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suspected poverty.
    He had shown me his orchard where nothing good ever grew, the huge lake in need of sprucing up—“But who
cares”—the stables with more horses than there was room for, and beyond these, the woods where no one dared take a walk, a sort of Jane Austen world gone feral. “I don’t know,” he answered when I asked what his woods abutted. “I suppose a neighbor. But then, these English lords, whoever really knows them?”
    It was not true. He knew them quite well. In fact, he knew everyone. At the local post office, at the bank, and at one of the pubs where he offered me a beer, everyone knew Dr. Spingarn. “Well, hello” and “Cheerio” slipped from his tongue as though he had spoken English from the day he was born. He knew everything there was to know about soccer. When a Mini Morris stopped us on our way to town one morning, I realized how thoroughly grafted he was onto his new homeland. This was Lady Something-or-other on her way to London, wanting to know whether there was anything he needed. “No trouble at all,” she said after he finally agreed to let her pick up a case of French wine at some merchant. “Sans façons,” she added, pleased to show off her French and promising to have Arthur, the lord himself, deliver it this evening. “ Entendu, ” we heard her say as she rolled up her window and began speeding up the quiet country road, headed toward the highway.
    â€œShe’s as dry as a pitted prune, that one. Like all Englishwomen.”
    â€œI thought she was very nice,” I protested, reminding him that the lady had first gone to his home and, on being told he was out for a walk, had driven about looking for him. “Very nice, very nice,” he repeated, “all of them are very nice here. You don’t understand a thing.”
    In town, Vili waved at the local antiques dealer and decided to pay him a visit.
    â€œGood morning, Dr. Spingarn,” said the dealer.

    â€œGreetings,” he replied and introduced me. “Have you found my Turkish coffeepot yet?”
    â€œStill looking, still looking,” chanted the dealer, as he continued to dust an old clock.
    â€œIt’s been nine years,” chuckled Vili. “I’m afraid I’ll die before you find it.”
    â€œNo fearing that, Dr. Spingarn. You’ll outlive us all, sir.”
    â€œThey’re slower than Arabs and twice as stupid. How on earth did they ever manage to have an empire once?” he said as soon as we stepped outside the shop.
    Back at home, his wife, daughter, and married grandson and great-grandchild were waiting for us. “See this table?” He palmed the huge antique oak dining table on which food was being served. “I paid five pounds for it. And see these chairs? There were twelve of them. Seven pounds the lot, with eight more in the attic. And this huge clock here? Guess how much.” “One pound,” I guessed. “Wrong! I paid nothing at all for it. It came with the chairs.” He burst out laughing as he spread a thick piece of butter on a slice of bread.
    â€œYou sound like a typical parvenu juif ,” jeered his daughter.
    â€œAnd what else are we if not des parvenus juifs? ”
    After lunch he insisted we have coffee alone together, “ Lui et moi seuls ,” he told the others. “Come,” he said, pointing to the kitchen, where he proceeded to brew Turkish coffee. “You see, all you need is a little pot like this, preferably made of brass, but aluminum will do. I had this one made in Manchester. By a Greek. But do you think our antiques dealer is smart enough to figure out that’s all he had to do? Never! That’s why I go to him every once in a while. As long as he remains stupid and as long as I am lucid enough to know it, then things are well with me. Do you see?” he winked at me, complicity beaming in his eyes. I nodded but