The Accidental Tourist

After supper Muriel suggested they take a walk, but Macon said he was tired. He was exhausted, in fact. They returned to their hotel. In the elevator Muriel asked, “Can I come to your room a while? My TV set only gets snow.”

“We’d better say good night,” he told her.

“Can’t I just come in and keep you company?”

“No, Muriel.”

“We wouldn’t have to do anything,” she said.

The elevator stopped at his floor. He said, “Muriel. Don’t you understand my position? I’ve been married to her forever. Longer than you’ve been alive, almost. I can’t change now. Don’t you see?”

She just stood in her corner of the elevator with her eyes on his face. All her makeup had worn off and she looked young and sad and defenseless.

“Good night,” he said.

He got out, and the elevator door slid shut.

He went to bed immediately but couldn’t sleep after all, and ended up switching on the T V. They were showing an American western, dubbed. Rangy cowboys spoke a fluid, intricate French. Disaster followed disaster — tornadoes, Indians, droughts, stampedes. The hero stuck in there, though. Macon had long ago noticed that all adventure movies had the same moral: Perseverance pays. Just once he’d like to see a hero like himself — not a quitter, but a man who did face facts and give up gracefully when pushing onward was foolish.

He rose and switched the set off again. He tossed and turned a long time before he slept.

Large hotels, small hotels, dingy hotels with their wallpaper flaking, streamlined hotels with king-sized American beds and Formica-topped American bureaus. Dim café windows with the proprietors displayed like mannequins, clasping their hands behind their backs and rocking from heel to toe. Don’t fall for prix fixe. It’s like a mother saying, “Eat, eat”—all those courses forced on you.

In the late afternoon Macon headed wearily back to his own hotel. He was crossing the final intersection when he saw Muriel up ahead. Her arms were full of parcels, her hair was flying out, and her spike-heeled shoes were clipping along. “Muriel!” he called. She turned and he ran to catch up with her.

“Oh, Macon, I’ve had the nicest day,” she said. “I met these people from Dijon and we ended up eating lunch together and they told me about. Here, can you take some of these? I think I overbought.”

He accepted several of her parcels — crumpled, used-looking bags stuffed with fabrics. He helped her carry them into the hotel and up to her room, which seemed even smaller than it was because of the piles of clothing everywhere. She dumped her burdens on the bed and said, “Let me show you, now, where is it. ”

“What’s this?” Macon asked. He was referring to an oddly shaped soft drink bottle on the bureau.

“Oh, I found that in the fridge,” she said. “They have this little fridge in the bathroom, Macon, and it’s just full of soft drinks, and wine and liquor too.”

“Muriel, don’t you know those cost an arm and a leg? They’ll put it on your bill, don’t you know that? Now, that fridge is called a mini-bar, and here’s what you use it for: In the morning, when they wheel in the continental breakfast, they bring a pitcher of hot milk for some strange reason and you just take that pitcher and stick it in the mini-bar so later you can have a glass of milk. Otherwise, Lord knows how you’d get your calcium in this country. And don’t eat the rolls; you know that, don’t you? Don’t start your day with carbohydrates, especially under the strain of travel. You’re better off taking the trouble to go to some café for eggs.”

“Eggs, ugh,” Muriel said. She was stepping out of her skirt and trying on another — one she’d just bought, with long fringes at the hem. “I like the rolls,” she said. “And I like the soft drinks, too.”

“Well, I don’t know how you can say that,” he said. He picked up the bottle. “Just look at the brand name: Pschitt. If that’s not the most suspicious-sounding. and there’s another kind called Yukkie, Yukkery, something like that—”

“That’s my favorite. I already finished those off,” Muriel said. She was pinning her hair on top of her head. “Where we having dinner tonight?”

“Well, I don’t know. I guess it’s time to try someplace fancy.”

“Oh, goody!”

He moved what appeared to be an antique satin bedjacket and sat down to watch her put her lipstick on.

They went to a restaurant lit with candles, although it wasn’t quite dark yet, and were seated next to a tall, curtained window. The only other customers were American — four American business types, plainly enjoying themselves over four large platters of snails. (Sometimes Macon wondered if there really was any call for his books.)

“Now, what do I want?” Muriel said, studying the menu. “If I ask them what something is in English, do you think they’ll be able to tell me?”

“Oh, you don’t have to bother doing that,” Macon said. “Just order Salade Niçoise.”

“Order what?”