He'd asked the simple, classic question—what did you do last summer?—and the answer he received was a puzzle. Now he'd have to play along. " What front?"he said at last. "The Western Front." He nodded, relieved to have heard something vaguely familiar. "Is that like the Maginot Line?" "Close,"I said helpfully. "But you've got the wrong war." We ate in silence for a few instants. I could almost hear the wheels spin: Western Front, Western Front . . . "D-Day?" "Nope." His sunny California countenance creased in embarrassment. Here he was, a fellow freelancer in Paris, and some major European conflict had escaped his notice. What if he could interview me, get an assignment out of it? What if he could write our meal off as a research expense.? I relented. "The Western Front . . . All Quiet . . . The trenches . . . World War I . . ." He almost spat a mouthful of couscous at me. "World War I," he said witheringly.
