So my first thought was to rush back to Liam to make sure he was all right. But then it struck me: Where could I take him to be out of harm’s way? With a heavy child in my arms I’d be an easy target. It would be simple to push me in front of a subway train if I had a baby in my arms—or in front of an approaching carriage or automobile. Or even to grab Liam from a passing vehicle. I stood by the gilt railings that surround the Jardin du Luxembourg in an absolute agony of indecision. Was Liam safer with the baker’s wife? Didn’t Italians love their babies? Surely no gang could be blackhearted enough to murder a baby to punish his father. I decided I’d seek out Willie Walcott before I returned home. It would be one less time I’d have to leave Liam.

Fortunately a policeman, with rain dripping from the brim of his cap, was patrolling the gardens, or I would have walked unnecessary yards in the wrong direction. He pointed me to the Boulevard du Montparnasse at the far end of the park. Accordingly I trudged along, my brolly about to give up the unequal task of battling the wind and rain, feeling miserable and scared and horribly alone. I knew Miss Stein now, I tried to tell myself. She was someone I could turn to if I really needed help. I knew the baker’s wife. I wasn’t quite alone. It just felt that way.

I came at last to the Boulevard du Montparnasse and again I was in luck. The Closerie des Lilas was actually on the corner where it joined the Boulevard Saint-Michel. It had an awning over outside tables and chairs, looking damp and abandoned at this moment. There were lights on inside and I could see heads, including womens’ hats, indicating that this café might be an acceptable place for me to venture alone. I felt a pleasant draft of warmth as I went inside along with the enticing aroma of brewing coffee. A bell jangled above the door and a young man in an apron came over to me. “Bonjour, madame,” he said, wiping his hands on the apron. “Are you here to join someone?”

I was about to ask my questions and then leave again but the coffee smell was too good to refuse. “I’m alone, monsieur. Maybe some friends will be coming in later. I’d just like a coffee.”

“You are from England?” he asked in English.

“From America. Originally from Ireland.”

“Ah. From America. We have many American visitors who come to this café. Poets, playwrights, artists. Which are you?”

“I’m not…” I began then changed my mind. “I write a little poetry,” I said, remembering that Sid had been asked to join a group of poets. “I’m newly arrived here.”