BLACK MONTPARNASSE JQQ

forced the whisky on his favourite daughter, until
she was drunk too. We grinned at each other and
made friendly gestures.

The favourite daughter could speak a few words of
English; her thigh under the tight cloth about her
waist was like the soft furry rump of a kitten; she had
lovely breasts: she was quite clean, much cleaner
than we were. The chief wanted us to stay the night,
and I began to wonder how far his hospitality might
go. The girl was feeling a little sick with the whisky,
but she never stopped smiling. I felt that she would
be as unobtrusively and neatly sick as a cat and would
afterwards be quite ready for more fun. A boy of
about sixteen came in and knelt in front of his father.
He pushed the whisky away; he wouldn't drink it;
and now he tried to stop his father drinking. He
fetched a bottle and persuaded his father to put away
every other drink for future use.

It became more and more like a blind in Paris; the
wine, the bitter Gallic smoke, the increasing friendli-
ness with someone you can't speak to because you
don't know the language well enough. You've run
across him in the Montparnasse bar and gone on ex-
changing drinks ever since: you speak English and
he speaks French, and you don't understand each
other. There are a lot of girls about whom he seems
to know and you'd vaguely like to sleep with, but you
can't be bothered because the wine's good and you
are beginning to feel a deep emotional friendship for
the man on the other stool. He seems to know every-
one: you don't understand a thing, but you are
happy.

We were there two hours, right into the full heat of