The Cat's Pajamas

“Name and volunteer to be supplied.”

“Volunteer?”

“I’m calling several.”

“But if you only waited twenty-four hours—”

“I can’t wait. I’ve waited twenty years.”

“Twenty?!”

He jabbed the phone buttons. Far off, the phone rang, a high voice fluted.

“Estelle?” he said. “Carl. I know this is impromptu, silly, but do you have an up-to-date passport? You do. Well—” He laughed. “How would you like to fly to Paris this afternoon, five o’clock?” He listened. “No joke, serious, Paris, ten nights. Same room. Same bed. Me and you. Ten nights, all expenses paid.” He listened and nodded, eyes shut. “Yes. Yeah. Yes, I see. Well yes, go on. I understand. I could only try. Maybe next time. Hey, I understand. I can take no very well. Sure. So long.”

He hung up and stared at the phone.

“That was Estelle.”

“I heard.”

“She can’t make it. Nothing personal.”

“That’s not how it sounded.”

“Hold on.”

“I’m holding.”

He dialed. Another, higher voice answered.

“Angela? Carl. This is crazy, but could you meet me at United Airlines, five this afternoon, small carry-on, destination Paris, ten nights, champagne and pillow talk. Bed and breakfast. You. Me?”

The voice shrieked on the phone.

“I take it that’s a yes. Wonderful!”

He hung up and could hardly stop laughing.

“That was Angela,” he cried, beaming.

“So I gathered.”

“No arguments.”

“A happy camper. Now would you—”

“Hold on.” He left the room and came back a few minutes later carrying a very small suitcase and tucking his wallet and passport inside his coat pocket.

He stood, swaying and laughing in front of his wife.

“Now,” she said. “Explanations?”

“Yes.”

He handed her the list he had written ten minutes ago.

“1980 through 2002,” he said. “Our time in Paris, correct?”