I think I will leave the four tires and the offset clef à vis and the wheel puller with the car. Also the car’s license. The major is perfectly trustworthy. I only hope he doesn’t get killed before my expense account reaches him.
VII
I START HOME, WITH A STOP-OVER AT LONDON
Saturday, September 15. Paris.
The gentleman at the American Embassy, which I visited late yesterday afternoon, spake truth when he said it was some job to get away from this place.
“If you want to leave on Sunday,” quoth he, “you’ll have to rise early Saturday and keep going all day. See our consul first thing in the morning, and he’ll tell you all you have to do.”
So I saw our consul first thing this morning. In fact, I beat him to his office. When he came in he was cordial and unsuspicious, rare qualities in a consul. He stamped my passport “Bon pour se rendre en Amérique par Grande Bretagne” and a great deal more.
“Now,” he said, “you’ll have to be viséed by the préfet de police and approved by the British Military Control. I don’t know in what order. They change it every two or three days to keep you guessing.”
I chose the British Control first and, of course, was wrong. But it took an hour to find this out.
There was a big crowd of us, and we were all given numbers, as in a barber shop of a Saturday night. But the resemblance to the barber shop ceased with the giving, for they called us regardless of number. A guinea sitting next to me was 42 and I was 18. He preceded me into the sanctum. And I got there ahead of No. 12, a British matron.
My session was brief.