American?"
The young man shook his head. He stared intently back at Breton, the vague trace of a smile flitting across a face that could truly be called beautiful.
Breton involuntarily shrank before that face.
He didn't know why. A strange emotion moved him.
Breton sipped his Triple V cocktail in an effort to conceal his emotion, however, and continued with questions.
"Your, um, name, then, is?"
"My name is Hu Mci."
"Who ... ?"
Then it happened. The young man traced the letters W-H-O in the air. Breton gulped down his Triple V. He immediately regretted it. But it was too late. The ball of alcohol burned through his nose and throat.
Drawing a deep breath of air, Breton asked in a ragged tone.
"Who? You mean, you want me to guess who you are?"
It seemed to him a childish word game all too common among youths and poets. Or so he thought at first. This one was after all very young. Despite initial impressions, he might prove a disappointment.
Smile unwavering, the young man tilted his head.
"That is the name, my name."
Once again the young man drew some sort of figure in the air with a finger.
"That's how you write it in Chinese characters." He traced the same character in the air. "It is an ideogram. But I don't know what it means."
"Are you Chinese, then?"
Breton posed the question, feeling that the young man was being rather evasive.
"My mother came from Indochina."
The young man continued in impeccable French.
"My father was French. I was born in Paris. That's all I know. I never knew my father, and my mother died before I was old enough to remember her well."
At a loss for a suitable response, Breton raised the glass to his lips. This time, however, he fortunately remembered what was in the glass and lowered it hastily.
Who May had been raised in the Chaillot area. He hadn't lacked for money. His mother had made a good living. But she had died of an illness before he reached the age of twelve. Who May had then been adopted by a man named Jean-Pierre Carron who worked in the import-export business.
Carron was French with some Vietnamese blood.
It wasn't entirely clear why Carron ended up raising Who May. At least no one had ever explained it to Who May.
Carron had no family. That was one explanation. But it hardly amounted to a full explanation.
In any event-such was the story that Breton heard from Who May.
Breton, however, didn't take it all that seriously. But then there was no particular reason to doubt it, either.
Presently, as the threat of Nazi invasion mounted, JeanPierre Carron had immediately recognized the danger and sailed for the free land of America, taking Who May with him.
And then war broke out-
Unable to return to their former country, they had no choice but to settle in New York.
"So, how about a drink?"
Waldberg had returned, bearing a peculiar-looking cocktail in each hand.
"Incidentally, how is it that you two became acquainted?"
Taking advantage of the diversion, Breton asked Waldberg while he was handing one of the glasses to the young man.
"He," Waldberg replied, beaming, "was my student."
"Your student, was he?"
"Yes, at an English school for foreigners. In a class designed primarily for native speakers of French, for a short while I offered an extracurricular course. A course on poetry-"
Waldberg placed special emphasis on the word poetry.
"At the end of the course, I gave the students an assignment-for everyone to write a poem in English. And then I had each of them read their poem aloud and offered comments. It was really quite fun."
(It must have been) thought Breton. And he nodded his head.
Waldberg was the perfect person for it. He would adeptly play the role of instructor and make the course "fun."
"That was the first time I heard Who May's work. The English was quite accurate, yet it had a strange sort of rhythm that stuck in your head. So I spoke to him after class about it."
Who May had then confided in Waldberg about his ambition to become a
The young man shook his head. He stared intently back at Breton, the vague trace of a smile flitting across a face that could truly be called beautiful.
Breton involuntarily shrank before that face.
He didn't know why. A strange emotion moved him.
Breton sipped his Triple V cocktail in an effort to conceal his emotion, however, and continued with questions.
"Your, um, name, then, is?"
"My name is Hu Mci."
"Who ... ?"
Then it happened. The young man traced the letters W-H-O in the air. Breton gulped down his Triple V. He immediately regretted it. But it was too late. The ball of alcohol burned through his nose and throat.
Drawing a deep breath of air, Breton asked in a ragged tone.
"Who? You mean, you want me to guess who you are?"
It seemed to him a childish word game all too common among youths and poets. Or so he thought at first. This one was after all very young. Despite initial impressions, he might prove a disappointment.
Smile unwavering, the young man tilted his head.
"That is the name, my name."
Once again the young man drew some sort of figure in the air with a finger.
"That's how you write it in Chinese characters." He traced the same character in the air. "It is an ideogram. But I don't know what it means."
"Are you Chinese, then?"
Breton posed the question, feeling that the young man was being rather evasive.
"My mother came from Indochina."
The young man continued in impeccable French.
"My father was French. I was born in Paris. That's all I know. I never knew my father, and my mother died before I was old enough to remember her well."
At a loss for a suitable response, Breton raised the glass to his lips. This time, however, he fortunately remembered what was in the glass and lowered it hastily.
Who May had been raised in the Chaillot area. He hadn't lacked for money. His mother had made a good living. But she had died of an illness before he reached the age of twelve. Who May had then been adopted by a man named Jean-Pierre Carron who worked in the import-export business.
Carron was French with some Vietnamese blood.
It wasn't entirely clear why Carron ended up raising Who May. At least no one had ever explained it to Who May.
Carron had no family. That was one explanation. But it hardly amounted to a full explanation.
In any event-such was the story that Breton heard from Who May.
Breton, however, didn't take it all that seriously. But then there was no particular reason to doubt it, either.
Presently, as the threat of Nazi invasion mounted, JeanPierre Carron had immediately recognized the danger and sailed for the free land of America, taking Who May with him.
And then war broke out-
Unable to return to their former country, they had no choice but to settle in New York.
"So, how about a drink?"
Waldberg had returned, bearing a peculiar-looking cocktail in each hand.
"Incidentally, how is it that you two became acquainted?"
Taking advantage of the diversion, Breton asked Waldberg while he was handing one of the glasses to the young man.
"He," Waldberg replied, beaming, "was my student."
"Your student, was he?"
"Yes, at an English school for foreigners. In a class designed primarily for native speakers of French, for a short while I offered an extracurricular course. A course on poetry-"
Waldberg placed special emphasis on the word poetry.
"At the end of the course, I gave the students an assignment-for everyone to write a poem in English. And then I had each of them read their poem aloud and offered comments. It was really quite fun."
(It must have been) thought Breton. And he nodded his head.
Waldberg was the perfect person for it. He would adeptly play the role of instructor and make the course "fun."
"That was the first time I heard Who May's work. The English was quite accurate, yet it had a strange sort of rhythm that stuck in your head. So I spoke to him after class about it."
Who May had then confided in Waldberg about his ambition to become a
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