Do you recall the film
“un homme et une femme?”
There’s a much quoted
exchange between l’homme
and la femme, where l’homme
quotes Giacometti. “If I were
in a fire,” said the slim
sculptor who formed 
spindly figures,
 “and I had to 
choose between 
saving a Rembrandt
and a cat. I would save
the cat.” “Yes,” said la femme,
finishing the story for l’homme,
“then he said, and I would 
let it go.” Life and art, 
l’homme murmured in deep
reflection. 

When the movie
came out at
the Paramount Theater
in Newton Corner
as “A Man and a Woman,”
I was about fourteen
and I was lucky enough
to have an older girlfriend,
Gina, about sixteen.
Apparently, if I can
trust my diary,
we were in love.

I remember these 
many decades later
that our small group
of friends, who were
also there to watch
the film, smiled with
a kind of friendly 
amusement as Gina
and I walked up
the aisle holding
hands, lost in the
swoony movie.

It was, if memory
serves, only a month
or so later that I saw 
chafing around Gina’s
chin and mouth.
what’s up with this
honey? I queried.
After quite a pause,
she said, “beard burn.”
Caressing my own smooth
face, I figured it out
pretty quick. “Michael,”
she said, “His name’s Michael.
He’s twenty-five.”

A new puzzle for
the sculptor:
If there were a fire
and he had to choose
between saving 
a Rembrandt, a cat,
or Gina, who 
would he choose?