After the Circus

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I was eighteen, and the man whose face I don’t recall was typing up my legal status, address, and supposed student enrollment as fast as I could state them. He asked how I spent my free time.

I paused for a few seconds.

“I go to movies and bookstores.”

“You don’t just go to movies and bookstores.”

He cited the name of a café. No matter how often I repeated that I’d never set foot in the place, I could tell he didn’t believe me. Finally, he contented himself with typing the following:

“I go to movies and bookstores. I have never been to the Café de la Tournelle, at number 61 on the quay of that name.”

Then more questions about my activities and my parents. Yes, I took literature courses at the university. There was no danger in telling him that lie: I really had enrolled in the program, but only to prolong my draft deferment. As for my parents, they were both abroad and I had no idea when they’d return, if ever.

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