enough, I was trying to make Bordeaux in time for lunch, and the heavy truck traffic toiling up the Angoulême slope always slowed me down; if it was later, I had dined in Poitiers, the city before Angoulême, and had to cope with traffic while still trying to digest the Hôtel de France's excellent menu touristique. But apart from this momentary impingement upon my consciousness, the existence of the city affected me neither one way nor the other: it was one more city, a spot on the map, like Turin or Omaha or Zurich, to be driven through or flown over, to be ignored.

It was through Georges that for me Angoulême became a symbol. I met him on the quai de Branly one drizzly Paris summer midnight, young, lean, blond, with a sparkle in his voice, a spring in his step, a warmth in his eyes which made him seem perhaps more beautiful than he really was. He was at a loose end that night, he told me, "but I have to leave for Angoulême at six in the morning."

We made the most of those six hours: every minute counted, every second was perfect. It was more than a coming-together of two bodies, much more than a meeting of two minds-it was a complete fusion of two spirits, total and transcendant, it was at the same time the second act of Tristan and the communion of the saints. Toward the end we lost track of time; when we came to ourselves it was growing late, and finally I drove him through the deserted Paris streets at seventy miles an hour to catch his train. I left him on the platform after kissing him on both cheeks à la française. I never saw him again.

If I were to meet him tomorrow, I might well fail to recognize him, and he me, but that doesn't matter. What particularly matters is that this was one of those truly rare encounters where each partner finds his ideal of perfection in the other. What I remember of that night is not the night itself, but the joy of it.

Only as I relived it later (and the reliving of joy is often more joyous than the experiencing of it) did I realize that the Georges interlude, as it must be called, had a common denominator with most of the events which have remained the most vivid in my memory: in brief, they're always leaving for Angoulême in the morning. Not necessarily Angoulême, of course: Pittsburgh or Amsterdam or Barcelona would do as well, but for me Angoulême has become the quintessence of the transitory. Angoulême is disillusionment, bitterness, fear of tomorrow.

But at the same time it is Angoulême which has intensified and heightened my each joy. The black shadow of Angoulême and of its twin-spired cathedral, in itself a symbol, has made the sunlight even brighter, the sights and sounds and smells more clear and sharp and sure. If Angoulême is bitterness, it is also wisdom.

I feel this today more keenly than ever. For last night there was Rudy, and Rudy was Georges all over again. This morning, as I stood on the corner waiting for the bus, Rudy was watching me from his window. The bus was slow in coming along, so slow that it began to hurt. I was glad the bus stop was so far away that he couldn't see my eyes filling with tears, blurring the outlines of the pale blue robe. For Rudy is all I have ever been looking for, and Rudy is what I have so rarely found. Twice now. Only twice.

Georges left for Angoulême in the morning.

My plane is just coming into Denver.

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