Below the observation deck of the giant cruise ship Inspiration, the awakening city of Fort-de-France glowed in the morning sunlight. Gallic charm wafted across the harbor, pausing here and there to ripple a sail or tousle a seagull’s feathers before climbing the steep steel wall to swirl gently around Harold Decker like a coquettish dancer from the Moulin Rouge. In honor of this one-day stop on the island of Martinique the ship’s galley was serving crêpes for breakfast; the scent from the outdoor buffet mingled with the soft accordion music playing in Decker’s imagination and made him giddy with anticipation. He cast a final hungry glance at the waiting town and drifted back to the table where his wife was attacking her plate with gusto. Harold settled into his chair and assumed an air of pensive abstraction.

“I’ve always liked the French,” he said. “They have flair–you know, that je ne sais quoi.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Arlene shook her head. “See, that’s just what I’m afraid of–”

“No, no,” said Harold impatiently. “That’s what it means: ‘I don’t know.’ It’s an expression. It’s got to do with mystery, ambiance…oh, never mind.”

“Well, Charlie and Doreen went to France last year and they said the people were positively rude to them.”

“That’s because the French didn’t have the decency to speak English. You know how Charlie is–he thinks Jesus spoke with an East Texas accent. The people appreciate it when you make some effort to fit into their culture. I can just imagine Doreen whining for Diet Coke in some fancy Parisian restaurant, or complaining that there were men in the women’s bathroom.”

“I just don’t want you to embarrass yourself, Harry. You heard what the cruise director said, that they’re not so crazy about American tourists here–”

“He also said they might pretend they don’t know English just to annoy us. But don’t you see? He’s not talking about me, because I won’t have that problem.” It was fully his intention to sneak onto the island incognito and blend with the francophones.

This was a day Harold Decker had anticipated for six months. He had been less than enthusiastic about his wife’s plans for a Southern Caribbean cruise, having a propensity for motion sickness, but when he learned that one of the ports of call would be Martinique his attitude changed. He unearthed his college language text from a box in the attic and began practicing phrases day and night. Comment ça va? and Quel heure est-il? became commonplace in the dental office, though the response was most often a blank stare from a patient or a good-natured groan from his hygienist. At home, the change in her husband amused Mrs. Decker–briefly–but soon she became annoyed at his references to her mother as la vieille dame or the morning meal as petit déjuener, which she took as her husband’s attempts to make her feel ignorant and uncultured. Harold denied the accusation but, in truth, his wife’s protests afforded him a sort of secret delight. He knew she had always perceived him as rather boring, and rightfully so, for he would be the first to admit that his was the most ordinary of existences. The husband of one wife, the father of two pleasant but ordinary children, he plodded through life neither inspiring nor threatening his fellow man, complacent in his role of “that nice Dr. Decker.” But now, this brief opportunity to affect a cosmopolitan air was nudging his dormant ego to awaken.

Thirty-three years earlier, Harold had actually lived for a few weeks with a family in Nice–friends of friends of his father’s–during the break between his undergraduate studies and his entrance into dental school. His four semesters of college French provided sufficient training for a rough communication with his hosts, whom he found delightful. He fell deeply in love with their seventeen-year-old daughter, though he never admitted it to her, preferring to suffer the romantic anguish of unrequited love rather than risk the more tangible pain of rejection. He had spent a weekend in Paris, of course, where he conquered the dizzying heights of the Eiffel Tower, then gazed in quiet awe at the Mona Lisa, less impressed by da Vinci’s mastery than by the fact that he, Harold Decker of Humble, Texas, was actually standing in front of this painting in the Louvre. He sampled the wine country, hiked in the French Alps, frolicked on the beaches of St-Tropez. And then he went home. Decker had often reflected on that sojourn in Europe as one of the best times of his life; a time of great adventure and romance, before the conventions of family life and three decades of mouths filled with plaque and rotten molars had swallowed the man he might have been. And now, on this far-flung particle of France in the Western Hemisphere, he somehow felt he might rediscover himself.

****

At eleven o’clock, the announcement came that passengers could begin to debark, and the Deckers joined the pale herd shuffling down the narrow hallway that led to the gangway. When they reached the pier, Harold realized they had forgotten the beach towels in the cabin. “Go back,” said his wife. “I’ll see if I can catch a cab.”

“But you can’t–”

“Surely the natives understand sign language, Harry. Go get the towels and I’ll be waiting right down here on the dock.”

By the time he returned the crowd from the ship had thinned considerably, having mounted tour buses and taxicabs to be whisked away to enchanted destinations. Arlene was nowhere in sight, so Decker began working his way down the line of cabs, stooping at each to peer through the tinted windows. When he reached the car at the head of the line he noticed a commotion inside and detected the distinctive bray of his wife’s laughter. Climbing into the back seat, he was surprised to find Mrs. Decker and the driver both cackling robustly.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” said Harold with a puzzled smile. “Nous voudrions–”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Harry,” interrupted his wife. “He speaks English. I’ve already told him what we want. He knows just the beach to take us to.”

“Yes, yes, there is a nice hôtel not far from here,” said the red-faced cabby as he started the car. “Very nice beach. I’ll take you there. You are from the States, eh? I told your wife that last week I had a man from the States and he gets in my taxi and he says to me, ‘Prenez-moi au fin du monde.’ Ha, ha. ‘Take me to the end of the world.’ Ha, ha. I say, ‘I’m sorry, sir, this car she is too old to make that trip, but I could take you to the end of the island if you want.’ Ha, ha.”

Arlene burst into another fit of sustained laughter. “Isn’t that funny, Harry? ‘The end of the world.’ Isn’t he the funniest thing?”

“A regular Jerry Lewis,” mumbled Harold, turning towards the window to watch the sights fly by.

At the hotel Decker sprang from the cab and paid the driver, glad to be rid of him. Arlene and Laurent had carried on an animated conversation for the entire trip, never allowing a French word in edgewise. He may as well have been riding a taxi in downtown Houston.

They gathered their beach bags and followed a narrow path to the rear of the hotel, where they discovered a manicured stretch of white sand that curved around an inlet of turquoise water. Beyond the opening to the inlet dozens of sailboats floated tranquilly on the glistening Caribbean. In the shallow water three nymphs in topless bathing suits splashed and laughed, their well-tanned breasts bouncing unabashedly in the sun. A huge rock fountain gurgled at the top of the steps that led up to the pool area of the hotel, where Decker imagined dozens of European guests reclined in the noonday heat, sipping Bordeaux and sampling caviar. If Xanadu had a French equivalent, Harold Decker had surely found it. He smiled at his wife and motioned to some plastic lounge chairs.

They had been ensconced in la bonne vie only briefly when a shadow fell across them. “Oh, hello,” said Arlene to the muscular young man who stood over them. “It’s okay if we sit here, isn’t it?”

“These chairs are for guests of the hotel, madame. May I see your room key?”

“Pardon, monsieur,” said Harold. “Nous–” He stopped. He had been caught off guard and he searched his vocabulary desperately.

“We’re not registered here; we’re just visiting,” said his wife. “Are you really going to make us move?” She smiled at the boy sweetly.

“It is twelve dollars, then, for each chair,” he replied in a bored tone.

“That seems kind of high, doesn’t it, Harry? We’ll just move over there and sit on our towels.”

The boy shrugged his shoulders and walked away as Harold gathered his towel and lotion. Chaise, he thought. That’s “chair.” But how do you ask, “May we lie over there?” Coucher? No, that’s “to go to bed–”

“I thought that was kind of rude, didn’t you?” said Arlene. “I mean, really, making us pay for a beach chair at a nice place like this.”

“It is their hotel, dear. And they’re not rude; it’s just their way. They’re more assertive. It’s an attitude; it’s part of what makes them French.”

“Well, thank God you don’t act like that. You’d run off all your patients with that attitude. Why don’t you put our things over there? I want to go find a bottle of water.”

Harold dropped the load under an unoccupied palm tree. “I’ll go,” he said. “There’s a café right by the pool. Why don’t you stay and watch the stuff?”

His wife narrowed her eyes. It was the same look she gave their sixteen-year-old son whenever he asked for the car keys. “I think I’ll come along–I’ll bring the camera in my purse; I’m sure our other things will be fine. I want to see the hotel, anyway.”

Harold frowned. “Let me order the water,” he said firmly.

Arlene stooped for her purse and camera. When she stood she looked at her husband. “Of course, dear. I certainly can’t communicate with these people.” She giggled.

****

Decker entered the café, sizing up the woman behind the counter as he threaded his way through the tables, his wife close behind him. She was approximately his age, he guessed, with pleasant enough features. A sympathetic type, surely. He silently practiced his phrase as he walked. The familiar nervous twist in his stomach tempted him to order in English, but he was acutely aware of Arlene’s presence at his elbow. It was only when the vendeuse presented herself before him that he noticed she was not smiling, and she appeared to be muttering to herself. She looked at him without speaking, soliciting his order with a raise of her thin left eyebrow. He cleared his throat.

“Pardon, madame,” he began, with what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Je voudrais–”

The woman frowned and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. Unnerved, Harold hesitated. Perhaps he had said it wrong?

“May I help you?” asked the woman in a thick French accent, with no attempt to hide her impatience.

Decker cut his eyes toward his wife, who seemed to be on the verge of ordering for herself. He shifted to his left to better position himself between Arlene and the bar and he began again.

“Je voudrais acheter une bouteille de l’eau, s’il vous plâit,” he said, enunciating each syllable.

The woman’s frown deepened. “You would like a bottle of water?”

He was sure he had said it correctly; was it really necessary for her to confirm it in English? “Oui,” he answered. She mumbled something in French that he didn’t quite catch. “Pardon?” he asked.

The woman folded her arms and released a deep sigh that attracted the attention of the young waiter who had appeared on Harold’s right. He regarded the tourist with a bemused grin. “Small or large?” asked the woman.

Harold cursed the blood rushing into his ears, knowing it was a crimson banner signaling a touch for his opponent. Behind him Arlene was making the little sniffing noises that unconsciously manifested when she found herself in uncomfortable social situations. The American stumbled only momentarily before parrying his adversary’s challenge through gritted teeth: “Petite, s’il vous plâit.”

For a few seconds there was silence, interrupted by a slight snicker from Harold’s right and the voiceless protestations of Mrs. Decker, who was beginning to sound like a bloodhound casting for a scent. The two ambassadors eyed each other coldly; Harold wanted to believe that a grudging respect passed between them. With another slight shake of her head the woman turned and retrieved a small bottle of water from the refrigerator behind her.

“Combien est-ce?” asked Decker as she placed the bottle in front of him.

“Harry, pleeaassse,” said Arlene under her breath.

“That will be four–um, five dollars,” replied the woman.

“Five dollars!” exclaimed Arlene. “For a little bottle of water?”

Harold produced his wallet without a flinch and withdrew a U.S. bill. He looked the woman straight in the eye and said evenly, “I suspect, darling, that there is a surcharge for ordering with an imperfect accent.” He placed the bill on the counter and picked up the water. “Merci bien,” he said, and turned to go.

When he faced the crowd he noticed that several of the people sitting at the tables nearest him were looking at him, smiling and exchanging words and quiet chuckles. Arlene looked at the floor and grabbed his arm to lead him out of the café. Decker tensed his body and resisted her pull. His gaze swept over their mocking faces, then settled on the woman who stood tugging at his elbow. A thought entered his mind: they are all in this together. The notion was, of course, patently ridiculous–that he was the target of some French conspiracy to exclude him from their culture–and he knew he should dismiss it and go on. But there was something about the idea that filled him with a resolve unlike any he had felt before; a reckless desire to beard the lion in its own den. Shaking loose from his wife’s grasp, he turned back to the counter.

“Pardon, madame. Pourriez-vous me dire où sont les toilettes?”

“Harry, for heaven’s sake,” Arlene pleaded.

The woman folded her arms again and narrowed her eyes. “You want the bathroom?” she asked loudly. A titter ran through the room.

“Oui, les toilettes.”

This time it was la française who chose to raise the stakes. “Bien sûr, monsieur,” she replied, and flashed a malicious smirk. She launched into a rapid-fire monologue, complete with sawing gestures and wild facial expressions. This went on for a full minute, during which time she successfully prevented her listener’s comprehension, though he was certain he had properly understood the phrases “turn right at the second mountain” and “watch for sheep in the roadway.” Behind him, Harold could hear the embarrassed laughter of the people. Midway through her rant the young waiter had vanished and Decker now spied from the corner of his eye a man in a suit approaching with the boy close behind. Fortunately, the length of her canard had allowed Harold ample time to formulate a counterattack: what could make her look sillier than turning her own story against her and requiring her to repeat it, word-for-word, very slowly?

“Je regrette, madame. Je ne comprends pas. Pourriez-vous me repeter les directions–lentement, s’il vous plaît?” His voice was as smooth as la mousse au chocolat; he exuded Continental coolness. And he was certain his accent was improving by the minute.

“For crying out loud, Harold, let it go!” Arlene bordered on hysteria. It was clear to Decker that her defection was complete. He was the sole focus of attention in the café and he faced his adversaries alone, but he would have it no other way. His only regret was that he didn’t smoke; this would be the perfect time to produce and suavely light a cigarette to demonstrate his unflappability.

The woman behind the counter drew a deep breath and coiled to strike just as the manager reached them.

“Excuse me, sir. Is there a problem?”

The unfortunate man received the venom the woman had prepared for Decker. She launched into a spirited castigation of the bespectacled customer across the counter from her, who now acted as an interpreter for his wife: “She says I’m a crazy man who refuses to speak English. I’m just a troublemaker and all she’s doing is trying to serve me. She says if she has to put up with this kind of crap, she’ll just quit. He’s telling her now to calm down or he’ll have to report her. He’s saying you can’t treat customers that way and that she’s being totally unreasonable.” Actually, Harold could not be at all sure what they were saying in this exchange, but he thought he was getting the gist of it. Arlene listened with her face buried in her hands and punctuated his commentary with groans.

Eventually the manager herded his irate employee into a neutral corner and circled the bar to address his customer. “I’m sorry, monsieur. Monique, she is working many hours and is very tired. I think also perhaps she is not having a very good day. Is it that I can do something…?”

The time had come for magnanimity, but Harold Decker was too drunk with his newfound power to surrender it yet. He now had a man of authority at his disposal and he intended to make the most of it. For the benefit of those at the farthest tables, he spoke loudly.

“I realize you can’t be held accountable for all of your people’s actions, sir, but I’m a paying customer on this island, and it seems to me I have just as much right as anyone to choose the language in which I will converse.” He would have greatly preferred delivering this speech en français, but lacked the necessary vocabulary to carry it off with the proper amount of indignity.

“Of course, sir.” The manager was trying to draw Harold outside, but he held his ground. “Perhaps if you can give me your name and room number, I can arrange a meal in the restaurant for you and your lovely wife.”

Arlene saw this as her opportunity to assume the role of diplomat. “That is really very sweet of you, sir, but we’re from the ship and we really must be getting back.”

Harold squeezed her hand tightly. “Arlene–”

Suspicion dawned on the face of the Frenchman. “The ship? A cruise ship? You are not, then, registered at our hotel?” In an instant the balance of power had shifted.

“Actually,” said Arlene, laughing nervously, “all I wanted was a drink of water. We really didn’t want to start an international incident.”

“What if we’re not registered here?” Harold retorted. “Does that mean you have the right to treat us as–as some kind of–foreigners?”

He grabbed his wife’s elbow and stalked past the stares of the crowd toward the bright sunshine beyond the canopy. When they reached the steps that led to the beach, Decker stopped and turned to survey the tableau he had created: the irate saleslady behind the bar, the frowning manager, the astonished customers, the hyperventilating woman beside him. At a table just to his left, a man was watching him with a broad smile. “Vous êtes americain?” asked the man.

Decker looked down at him and replied sarcastically, “Non, monsieur. Je suis français!”

The man laughed and nodded his head appreciatively at the brash irony of the remark. “Actually, your French, it is not so bad,” he said.

Decker stared at him for a moment as the words registered. Then, squaring his shoulders, he looked at Arlene. “Ha!” he declared triumphantly, then turned to march down the stairs. He could almost hear La Marseillaise playing in the background.