“Like they would follow me anywhere,” Jimmy said.
“You’re gonna be all right,” Lyle said, clapping Jimmy on the shoulder and checking his wristwatch. “We’re late,” he said.
As they crossed the street, Jimmy asked, “What was that all about?”
“The one thing I’ve learned over here,” Lyle said, “is it doesn’t matter what it’s about as long as we cheer them on and say we’re rebels just like them. It’s all about being a rebel. Every-fucking-body here is a rebel. And it doesn’t hurt to be Indian — that gives us street cred.”
Jimmy laughed, mainly out of relief, still proud of his Lakota phrases.
Three of the female demonstrators had not crossed the street into the Tuileries, but stood on the opposite corner, giggling, shooting long looks at them. Jimmy thought they were attractive, and nudged Lyle.
“I see ’em,” Lyle said. “We can do better.”
They left the disappointed girls on the corner. Jimmy tried hard not to look back.
“This place…” he said.
“Yeah,” Lyle said.
The American embassy on Rue Boissy d’Anglas was a fortress, Jimmy thought, with concrete barriers keeping both pedestrians and motorists away as well as a tall wrought iron fence topped with gold-painted spear tips. Inside the fence, in the foliage, U.S. Marines in desert camo stood under wall-mounted cameras and held M16s and didn’t smile.
“That’s not it,” Lyle said, leading Jimmy on. “We’re going to the Talleyrand around the corner.” Which was also behind concrete barriers and rimmed with marines and cameras.
“We got this place after the war,” Lyle whispered to Jimmy as they stood in a line where a marine checked invitations and IDs. “The Germans used it. There’s still Nazi shit in the basement, like those guys just walked out.”
“How do you know that?”
Lyle smiled. “A nice lady took me down there once. We did it on a desk. It was weird, though, because I remember looking up and seeing this calendar in German that was turned to June 1944.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not. It takes a while for history to grow here.”
“That makes no sense, Lyle.”
“Stick around and you’ll see what kind of sense it makes,” Lyle assured Jimmy.
They went individually through a massive cage-like turnstile, then a metal detector, then a hand search and document check. The older marine handed Lyle’s passport back to him, said, “Good seeing you again, Lyle. I see you brought along fresh meat this time.”
“My cousin Jimmy,” Lyle said, nodding.
The marine looked Jimmy over, assessing him, made Jimmy feel naked.
“What would you do if the ambassador stopped inviting you to these things for local color?”
“Go home, probably.”
“I wish those dollies liked marines the way they like Indians.”
“Ha!” Lyle said. “No chance of that.”
The reception was in a high-ceilinged room dominated by hanging crystal chandeliers that glowed with gold, syrupy light. Massive windows framed the Eiffel Tower, its girders flashing with lights signaling the top of the hour. The Place de la Concorde was across the street, the Avenue des Champs-Elysées to the northwest, headlights streaming through and around the Arc de Triomphe. Jimmy had never in his life been in a space so intricate, ornate, or intimidating. The crowd was well dressed, speaking French, plucking glasses of champagne from trays carried by men and women wearing black and white. Jimmy stood with Lyle in the very back of the room, watching, acting serious and regal the way Lyle had instructed.
Jimmy began to reach for a glass from a passing waiter but Lyle stopped him. “Indians look stupid drinking champagne,” Lyle hissed. “It ruins the effect. Ask for a beer or something.”
Jimmy shot a look at Lyle, but withdrew his hand.
The American ambassador, who introduced himself in English and French as Bob Westgate, former congressman from San Diego, welcomed everyone and introduced tourism representatives from the states of Idaho, Wyoming, South Dakota, and Montana, the reason the reception was held.
“Tourism people,” Lyle said softly, not looking over at Jimmy. “There’s a parade of ’em that come over here, one after the other. Ambassador Bob hosts them and invites French travel industry people and government types. It makes for real good picking.”
Jimmy didn’t need to be told because he couldn’t take his eyes off a tall dark-haired woman with pale skin, flashing green eyes, and dark red lipstick. She was sipping a glass of champagne and talking with a curvy redhead in a shimmering black cocktail dress, the white orbs of her breasts straining against the tight fabric. The redhead gestured toward Lyle, said something in French, and both women nodded and smiled knowingly.
“Gabrielle le Peletier,” Lyle said. “She’s mine.”
“Which one is she?”
“Redhead.”
“Who is the other?”
“I’ve never seen her before. You want her?”
Jesus yes, he thought. “It can’t be as easy as that.”
“You’ll see,” Lyle said.
“Do we go over and introduce ourselves? Grunt at them?”
“Naw, we just wait. They’ll come to us.”
“You’re kidding.”
“If they don’t, some other babes will. Just remember who you are.”
Jimmy snorted. “Who am I?”
“Don’t start that,” Lyle said, an edge in his voice.
While speeches were given to bored applause — the white Americans seemed so eager to please and out of place among these sophisticates, who knew how to dress, knew how to cut their hair, knew how to stand, knew they were the best-looking fish in the aquarium, Jimmy thought — his eyes left the tall woman only to check out what was going on outside. The student demonstrators they’d encountered earlier were still in the Tuileries Garden, and the crowd had tripled in size. So had the number of riot police. Police on horseback now circled the perimeter of demonstrators but kept their distance. Every few minutes, there was a surge in the crowd toward a cordon of police, and Jimmy could see the police retreat for a moment in their lines, shields glinting in the streetlights, then slowly push the demonstrators back.
He realized he seemed to be the only person in the room focusing on what was going on outside.
“I would think,” Jimmy said, “they would be at the windows watching. I mean, there’s a riot right out there in front of us. Don’t they care?”
Lyle shook his head, but didn’t look at Jimmy, said, “They pretend they can’t see it.”
“Why?”
“You’d have to ask them. It’s like if they don’t see what’s going on, it isn’t really happening.”
Then Lyle turned, his face dark with anger. “Are you gonna keep asking questions and wasting our time, or are you gonna give some French woman a ride? Make up your fucking mind, because you’re cramping my style, Jimmy.”
“Sorry, Lyle.”
“Get ready,” Lyle said, “the reception is winding down. Meaning it’s showtime.”
“Don’t talk,” she said in English, placing her elegant fingers to his lips.
They were in a third-floor apartment four blocks from the Talleyrand. She’d led him there by the hand. The doorman nodded to her with respectful recognition and stepped aside to let them in. She inserted a key into the lock on the door and opened it but didn’t turn on a light. He hesitated on the threshold for a moment until she had said, “Entrez vous.”
He wore nothing but the quill breastplate she insisted he keep on. In the muted blue light from the bedroom window, her skin was so white it was translucent. She was lithe and long-limbed, her legs toned by walking, he supposed. He could see the blue veins beneath her skin on her small pert breasts and abdomen. Before they went to bed, she inspected him, running her hands over his shoulders, belly, buttocks, thighs, giving his biceps a little squeeze as if checking out the freshness of a baguette.