Notes

• My boss phones me up and says I must fly to Paris for a meeting with two Russians.
• My flight has been delayed.
• Constance Hopkins is a Seventh-day Adventists. Constance Hopkins is attending Law School. She is so proud. She never tells her roommates that she is a Seventh-day Adventists. Constance Hopkins enjoys a Saturday night at the local bar. She never tells her parents about these Saturday nights at the local bar. She is also an expert on U2. I sit down next to Constance Hopkins.
• I list my wife, my children, my dog, my two cats and the hamster. I will remember the kiss my wife placed upon my cheek; I will remember her last words, “Look after yourself.” I will wonder if she is aware that the two Russians are in the Russian Mafia?
• Do I work for the FBI?
• Do I work for the CIA?
• I must be an American. I like the idea of having been to Notre Dame. I must have been a diligent student. After Notre Dame I went to Law School. This is the connection between Constance Hopkins and me. But what Law School? It must be a good one. Hell, why not Harvard! This is fiction! (Find out some facts about Harvard Law School. Study the case of Pennoyer v. Neff.)
• I AM ABOUT TO HAVE AN AFFAIR.
• In Paris I will meet up with a rather sexy lady, Russian of course. (find something in Chekhov!) She will refuse me at first, but slowly she will melt. Love has no boundaries. Is the Cold War still at its zenith? (Something to think about!)
• The Hopkins own a farm in Michigan, over one hundred acres, they are still waiting, the Great Disappointment is still felt in the house, although none were alive in October 22, 1844.
• It is snowing. She possesses that blessed look, it translates to some as being supercilious, but she’s friendly, gregarious, she likes to gossip, harmlessly, communication that’s all, she likes going to the movies and she never says no to pizza. Something more. Slip in a joke.
• She eyes the dandruff on my shoulders. I have a black mack. I am balding slightly. I have an intellectual look about me, like a Law Professor, she’s still in that awe state over Law Professors.
• Walks down by the Seine. The undulating waters. The night. Lights shinning like stars. The Notre Dame Cathedral. Walking hand-in-hand. Bathing in her exquisite perfume. Her name is Adélaïde. She will not employ conjunctions.
• A lovely bottle of wine, Cabernet Franc. Maybe a flippant conversation about the Left Bank. Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Jean-Paul Sartre, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald. We shall go dancing. She is a beautiful dancer, her petite frame glides. A nightclub on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Jazz! Smoke! More wine! A Merlot from Bordeaux.
• “Let’s get a drink,” says Constance Hopkins. I concur. It’s the boredom.
• We open the window and the cacophony of street life animates the room. We kiss. She pulls me onto the bed. Even though I feel as though I am a gargoyle worthy of Notre Dame I make love to her.
• “Tomorrow do not meet with the Russians,” cries Adélaïde. “What?” I ask perplexed. “I have been working for the Russians. They plan on murdering you,” cries Adélaïde. “They have set you up!”
• It’s time to board the plane. Constance Hopkins finishes her drink, says a goodbye to me, precariously stands, puts on her coat, wraps the scarf around her neck, a bit too tightly, and off she trots to the ladies. Next it’s an onerous endeavor to buy a magazine, she buys two. She stumbles towards the metal detectors, from a sitting position she removes her shoes and crawls through the machine, there’s not a beep. Next it’s a slog to get to the gate. She has to stop once again to visit the ladies’ room. She hasn’t a clue what she’s doing. She’s lost her purse, no, it’s glued to her arm, under the magazines. For the last ten minutes she’s been walking with her eyes closed, she can’t remember a thing.
• Do I die? Do the Russians gun me down? Do I gun down the Russians? As I stroll down Rue Descartes, a car pulls up and the passenger door is flung open. I stop.
• Constance Hopkins awakens from her slumber. She is lying flat on her back in an ambulance. “Shit! Holy Shit! How much is this going to cost me?” It seems she passed out on the plane, that is after she puked, puked all over herself. She reeks of vomit, it is a terrible reek. “How much is this going to cost me?” They’ve fastened her down, like she is some nut on the way to the funny farm. She can only move her head. “How much is this going to cost me?” “We’ve got to take you to the hospital,” says some kind of Doctor, “procedure, you passed out on the plane, just a quick visit to the hospital to make sure you’re fine.” She’s fine, she was just drunk. “How much is this going to cost me?” “A lot more expensive than that Barely Legal, Shaven Haven Magazine.”