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By Root 1178 0

dying to see what it was like inside. Sternly I drove myself past it, past the statue of Balzac in his bathrobe (presumably unable to sleep either), past the Rotonde where I could hear the strains of the Hard Core at their carousing. I bunched my fists into my pockets and dashed across the street. At last safely past the other temptations of Dôme and Coupole, I came upon a tiny, steamy, all-night café which still had up its last year’s decorations. Snowballs, Santa Clauses and champagne bottles were painted on the glass doors and windows in honor of their New Year’s Eve Réveillon and to commemorate the Quatorze Juillet, red, white and blue streamers hung from the light fixtures on the ceiling. The joint, even at this late hour, was jumping. I sat down at one of the few empty tables, and ordered a hot chocolate and a croque-mon-sieur, reflecting moodily that cheese would probably give me bad dreams if I ever did get to sleep. Slowly, I realized that my table was becoming the focal point of attention. A lot of men began hovering around, looking me over rather carefully, not to say boldly. Two of them came right over and thrust cigarettes at me. It was the way they were thrust, rather than offered, that suddenly made me come to.

When the third man strode up, I told him to go to hell and leave me alone. Instead, he sat down next to me and asked me what I thought I was doing there in that case and a lot of other stuff which, thank goodness, my limited knowledge of argot prevented me from understanding. Desperately, I looked around for help. Everyone was minding his own business. I saw that there wasn’t another woman at a table who wasn’t a prostitute. My friend sat on, glowering at me suspiciously. Instinctively, my hand flew up to my coat collar. I clutched it close to me protectively. When I discovered that it was already buttoned, I tore my hand away in anger and the button, of course, came away. So the coat flew open and there I was—unmasked in my striped pajamas. Oh killing stuff really, haw, haw, haw. That’s what I mean about being appropriately dressed. My clothes. I mean, is it: worth it? I ask myself.

The old boy at last had my number. “Merde, ces fous Américains,” he mumbled to himself disgustedly, and spat on the floor. Then he left. But I stuck it out. As a point of honor, and also because I was starving. I assumed, in turn, my most haughtily aristocratic, my most toothily intellectual, and finally, my just plain most humble expressions. None of them made the slightest difference. I was still the greatest phony of them all—the unavailable prostitute.

In an atmosphere of open hostility, I gobbled up my sandwich and hot chocolate as fast as I could; the hot chocolate burning my tongue, a revelation burning my soul. I had always assumed that a certain sense of identity would be strong enough within me to communicate itself to others. I now saw this assumption was false. Tout simplement, in a tarts’ bar, I looked like a tart. I tried to cheer myself up by thinking that after all this was really a very good thing for an actress. But it was depressing, anyway. Not so much the thing of looking like a prostitute. I mean, except for the inconvenience of the moment, I found that rather thrilling, but the whole episode was forcing me to remember something that I’m always trying to forget and that is, that in a library as well, I’m always being taken for a librarian. No kidding. My last Christmas in New York, I had an English paper to write over the vacation, and there was this public library I used to go to, and no matter where I sat, people were always coming up to me and asking me where such and such a book was. They were furious too, when I didn’t know. It was eerie. I began to feel that I actually was a librarian. The wood growing into my soul and stuff. I suppose I am rather an intellectual.

I left the café and walked down the empty street, keeping close to the buildings, hiding in their shadows. I didn’t want any more trouble.

In the hush of the night, I reached the Dôme, dark, chill, and still, tucked away for the