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hotel before leaving the next day.
    Diane drove him to the airport in the morning saying he smelled like a distillery. He didn’t reply but he had had more than a touch of whiskey the night before. He had been full of anxiety over going to a foreign country without a word of their language. He reminded himself that lots of people do it but that didn’t help much.
    He flew via Chicago and felt nervous and out of place in the fancy Air France lounge. In consideration of his bad back Diane had bought him a business class ticket for the spacious seats. When he looked closely at the ticket he had been appalled at the price. In the lounge he limited himself to a single Bloody Mary in penance for the night before. He asked the bartender to go a little heavy on the vodka as a precaution, a steady drinker’s trick. It was a dark dull day and he had hoped for a weather cancellation due to ice or snow but no such luck.
    He had been brooding about the word “hepatitis” in connection with Mona. The disease was common among heroin users with dirty needles and he kept thinking of the death of his beloved brother through heroin in Detroit. His brooding circled back to Mona’s boyfriend because musicians were big users of heroin.
    On the plane he was diverted by what he thought was a pretty good dinner, washed down by several glasses of wine, and the fact that he was surrounded in his seat by French people. This was good as he didn’t want to talk to anyone and he also liked the sound of the French language. He became a child who understood nothing. They drank a fair amount of wine but less than he did. He had never been successful at sleeping on long flights so he was pleased to cover himself with a blanket, push the seat well back, and sleep until nearly morning when they were only two hours out of de Gaulle.
    He was deeply intimidated by customs and showed his badge with his passport but it went smoothly. He caught a cab and had time to dread seeing Mona. Their conversation in New York had been discouraging. She was staying in a pretty little hotel near the Théâtre Odéon on the Left Bank. A desk clerk showed him to a room next to Mona’s on the fifth floor. It had a wonderful balcony on which he intended to smoke and drink. He slipped his revolver from his luggage into his shoulder holster. Handguns were strictly forbidden in France but he did not intend to be unprepared as he had been in New York. He felt icy cold when he knocked on Mona’s door. He heard a wispy Qui est là and correctly answered “Dad, from America” and she opened the door. She looked thin, sallow, slightly fatigued in a dark nightgown. They embraced and collapsed backward on the bed. He held her while she cried and mumbled. Her boyfriend paid for the room for a month but abandoned her. He wanted her to help him seduce the young French girls who followed the band. She did it once but was hurt and disgusted. They separated. She became ill after using drugs. He found her a doctor and that was that. He was having a good time and she became disposable.
    Dizzy with jet lag Sunderson fell asleep and when he awoke she had his penis out and was sucking it. He tried to withdraw and she suddenly sat on it. He was trapped he thought. “I want someone to want me not a fucking twelve-year-old,” she said, grinding away. He had his hands on her buttocks but his back was too weak to lift her off. Shame nearly overwhelmed him. Finally he came off with a mighty groan but she continued. Afterward they slept for a while then she led him down to Café de Flore for a snack. He admitted to himself that his guilt intensified the pleasure. The ham and salad were delicious. She slowly ate a bowl of onion soup while he had some glasses of Brouilly. She looked better now, more alive. He hastily got up and went to talk to two cops standing out in front. She watched him show his identification and they talked animatedly. One cop wrote in a notepad and they left in a hurry. They