68. Karma

I’m learning a thing or two about karma.

1. I did a rush job on my last novel: careless with characters and used cliché plotlines. In return, I’m bitten by someone who’s done a rush job on an airport railing, which gives me Tetanus.

2. Today, a little old fellow asked me for directions. He pointed to his map and said something in French. I just shook my head and walked away. Now, I’ve got a taste of karma’s tarlike medicine because I’m the one who is lost.

It’s dark. The Paris roads are pretty sketchy. And Burbank and I are wandering the streets, trying to find the book shop where I was to begin my presentation half an hour ago. Lenore is already there, waiting for us, but we are getting nowhere. I feel bad for Burbank, having to be the level-headed one of the pair as his brain has not been infected by a muscle-munching bacteria. He knows slightly more French than I do, but it still does little good among the bar crowd staggering around. Why did I have to leave my cell phone at the hotel? And Burbank’s got internet on his, but no reception to call anyone. The bloody roadmaps don’t help one wit.

After half an hour of this, I am lying on a bench and am having a breakdown while Burbank is trying to hail a taxi cab driver who speaks English.