The emblem of the week and month and year
is birds in flight. They stand for freedom, rights
of man. Renaud, the protest singer,
redesigned the logo so the flight’s
of MIG jets instead, the words Ça suffat
comme ci (he often twists the verbs around)
emblazoned underneath, and then apar-
theid, debt, and colonies. Last week, around
Bastille’s tall green column, the Third World
rallied: Nicaragua, Palestine,
Nouvelle Caledonia, banners unfurled
and carried through the streets, solidarity lined
up for miles. Meetings at Mutualité
followed. This week, the Grand Septs’ banalities,
as today, the chiefs of state held their meeting.
That is, the chiefs of states of industry.
The poorer ones don’t count. Friday, leading
the First String in a round of smiles—crusty
Mitterrand. George and Maggie flanked him.
Next to them the other ones—the Kraut,
the Wop, the Jap, the Kanuck—all there to thank him
for his hospitality. Inside the out-
side-letting-in pyramid (which can’t be said
of the Grand Sept group) hot air rose
and steamed the glass. Past Pei’s peak, the dread
blimp—the fattest spy there ever was—
wheezed, nosed above the streets of Paris,
security-secured to snare us
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