“I saw you standing in front of Baudelaire’s grave and…” She didn’t react. I felt as if I were dreaming the situation rather than living it. “I, too, admire him.” She appeared very fierce and very fragile at once. “I’ve seen you before, and I was curious…” Realizing I was not making much sense, I turned my attention to the weapon pointed at me—a Remington derringer, a popular choice for a certain kind of lady. Only my adversary did not appear to be that kind of lady. She did not seem accustomed to brandishing a weapon. She held it with both hands, its barrel wavering a little, and had she fired it she may have needed to shut her eyes to do so. “You look as if you’ve never shot a gun in your life.”

“Don’t tempt me. What is your name?”

“My name is—” But I stopped. Since the start of the war, I’d made it a rule not to give out my name unless it was strictly necessary. A Jewish name, combined with a German accent—at times like this, such things lead to trouble. “I’m a…” But this tack suddenly seemed just as hopeless. What was I, in fact? In the shadow of war, to be a writer seemed the most frivolous, absurd thing possible. But if I was not a writer, what was I? An ex-German, a Jew, an exile, a bachelor, a scholar, a flâneur, a drifter, a failure—all these were equally true and untrue. “I’m an admirer of Baudelaire. That’s why I was following you. I took you for a kindred spirit.”

“You couldn’t be further from the truth. I am most decidedly not a kindred spirit.”

We heard a whistle from a distance. Behind the woman, a groundskeeper turned into the alley further down the hill and walked in our direction. “Don’t turn around,” I said, “but there is a gardien approaching us.”

The woman tucked her firearm into a pocket in the side of her dress.

“Monsieur, madame,” said the gardien, “you heard the whistle. I’m afraid it’s closing time.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, mumbling to hide my accent. I pointed in the direction of the rear gate. “This way?”

“That’s right. I’m on the way there myself, to lock up. I’ll see you out.”

The woman took me by the arm and uttered the two words I least expected to hear: “Come, darling.” As we walked, she held her face against my shoulder, as if wishing to keep it out of the groundskeeper’s sight. So starved for affection was I that, despite the circumstances, I found myself enjoying this simulation of it.