The Accidental Tourist

It wasn't a very luxurious hotel-a small brown place where mechanical things tended to go wrong, as Macon had discovered on past visits. This time, according to a sign in the lobby, one of the two elevators was not marching. The bellman led him into the other, then up to the third floor and down a carpeted corridor. He flung open a door, loudly exclaiming in French as if overcome by such magnificence. (A bed, a bureau, a chair, an antique TV.) Macon burrowed into one of his envelopes. "Thank you," he said, offering his tip.

Once he was alone, he unpacked and he hung up his suit coat. Then he went to the window. He stood looking out over the rooftops; the dust on the glass made them seem removed in time, part of some other age.

How would she manage alone in such an unaccustomed place?

He thought of the way she navigated a row of thrift shops-the way she cruised a street, deft and purposeful, greeting passersby by name. And the errands she took the neighbors on: chauffeuring Mr. Manion to the reflexologist who dissolved his kidney stones by massaging his toes; Mr.

Runkle to the astrologer who told him when he'd win the million-dollar lottery; Mrs. Carpaccio to a certain tiny grocery near Johns Hopkins where the sausages hung from the ceiling like strips of flypaper. The places Muriel knew!

But she didn't know Paris. And she was entirely on her own. She didn't even have a credit card, probably carried very little money, might not have known to change what she did carry into francs. Might be wandering helpless, penniless, unable to speak a word of the language.

By the time he heard her knock, he was so relieved that he rushed to open the door.

"Your room is bigger than mine is," she said. She walked past him to the window. "I have a better view, though. Just think, we're really in Paris!

The bus driver said it might rain but I told him / didn't care. Rain or shine, it's Paris."

"How did you know what bus to take?" he asked her.

"I brought along your guidebook."

She patted her pocket.

"Want to go to Chez Billy for breakfast?" she asked. "That's what your book recommends."

"No, I don't. I can't," he said. "You'd better leave, Muriel."

"Oh. Okay," she said. She left.

Sometimes she would do that. She'd press in till he felt trapped, then suddenly draw back. It was like a tug of war where the other person all at once drops the rope, Macon thought. You fall flat on the ground; you're so unprepared. You're so empty-feeling.

He decided to call Sarah. At home it was barely dawn, but it seemed important to get in touch with her. He went over to the phone on the bureau and picked up the receiver. It was dead. He pressed the button a few times. Typical. He dropped his key in his pocket and went down to the lobby.

The lobby telephone was housed in an ancient wooden booth, very genteel.

There was a red leather bench to sit on. Macon hunched over and listened to the ringing at the other end, far away. "Hello?" Sarah said.

"Sarah?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Macon."

"Macon?"

She took a moment to absorb that. "Macon, where are you?" she asked.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter. I just felt like talking to you."

"What? What time is it?"

"I know it's early and I'm sorry I woke you but I wanted to hear your voice."

"There's some kind of static on the line," she said.

"It's clear at this end."

"You sound so thin."

"That's because it's an overseas call," he said. "How's the weather there?"

"How's who?"

"The weather! Is it sunny?"

"I don't know. All the shades are down. I don't think it's even light yet."

"Will you be gardening today?"

"What?"

"Gardening!"

"Well, I hadn't thought. It depends on whether it's sunny, I guess."

"I wish I were there," he said. "I could help you."

"You hate to garden!"

"Yes, but . . ."

"Macon, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," he said. "How was the flight over?"

"Oh, the flight, well, goodness! Well, I don't know; I guess I was so busy reading I didn't really notice," he said.

"Reading?" she said. Then she said, "Maybe you've, got jet lag." "Yes, maybe I do," he told her.

Fried eggs, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, omelets. He walked blindly down the sidewalk, scribbling in the margins of his guidebook. He did not go near Chez Billy. It's puzzling, he wrote, how the French are so tender in preparing their food but so rough in serving it. In the window of a restaurant, a black cat closed her eyes at him. She seemed to be gloating. She was so much at home, so sure of her place.