A few days later-not entirely by chance-he encountered Fulmar at the urinal in the men’s room off the bar in the Hotel Crillon.
“Hello, Fulmar, how are you?” he said, in English. The conversation in Fouquet’s restaurant had all been in Gennan.
“All right,” Fulmar said. “How’re you?”
He looked at Baker uneasily. But the tension almost instantly faded, and a smile as engaging as a Raphael Madonna’s spread over his face. Fulmar now had a look so unfeignedly open and warm that Baker dropped his hand on his wallet pocket.
“If I’d known you were American, I would have spoken to you in English in Fouquet’s,” Baker said.
“It didn’t matter,” Fulmar said.
“I’ve been curious about you,” Baker said.
“Is that so?” Fulmar said. “I’m thrilled that so many people I don’t know well show so much curiosity about me.”
“You’re not on my list,” Baker said.
“What list is that?” Fulmar asked as he washed his hands.
“My list of Americans in occupied France,” Baker said.
“I don’t live in occupied France,” Fulmar said.
“Well, that explains that, doesn’t it?” Baker said. He decided to push him a little. “You know, of course, that when your passport comes up for renewal, it’ll be stamped “Not Valid for Travel to Occupied France.’ Unless, of course, you have a reason to be here.”
“I’ll be out of France before my passport expires,” Fulmar said. “What are you doing here?” Baker asked.
“What is this, anyway?” Fulmar asked.
“Nothing. I was just curious. I don’t see many Americans in s these days.”
Pan “I suppose not Fulmar agreed.
“So you’ll let me buy you a drink?”
Fulmar hesitated, then nodded.
They went into the bar and took a table against the wall.
Fulmar knew several of the young German officers and spoke to them in German. There was dialect and slang. Fulmar was perfectly fluent in that language, so fluent that he could obviously be mistaken for a German. His French was impeccable, too.
“I think they’re about out of American whiskey,” Baker said.
“I drink fin de 1’eau,” Fulmar said, in English. “I can’t stand French beer.”
“Bring us a siphon and ice,” Baker ordered. “And some cognac.”
When they had mixed the drinks, Baker raised his.
“Mud in your eye,” he said.
Fulmar chuckled. “I haven’t heard that in a while he said.
“How long have you been over here?” Baker asked.
“I came over for my last two years of high school,” Fuhnar said. “And then I stayed for college. That makes it eight years.”
“You’ve never been back?”
Fulmar shook his head no. Then he took the cognac bottle, poured the empty coffee cup half full, and added ice and a good spritz from the siphon.
“You say you don’t live in France?” Baker asked.
“Are you just making conversation, or is that an official inquiry?”
“Forget I asked,” Baker said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I know curiosity is eating you up, Mr. Baker, but maybe that’s your business, so I’ll try to satisfy it. I live in Morocco. I have been given a permanent residence permit by the Moroccan government. I would suppose the consulate general in Rabat has all the details.”
-I guess my curiosity ran away with me,” Baker said, making it an apology. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“None was taken,” Fulmar said dryly, smiling his open, engaging smile.
“I was told you were German,” Baker said with a smile. “That made me curious, too.”
“My father is German,” Fulmar said, looking directly at Baker. “So far as they’re concerned, that makes me a German. If I was in Germany, they’d put me in the army, American passport or no. I don’t want to be a German soldier.”
“Maybe you should think about going home,” Baker said.
“And get drafted into the American army? No, thanks.”
“You may have to go home,” Baker said. “What if the consulate won’t renew your passport?”
“Then I’ll become a Moroccan citizen,” Fulmar said.
“Can you? Don’t you have to be Moslem?”
“How do you know I’m not?” Fulmar asked. “And besides, I have friends there.”
“Friends?”
41 Um.”
“That would be Sidi el Ferruch?” Baker asked, and Fulmar nodded.