I washed Liam and dressed him for bed. He no longer wanted to go down but to play, so we stacked blocks and played peekaboo for a while until I began to feel really hungry myself. My body was now ready to catch up after all those days without food. I went into the kitchen and looked at the remains of the ham, the bread, the eggs. None of them had much appeal and the bread was already too hard. I decided that I would put Liam down for the night and then treat myself to a meal out. The little brasserie at the bottom of the Rue des Martyrs had seemed wholesome enough. I put Liam into his crib, sang to him, and then when he fell asleep I tiptoed out. I didn’t like to leave him but no harm could come to him in a crib he couldn’t climb out of and Madame Hetreau was just downstairs.

Madame Hetreau must have been preparing her own meal because she didn’t leap out on me when I went past. Outside the street was bathed in deep twilight. The brasserie was still almost deserted at this hour. I scanned the menu for something inexpensive. The owner recommended his onion soup. I wasn’t sure that a soup would fill me up but when it came it was encrusted with bubbling cheese and crispy bread—hearty enough for a meal.

“Some wine, madame?” he asked, and not being too confident about the water in this part of the city, I allowed him to bring me an eighth of a liter. Then, already having been daring I ordered a coffee. “But you must have my baba au rhum,” the owner said. He had already plied me with questions as he served and discovered I was newly arrived from America and here alone. I couldn’t quite tell if he was being friendly or had something else in mind, but he brought the dessert and did not let me refuse. It was delicious and laced with rum too. I hadn’t quite counted on the alcohol in that dessert and was feeling pleasantly squiffy when I paid my bill and got up to leave. At that moment the door opened and a couple came in.

“Ah, there she is again, my little redhead,” said the man and I saw that it was the Spaniard, Pablo Picasso. With him was an olive-skinned girl, half a head taller than he was, with a scarf wound around her head gypsy-style and black flashing eyes. “You see, Fernande,” he said to her. “Now you see why I should like to paint her—such unusual coloring and a good strong jawline.”

The tall one glared at me in unfriendly fashion. “Only if you let Max paint me,” she said, and played with her scarf.

“You know what I have said to that,” he snapped. “Nobody else sees you naked. Don’t mention it again.”