the years that if one doesn’t want to do something, one shouldn’t volunteer. You did.”

“I am happy to see that we are all now reconciled,” said Jacques Laurent in his pompous way, “but I think that the mayor is about to speak.”

The mayor was and spoke at length in French while waiters passed around champagne and small snacks. At least twenty people sidled over to my wife and whispered in her ear. After each visit, she made a mark on a tablet she carries. Then she whispered to Albertine, who nodded and slipped out of the hall, upon which her husband looked worried and asked me if Carolyn needed a doctor. The chairman frowned thunderously at everyone whose eye he could catch, but at last the mayor finished, and general conversation resumed. “May I ask what is going on?” Laurent demanded.

“Well, I’d love to go,” said Mercedes, “unless, of course you don’t want me.” There was a bit of challenge in her voice, and I gritted my teeth. How did I, a perfectly innocent party, get into these messes?

“There are three more places,” said Carolyn, and she marked across four vertical lines. “Now two.” Two people immediately spoke up and were warned by my wife that everyone had to pay his or her bill, for which I shall always be thankful.

“Catherine,” said Carolyn, spotting her in the group, “how can you ever forgive me for the things that were stolen from your apartment. I’m so sorry. Whoever pushed me downstairs and stole my purse, although I wasn’t conscious during the theft—”

“Do not worry. I am equally sad for your injuries. I should never have allowed you to go by yourself. To show you are forgiven, let me take you to Villenueve Avignon. I lived there as a child and know it well. The sights will pique your interest in history. Tomorrow, perhaps. I can get away in the morning.”

“Has anyone noticed that peculiar exhibit?” asked Victoire Laurent. “What in the world is it supposed to be? I have always considered myself a lover of art, but that is most strange.”

We all turned to stare at the exhibit, where white figures, perhaps made of plastic, looked as if sheets had been thrown over their heads; some had round, black circles for eyes; at least one sported a bow tie and a top hat; and on many, long squidlike tentacles undulated from their robes. The guesses were octopus, nuns, snowmen, and, from my wife, Casper the Friendly Ghost. Evidently Casper was not a character known in France, but Carolyn had a point. They did look like the cartoon character. But why would many Caspers, some with long tentacles, be displayed in the Avignon City Hall?

Carolyn was giggling and whispered to me, “Who is that painter who does cartoon characters and exhibits in famous museums? I can’t remember his name. And I’ve never seen a cartoon sculpture.”