Anything Considered Read Free Page B

celebrating?”
    Bennett watched him twist the cork until it came outwith a muffled sigh, and he savored the familiar flicker of hopeful well-being that champagne always gave him. “I’m about to have a good idea.”
    Léon, nodding, filled the tall, narrow glass. Bennett listened to the delicate hiss of the wine, bent his head to inhale its toasty bouquet. The old peasants in the back turned to look at this new example of foreign extravagance, shook their heads in disapproval, and returned to their cards and the tumblers of
rosé
they would nurse throughout the morning.
    Bennett felt the cool rush of bubbles on his tongue, then turned to the section of his newspaper marked “International Classified,” where tax havens and business opportunities were advertised next to services of a more personal nature. On the left side of the page, a worldwide exclusive marriage agency offered—“for responsible people”—introductions to elite industrialists with alpha personalities. Over on the right of the page, just in case things didn’t work out, was a number to call if you wanted a fast divorce for $495. As he looked through the selection of tax-free cars, apartments of
grand luxe
in Paris, and escort agencies everywhere from Mayfair to Wiesbaden, Bennett did indeed have an idea.
    Why wait for something to happen, hoping that fate would be kind to him? He would take the initiative and make his own luck. He would advertise himself.
    After a little rewriting and editing, and a second inspirational glass of champagne, he sat back and reviewed his efforts:
    UNATTACHED ENGLISHMAN
    Mid thirties, personable, fluent French, seeks interesting and unusual work, preferably in the Aix/Avignon area. Anything considered except marriage
.
    In the afternoon, he would call the
Herald Tribune
and place the ad. The season was about to start. There were bound to be dozens of replies. His blood quickened with a sense of impending adventure, and his appetite bloomed. Bennett turned his attention to Anne-Marie’s cooking.

2
    “THESE won’t do for another summer,” said Georgette, holding up Bennett’s last remaining pair of white cotton trousers. “They are exhausted.
Fini.
”
    “They look fine to me, Georgette. Worn in. I like old clothes.”
    “
Non
. They have suffered. These I have scrubbed too many times. Wine, soup, sauce—every time you eat, you make a catastrophe. Don’t the English ever use napkins?” She shook her head, tossing the retired trousers onto a pile of shirts and shorts that had failed to meet her sartorial standards. Later, they would be taken to the mission of the
Pénitents Blancs
for distribution to the poor.
    “Georgette, it is impossible to eat
écrevisses
with your clothes on without some trivial accident. Unfortunately, even in France, one is not permitted to dine naked.”
    Georgette shuddered. “
Quelle horreur
. Imagine Papin. Or Madame Joux.”
    “There’s no need to bring personalities into it, Georgette.”
    “
D’accord
. The trousers go.”
    Bennett sighed. It was true that he was prone to the occasional mishap at the table. It was also true that the white trousers seldom survived a meal unsoiled; indeed, in the enthusiasm of the moment, they very often didn’t make it through the first course. But in his current circumstances, more clothes were out of the question. He made a last plea for the trousers. They had a sentimental value, having been bought for him in Saint-Tropez by one of the girlfriends he still remembered fondly. Surely they could survive for one final summer.
    Georgette leaned toward him and poked his chest repeatedly with an iron finger. “
Non, non, et non
. Would you walk around in rags and disgrace me in front of the village? Eh?”
    Bennett had endured one of Georgette’s sulks before, over the matter of the ancient tweed jacket that he had insisted on keeping against her wishes. She had punished him with a week of silence and had deliberately overstarched his