Our Young Man
“He could speak the language with all its nuances and not endlessly play the part of the interesting foreigner. At the same time his accent didn’t prompt a discussion. He was just another Frenchman. He had lost his primary accomplishment—the ability to speak English (which he spoke better than he understood)—and the oddity of his identity, of being French in America.He was just one more handsome man in a whole city of handsome men—handsome if you liked skinny guys with big noses. The Parisians l...ooked at each other constantly but were more curious about each other’s shoes than their sexual availability. It was raining a cold rain but never for long, and you could duck from one awning to the next or from an expensive café to an even more expensive shop. It was hard to believe that just two weeks before, he’d been lying in the warm September sun in a deck chair. Now he’d been repatriated to Paris’s eternal mists.Andrés had come with him and was staying with him at the Crillon in a room that looked out on the place de la Concorde, a “square”MoreLess
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