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FREEDOMWAYS    THIRD QUARTER 1973

Before I reached the table I realized that there were tears streaming down Harris' face. The old waiter Ramon, stood nearby, staring at Harris, his usually genial face twisted in anguish. I questioned Ramon with my eyes but he just lifted his shoulders in that most expressive French gesture which says "je ne sais pas" (I don't know). I sat down opposite Harris who seemed unable to speak. "Jesus Christ, Harris, what's happening?" I asked. Harris roughly wiped one side of his face with his sleeve. After a while he looked up and growled, "This is what the bastards have did to me!" I guess hearing Harris' curse for the first time shook me up more than the tears and so I asked who had done what. "All of 'em. Every lousy-assed one of 'em goddamit," he hissed. I ordered a couple of beers and ham sandwiches from Ramon, who seemed reluctant to leave Harris' side. Then Harris told me the story.

He'd been walking along the boulevard casually looking into the gay shop windows. It hadn't started to rain yet and the streets glowed in that exhilarating luminosity which exists only in Paris. Harris remembered that he'd felt "happier than a Baptist preacher at a banquet of fried catfish and cornbread." He stood in front of a gift shop looking at the seductive objects on display and after several moments he realized that there was a girl standing beside him looking at some green crystal glasses. He could see her face reflected in the clear plate glass but then he caught his breath. The reflection was smiling directly at him. Haris turned in the other direction automatically, thinking that the girl was smiling at someone else. But there was no one else. She was small and very pretty, hugging a steno notebook under one arm. Harris gulped when the girl turned from the window and smiled directly at him before she turned to walk slowly toward the Rue Vavin bus stop with a mesmerized Harris trailing after her. When the 85 bus arrived she stepped up to the platform, still smiling. Harris froze. He simply could not follow her into the bus "like I know she wanted me to." The girl seemed puzzled but stepped down quickly before the doors shut and several bored passengers quipped remarks about people not making up their minds. The girl walked slowly toward the Metro station, turning again to smile encouragement at Harris. Reaching the green rococo Metro sign she began to descend the stairs and when she was sure that Harris was still there she handed her metro ticket to the collector, who punched it and reached over her shoulder for the next, which should have been Harris but Harris was already racing trembling back up the steps to the Boulevard. He'd been sitting for

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