WHY CAN'T WE BE FRIENDS?

By THOMAS SANCTON/PARIS

French president Jacques Chirac is fond of certain things American: junk food, his summer-school days at Harvard, the South Carolina belle he almost married, Bill Clinton. Campaigning in the spring of 1995, Chirac enthused about the prospect of working with his U.S. counterpart; the two men, both gregarious, backslapping extroverts, had hit it off from their first meeting in Paris a year earlier. But how, a reporter asked, would sensitive Franco-American relations fare? "They will be excellent," Chirac predicted. Pause. "And contentious."

Right on both counts. The first six months following Chirac's election were a lovefest. When France's leader touched off a worldwide furor with his decision to resume nuclear testing, Clinton refused to make an issue of it. The two Presidents cooperated to break the military and diplomatic logjam in Bosnia. Then the Gaullist Chirac gave NATO a welcome surprise by declaring he would bring France back into the military structures from which his political idol, Charles de Gaulle, had so haughtily withdrawn in 1966. But then the second part of Chirac's prediction kicked in.

History caught up with the honeymoon, and the history of the Franco-American relationship has been one of broad mood swings from mutual admiration to mutual acrimony. Both countries claim to embody universal ideals of liberty and human rights, making them kindred souls in terms of shared values but sharp rivals as global role models. Washington's post-cold war ability to throw its weight around often smacks of intimidation and diktat to the proud Gauls. France's response, along with periodic crowings about its own importance, has been to unite Europe as a counterweight to U.S. domination.

So Paris' re-entry into NATO came with a condition: that the organization "Europeanize" its command structure. Last summer Chirac insisted that the alliance's southern command in Naples, which includes the U.S. Sixth Fleet, be assigned to a European officer instead of the traditional American admiral. Washington said no way, Chirac dug in his heels, and the honeymoon was over. Suddenly the U.S. and France seemed to be butting heads all over the globe. Cases in point:

The Middle East. After Israel attacked southern Lebanon last April, Secretary of State Warren Christopher was irked to see French Foreign Minister Herve de Charette embark on his own peace shuttle. Then, in September, when Clinton launched missiles south of Baghdad after Iraq violated the Kurd's northern haven, the French pointedly refused to patrol an expanded no-fly zone in southern Iraq and recently pulled out altogether from surveillance flights over the north. Chirac seriously annoyed the U.S. again in October with a high-profile Middle East tour to seek a role in the peace process presided over by Washington.

The U.N. While Washington was vetoing a second term for Secretary-General Boutros Boutros-Ghali, Paris led the charge in his favor.

Africa. When Christopher went to Africa in October to show U.S. interest there, a junior French Minister made the snide comment that the trip was a campaign ploy to win black votes for Clinton. The official was chastised by Chirac, but both sides swapped barbs about the other's imperious claims to "private domains."

The low point was what is still referred to as "the incident." Amid the hubbub at the end of a NATO meeting in Brussels, Charette left to give a press conference just as Secretary-General Javier Solana was pronouncing a fond farewell to the outgoing U.S. Secretary of State. Christopher took Charette's departure as a snub, and his entourage told the Washington Post that the French Minister had deliberately insulted the Secretary. Charette, who summoned U.S. Ambassador Pamela Harriman to his office to voice his dismay, continues to be bitter over the episode. "Frankly," he told TIME, "the whole thing was a lie--totally."

Charette feels that he went out of his way to charm Christopher. Just a month before the incident, he gave a lavish farewell dinner for the Secretary. No expense was spared as the host uncorked bottles of vintage Chateau Petrus ($700 each) and Dom Perignon ($100) and presented Christopher with five books that had just won France's top literary prizes. The Secretary's aides just sniped privately at the insensitivity of giving their boss books in a language he could not read.

What keeps the relationship from serious rupture is Chirac's chemistry with Clinton. When Clinton nipped up to Paris after the G-7 summit last June, Chirac organized an intimate dinner at which the two presidential couples swapped stories about politics, Paris and Arkansas. "It was warm, cozy, extremely well done," recalls a participant. In the afterglow Chirac wrote to Clinton explaining why Europe needed the Naples command. Clinton replied that the U.S. could not give up that post because of the Sixth Fleet. Chirac wrote again in October, saying he never expected a European to command the U.S. Navy but stressing "the importance we Europeans place on developments in the Mediterranean basin." Then he added, by hand in English, "this is of capital importance."

Why did Chirac keep charging ahead in a fruitless battle? The main reason is domestic politics. His unilateral decision to rejoin NATO threatens to dismantle one of De Gaulle's enduring legacies: France's proud military independence. Without something tangible in exchange, Chirac is under attack from both the leftist opposition and old-line Gaullists. "It would be politically devastating to sustain a massive U.S. humiliation on this," says Gaullist Deputy Pierre Lellouche. Which Clinton well understands. "The French are losing on Naples," says a U.S. diplomat. "We want to help them lose gracefully, not push it in their face."

Optimists see the second Clinton Administration as a fresh start. "We must seize this occasion to erase the winter's ill humors and usher in a new springtime," says Charette, who insists that Washington and Paris see eye to eye on "the essentials." He wrote an especially cordial letter to Christopher's successor, Madeleine Albright, whose European background and fluent French are seen as hopeful signs by Paris. But not everyone is an optimist. "Are you kidding? It will probably be worse with Albright," grumbles a longtime Chirac ally. "She's tough, and she's a Czech. She can't stand the Germans, and will probably hold a grudge against France for letting Czechoslovakia down in the 1930s. I'm afraid we'll be made to pay for our past mistakes." History, it seems, is always catching up.

--With reporting by Jay Branegan/Brussels and Douglas Waller/Washington

With reporting by JAY BRANEGAN/BRUSSELS AND DOUGLAS WALLER/WASHINGTON