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be a gentleman.
    He came up to my office at five, promptly, introduced himself: Jean-Pierre Duhamel, and gave me his card.
    We went to The Four Seasons. There, over drinks, he told me about himself—an only son of a physician, who had disappointed his family by abandoning his medical studies for a career in publishing.
    “If one cannot write,” he said, “is it not a best thing to make the good life for who can?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    He asked me where I would like to dine. What cuisine did I prefer?
    “In merveilleux New York,” he said, “you have the table of the world. Not so in Paris.”
    We decided, eventually, on Nippon, since we both admired Japanese food, and Nippon, which I consider the best in New York, was unknown to him.
    “Good, good,” he said. “It will be for me an adventure.”
    He walked me home, kissed my hand, and said he would return in an hour and a half, at 7:45.
    At 7:15, the doorman called on the intercom.
    “Flowers coming up.”
    An arrangement of multicolored roses and lily of the valley in a lovely vase. I was sure it was his creation, not the florist’s.
    At 7:45, the doorman again.
    “Man down here.”
    “On my way.”
    He had held his taxi, and asked, “You prefer to ride, to walk?”
    “Let’s ride,” I said. “I’m famished. We’ll walk later.”
    “O.K.,” he said. “ D’accord .”
    He gave the driver the address of Nippon, carefully and clearly.
    What is it about shoes off and sitting on the floor that loosens it all up?
    Throughout the exquisite dinner, he charmed me with his manners and wit and youth and aspiration and appreciation and candor.
    I was ready for him whenever he said the word.
    He did not, however, say it that evening.
    After dinner, we walked.
    “You like to hear the jazz?” he asked.
    “I don’t know much about it.”
    “But it is American,” he protested. “And you are American.”
    “Oh, yes,” I said, “but I was born in fifty-one. I’m a Beatles baby. Dylan. Baez. The Rolling Stones.”
    “Very good, all,” he said. “Yes. But come. I show you.”
    To Jimmy Ryan’s on 54 th Street, and an hour of excitement. Roy Eldridge. Ellis Larkins. Ruby Braff.
    Walking again. Home.
    “Would you like to come up?” I asked.
    “Very much.”
    Brandy and coffee and shoes off again and feet up and talk.
    All at once, he rose.
    “I will leave you now,” he said.
    “Oh?”
    He must have sensed the disappointment in my voice, because he said, “Is better so. Now we have met, we know each the other a little. You will think of me, I hope. I will think of you, I am sure. Soon we will know. You are not a casual girl, I can see. So is best to be sure. And for my rude note, I apologize.”
    I wanted to say, “I am sure.” Instead, I said, “Thank you.”
    He kissed me, neatly and sweetly, and he was gone.
    Troubled sleep.
    Flowers on my desk when I arrived. And a note: “I have two tickets for the theatre this evening. A Chorus Line . I suggest how we tear them and spend the evening together in your adorable apartment. I can cook. You are a most desirable person. Sincerely, J-P.”
    So it began. The first truly satisfactory relationship of my life.
    We went home together that evening, and did everything together. Prepared drinks, bathed, and went to bed. He was a partner, not a predator. He took and gave pleasure. When he knew I was ready, that he had made me ready—he saw first to my comfort, then entered me—gently at first, tentatively—but as I arched to him, signaling that I needed him more deeply—he thrusted. I heard a scream. Mine. I was in pain, in transport, in ecstasy. He moved inside me easily, keeping me alive. After a timeless time, he began an insistent probing, as though there were depths in me still to be plumbed. There were, and he found them. I moved with him, up up up and out. White light. Skies. A whirling rainbow, and my body melting into thin air. As I was recovering, I felt him plunging into me, desperately. How