Anything Considered Read Free Page A

from Anne-Marie and Léon, the young couple who had exchanged office life in Lyon for, as Anne-Marie put it, a career in hospitality. They were regarded in the village with some suspicion, being considered foreign and unnaturally cheerful, and it would be twenty years or so before they were accepted. Bennett, another foreigner who hadn’t learned enough about life to lose his optimism, found them a delightful change from the monosyllabic peasants who played cards each day in the back while they waited for the crack of doom to sound.
    Léon looked up from the copy of
Le Provençal
that was spread over the bar.
“Bonjour, chef. Du champagne?”
He shook Bennett’s hand and raised his eyebrows.
“Bière? Pastaga?”
Léon’s idea of a good client was one who started drinking shortly after breakfast, and it was with an air of disappointment that he took Bennett’s order for a coffee. “With a little something, perhaps? I have some homemade
Calva.
”
    Bennett shook his head. “Maybe after lunch. What’s Anny cooking today?”
    Léon’s rosy moon face beamed, and he kissed the tips of his stubby fingers. “A triumph—lentils, bacon, and Lyonnais sausage. Too good for fifty francs.” He shrugged. “But what can you do? Here, they expect a banquet for nothing.”
    “It’s a hard life, Léon.”
    “
Bien sûr
. And then you die.” He grinned and poured himself a beer, as Bennett took his coffee to a table by the window, where he unfolded his paper.
    The Herald Tribune
was Bennett’s small daily indulgence. He liked its manageable size, the balance of its editorial content, and its restrained treatment of the recurring political indiscretions that turned newspapers on the other side of the Channel into shrill scandal sheets. He had given up reading the British press once he realized that he no longer recognized the names of the people being pilloried in its pages.
    Sipping his coffee, he reviewed the state of the world as shown on the front page. Unrest in Russia. Bickering in the European Community. Squabbling in the U.S. Senate. The death of a venerable Hollywood actor. Not one of the
Tribune
’s jollier days, he thought, and stared through the window at the little village square, where miniature French flags snapped in the breeze above the war memorial. The sun was higher now, the sky a deeper blue, the mountains gray-green and hazy in the distance. He would hate to leave this place for the grind of an office in a morose northern city.
    But the question nagged away at him: How could heafford to stay? He started to make notes on the back of an envelope. Current assets: excellent health, colloquial French picked up during his years in Paris, no family ties, a small wardrobe of old but good clothes, a Carrier watch that had so far avoided the pawnshop, a secondhand Peugeot, and approximately twenty thousand francs in cash, the residue of a split commission from a house sale. Current liabilities: domestic bills, Georgette’s wages, and a dispiriting absence of brilliant moneymaking ideas. He had enough to get by on for another two or three months, providing he was frugal. But economy had never been one of his vices, and ten years of expense account life in the production business hadn’t helped.
    Sod it. He’d think of something. He always had before. He pushed the envelope away and went over to the bar.
    “Léon? I’d like a glass of champagne. But a good one. Not that vinegar you were selling on New Year’s Eve.” He slid a hundred-franc note across the zinc.
    Léon’s amiable expression didn’t change. “It was cheap.”
    “My friend, it was terrible.”
    “Of
course
for ten francs a glass it was terrible.” Léon held up a finger. “I will find you a treasure.” He went through a door behind the bar, and reappeared cradling a bottle with exaggerated care, which he held out for Bennett’s approval. “
Voilà
. The 1988 of Perrier-Jouet.” He set the bottle down and undressed the neck. “Are you