One is bemused by the intentions of this quietly and rather well-written first novel -- all pulled from the ""sickly, yellowing past"" of an expatriate, Jeanne, who had ""shed America like a skin"" to live in Paris since 1919. Off the crumbs of that ever moveable feast and the names which filter through her memories -- Sylvia Beach and Matisse and Hemingway -- and through itinerant attachments which never seem to last more than a month and end usually at her convenience. Except for two -- Dieter a German boy she loved during WW II, who was responsible for her becoming a collaborator; and now, in her middle fifties, the young, naive American boy from Minnesota with whom she travels -- to be followed unexpectedly by a man who plans to kill her (the father of a boy for whose death she was responsible during the occupation). All of this is rather too bedraggled to be dramatic and dissolves almost without a trace. Rye is no lean Rhys.