“What became of the nigger?”
“Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address.”
“You probably did.”
“Well, anyway, let’s eat,” said Bill. “Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories.”
“Go on.”
“Let’s eat.”
We went downstairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening.
“Where will we go?”
“Want to eat on the island?”
“Sure.”
We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes.
“I know who they are.” Bill eyed the monument. “Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don’t try and fool me on Paris.”
We went on.
“Here’s a taxidermist’s,” Bill said. “Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?”
“Come on,” I said. “You’re pie-eyed.”
“Pretty nice stuffed dogs,” Bill said. “Certainly brighten up your flat.”