I
LISTENED politely and then bit my lip to keep from laughing.
When
the most worldly and suave cosmopolitan you know confides he has just
found the "girl of his dreams," it is not to he taken lightly.
I had been ready for anything - a chic beauty on the moonlit French
Riviera, an Arabian enchantress dancing in the sands of Nisapur. Anything,
that is, but . . . "Ah Peter, eet was een a Hollywood supermarkeet.
She appeared like a beauteeful veesion enthroned between rows of corn
flakes and cans of speeneech."
Could
this be my friend, Jean Tabaud? Frenchman of adventure and romance?
Glamour-logged painter of beautiful women? Sophisticated young dignitary
of the arts? The presence of this man in a food store seemed definitely
out of character. And going ga ga over a girl grocery shopper - this
seemed impossible. Tabaud is simply too well acquainted with the theory
of femininity.
He
babbled on breathlessly. "She looks like the . . . her name in
Jossee . . . the Vikings who came in small boats many centuries ago
...
