Short memory, he thought. "I seem to remember your saying you didn't want to see me again because you thought we were getting too serious. You wanted to be free, I think that's the way you put it."
"Well, I am free. We don't have to get married to see Greece, do we?"
"It's an archaeology field trip to Delphi. I'll be working and I can't take anyone with me."
"Oh, so you need to be free!"
Indy grinned. "You got it."
"Madelaine, there you are," a man called out as he approached them. He glanced at Indy. "Jonesy, what a surprise. Give up on the dead languages for the night?" Then he looked at Madelaine again. "We going to dance, love?"
Indy knew the handsome, young British man as Brent, one of Madelaine's acquaintances. Like her, he seemed to do nothing but float from dance hall to dance hall, cafe to cafe with the same crowd. There were more like him in the
Latin Quarter every day. If given a choice of spending the evening with Brent and his crowd or being abused by the dadaists, Indy would be hard pressed to choose.
"Brent, guess what, Indy's going to Greece, to a place called Delphi, and he won't take me with him." Her voice squeaked to a new high.
Brent shrugged. "I'll take you to Greece any time you want, darling. Paris is getting so dreadfully boring.
But let's dance right now. My legs won't stop moving."
With that, Madelaine was swept away onto the dance floor. She turned once, waved and laughed, then vanished into the crowd.
Indy felt sick. Why hadn't he just left his past alone? Now more than ever he was anxious to move into the future. "Good-bye, Madelaine," he said without regret, and turned away.
5
Encounters
It was almost noon as Indy pulled on his sneakers and jacket. Normally on a Saturday he would take a book and walk down to the corner for a lunch at the Deux-Magots. But today he was going to stroll over to Le Dome, the cafe where Dorian Belecamus had suggested they meet. She would answer any of his questions, and he would make a decision. It sounded simple. But somehow, he had the feeling that it wasn't going to be simple at all.
He picked his fedora off a hook on the wall. Under it was a coiled bullwhip, the only decorative item in his two-room abode. The apartment was located above a bakery on the rue Bonaparte, a few blocks from the Sorbonne. One room was a tiny kitchen with an icebox, a gas stove, and a cupboard. In the other was a mattress and box spring on the floor, a wooden table with two chairs, and a low bookcase with books strewn on and around it. He had lived in the apartment for two years, and the place looked virtually the same as when he arrived.
He inhaled deeply as he descended the stairs, but the tantalizing smell of fresh bakery goods was faint.
Usually, when he left for classes, the smell was so overpowering he stopped for a couple of croissants, which he ate en route to the university. This morning, however, he'd slept late after staying up until three, finishing a new novel called Ulysses.
After he closed the seven-hundred-thirty-page tome and fell asleep, he dreamed of Madelaine and Belecamus, but both women were in Dublin and, not surprisingly, had the same quirks and concerns as James Joyce's Molly Bloom.
As he headed toward Montparnasse, his thoughts returned to the decision he had to make in the next couple of hours. Last night he thought he had made up his mind, but now he wasn't so sure. Of course Greece was an opportunity. But was it practical? Even though he'd get field-work credit for the archaeology course, he'd still have to retake his other courses. In a sense, he would be penalized.
Besides, what was the purpose? Did he really have an interest in pursuing an archaeology career? Or was he just intrigued by Dorian Belecamus? The fact was he had an interest in both, but he doubted that either was a long-term pursuit for him. He'd already taken two years of graduate school in linguistics. How many more would he need to qualify as an archaeologist? It didn't make sense.
When he arrived at Le Dome, he looked around the terrace. In spite of the brisk fall weather, a few tables were occupied, probably by tourists who had heard the French always ate on sidewalks. To accommodate them, glowing coals in a large brasero warmed the air, at least in one corner. Outdoor cafes were fine with him, but only when the weather was moderate.
He stepped inside the cafe and scanned the tables. He was a few minutes early and apparently had arrived ahead of Belecamus. His eyes settled on a man in a tweed coat who was seated at a table by himself.
There was a book to one side of him, and he held a pencil in his hand above a pad of paper. He looked familiar, and now he was staring intently at Indy.
He met his gaze, glanced away, then looked back at him. The man was rising from the table, moving toward him, threading his way through the crowded tables. Who was he, a writer he had met? Probably looking for a sucker to buy him a drink. He was approaching the wrong guy.
"Henry Jones, my God. How are you?"
Indy stared at him for a moment before his face fell into place. "Professor Conrad. What're you doing here?"
Conrad laughed. "Come over, have a seat. It's a long story."
Indy looked around once more for Belecamus, then followed Conrad to his table. "I'm meeting someone for lunch, but she isn't here yet."
"Wait here until she arrives. Or better yet, why don't you both join me?"
As Indy sat down, the waiter appeared and they ordered cups of cafe au lait. His old history professor hadn't changed much in two years. His sandy hair was still combed the same way, his blue eyes remained vibrant and alive, and his mustache still drooped over the sides of his lips. But he seemed less formal somehow, looser, more relaxed, as if he'd found something in Paris that had eluded him in the States.
"It's good to see you," Indy said. "Quite a surprise."
"You know, I've thought about you more than once since you graduated."
Considering the situation the last time he'd seen Conrad, he didn't know whether that was a compliment or not. "So why aren't you teaching?"
"Mulhouse refused to give me tenure, and this past summer my contract wasn't renewed."
"Why not? You're a great teacher. Probably the best I had at the university."
"Thanks, Jones." He combed his fingers back through his hair. "Mulhouse never gave me a reason." He shrugged. "He wasn't required to. But the scuttlebutt was that he wanted me out ever since that fiasco over Founding Fa thers Day."
No wonder the man had been thinking about him. "I'm
sorry. I guess my silly prank had more repercussions than I'd imagined."
"It's not your fault." He smiled and leaned forward. "Ever since then, I made a point of mentioning your particular way of celebrating the day to my classes. I always related the story in a humorous vein, and apparently Mulhouse heard about it."
"So how long have you been here?"
"Just a few days. I'm writing a novel that takes place in Paris during the revolution."
"This is the city for writers. Seems like there's a novelist or two in every cafe."
"I know. I saw Booth Tarkington the other day. Talked to him for a bit." He tapped the book on the table.
"Had to pick up one of his books after that. Seventeen. Have you read it?"
"A few years ago." It was about an American boy confronting adolescence; that was all he recalled, except that the kid had a younger sister who ate bread with applesauce. "I've seen James Joyce in here."
"You have?" Conrad looked around as if expecting to see the Irish author. Then his eyes settled on someone approaching the table.
"Henry Jones. There you are." Indy turned and saw Dorian Belecamus strolling up to the table. She wore a blue robe and a white turban. Like Conrad, she'd stepped out of her professorial character. Both men rose to their feet, and Indy introduced the two professors.