"What flying saucers?"
A French girl went by with a poodle so finely clipped as to look as
though it'd been shaven. The girl was in the latest from Paris. Every
pore in place. We both looked after her.
"You know, what everybody was seeing a few years ago. It's too bad one
of these bloody manned satellites wasn't up then. Maybe they would've
seen one."
"That's an idea," I said.
We didn't say anything else for a while and I began to wonder if I could
go back to my paper without rubbing him the wrong way. I didn't know
Paul very well, but, for that matter, it's comparatively seldom you ever
get to know anybody very well in Tangier. Largely, cards are played
close to the chest.
* * * * *
My beer came and a plate of tapas for us both. Tapas at the Cafe de
Paris are apt to be potato salad, a few anchovies, olives, and possibly
some cheese. Free lunch, they used to call it in the States.
Just to say something, I said, "Where do you think they came from?" And
when he looked blank, I added, "The Flying Saucers."