But now, having met Madeleine, I found my thoughts on the matter changing. I was still in favor of staying, only now it was because I wanted to, not out of despondency and torpor. Over the following week, we spent most of our time in the apartment, or walking the streets of Paris like tourists, living on cheap red wine from Languedoc, Salomé cigarettes, and rationed bread, in a state of profound contentment. The little world we spontaneously created between us felt more real than the outside world, which at any rate was falling apart. The greatest of our pleasures, in that time, was to tell each other stories. Madeleine overcame my natural reserve by peppering me with questions about my childhood, travels, the people I’d known, the books I’d read, and, above all, my dreams. Madeleine’s stories were of an altogether different nature: she continued recounting the tale of the albatross, a story that spanned generations and continents. Her stories never lasted more than an hour or two, with occasional questions from me to illuminate some obscurity or clarify some uncertainty, before her energies withered and she began to apologize, saying she could go no further, she was spent. She would curl up, lay her head on my shoulder or my chest, and fall asleep. She was like a cat that way, asleep more often than she was awake. While she slept I would take out my gray notebook and write down everything I’d just heard. I didn’t want to forget a single detail, and yet, even so soon after the telling, there were so many I could already not recall.

And a curious thing—I stopped waking in fright at night. Within days of meeting her, I noticed I’d slept through the night for the third time in a row. With the end of my nightmares, a great and ancient burden was lifted from me.