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was patently ridiculous. It was plain he could hardly stand to lose his precious Revolution. But I on the other hand did not want another over-precious lecture on his precious Revolution. And I did want to know more about the woman—girl—(God, I hardly know what to call her, really)—whom I have called our Catalyst. “Have you had any news from Sam?” I asked.
    “Samantha?” He turned back from the window’s railing.
    “Samantha-Marie,” I countered.
    He smiled. But under the grease of the protective coating of the smile there was a look of bone-deep sadness, an exhausted anguish, in his eyes. “I had a letter from her from Tel Aviv three days ago. She’s back with her Sabra girlfriend. They’re making it great together. And she wants me to join them as soon as I can get down there.”
    “And you’re going?”
    “Where would I get the money?”
    “Umm,” I said. I changed the subject. “She taught you a lotta things, you told me once.”
    “Yeah, she did,” Weintraub said, still smiling an only-skin-deep smile. “She gave me a taste for some pretty exotic stuff. . . . Aw, fuck it. She don’t want me. We both know it. Have you heard anything more from Harry?” He paused. “Or any of them? I walked past the house down there tonight. Their apartment’s closed up tighter than a drum. Not a light anywhere.”
    “Hill has left Paris,” I said. “Ten days ago. You knew that. I’ve not heard from him. Louisa, you know about. The baby, McKenna, is staying with Edith de Chambrolet—you know, Louisa’s Countess friend.”
    “Have I met her?”
    “I think you have, at their place.”
    “I don’t remember. And Harry?”
    “You saw the telegram I had from him yesterday. He’s arrived in Tel Aviv.”
    “You think he’ll ever catch up with her?” Weintraub asked. “With Samantha? Make it back?”
    “I haven’t the least idea,” I said. “You would know the answer to that better than I would.”
    “No,” he said, and hollows showed under his eyes. “No, I wouldn’t really. Really.”
    “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have an inkling,” I said. “Dave, would you like another drink? I’m pouring. But would you mind making it a quick one? I’ve got some things I’ve really got to do tonight.”
    “Sure. I would like one. And I will make it quick. What are you doing? Writing something about our past six weeks, our Révolution?”
    “No,” I said. “But I suppose I will have to have something done about it for the Review.”
    He actually leered. “But you’re doing something on it yourself?”
    “No. I think I’d much prefer to have a French political expert—Left, of course—do it for me. I might translate it myself, though.”
    He pulled himself up to his full five-foot-four, and grinned—again; this time a genuine one. “Don’t forget to have him tell what part Weintraub played in the transpiration of this Revolution! Including the one at Harry Gallagher’s!”
    After he left, I wondered if his very last remark was not still a further allusion to these papers, to his awareness of their existence, and that he was giving me permission—no, was asking me, please to include him in anything I wrote about the Gallaghers. History he wanted. Well, I would certainly have to include him. He certainly did play a role. A key role. But somehow it depressed me. It depressed me even more than I had known that seeing him would do, and I went myself to my window. I leaned on the protective wrought-iron railing looking out at the sadness of the flowing river. As Weintraub had done. It was always there, that sadness of the river, of the flowing of the river. But I’ve never been able to isolate why. But it was always sad. That was one thing I could count on. Night had fallen since he had arrived. And the Paris streetlights had come on along the quai. Across the river, lights were coming on in the Left Bank apartments. And in the Quartier itself there were no more thuds of gas grenades igniting,