Last evening Madame l’Ambassador and I attended a concert by the saxist Joshua Redman, the son of Dewey Redman. We had spent the day touring Triers’ roman ruins and I was feeling a little frayed by the time we arrived at the Luxembourg Philharmonic.

“I might fall asleep,” I warned the ambassador. It was a little after 8pm. Once I had run after-hours nightclubs in New York. We opened at 2am and closed at dawn. That era of errors was back in the 80s and I am well retired from the nightlife.

“If you sleep, I’ll let you sleep.” She understood the situation to a tee. Her day had been the same as mine, however diplomacy required her eyes to remain open while mine stayed shut.

“And if I snore, you’ll make me up.” I only snore when I’m comfortable with my surroundings and the Philharmonic had been build for listening to music in comfort.

“Exactement.” She nodded in agreement.

The jazz duo came on stage to play their set. The pianist styled himself after Chick Corea and the headliner sounded a little like Gerry Mulligan tempered by fusion. My head fell forward before I could decide which influence was strongest.

I awoke to join the audience in their appreciative applause and then resumed my slumber for the next song.

Well into the concert Alice nudged my arm.

“You’re snoring.”

“Loudly?” I whispered with a lowered head.

“No.” She didn’t like talking during a performance.

“In tune.” I bet the men around me had been jealous of my lapse into slumber.

“No.” This answer was almost curt and I sat up straight to watch the final song. I gave the duo a standing ovation.

“You barely heard a note.” The ambassador frowned at my excessive enthusiasm.

“Yes, but I’ve seen enough concerts to know that the bad musicians keep me awake. Bravo.”

It had been a good sleep and I slept even better back at the Residence overlooking the deep gorge of the Petrusse, as only an ancient roue can sleep in the retreat from the highwater mark of decadence.