This was the same room they had been given on their two visits, prior to Bosnia, when they had come to Paris to see Marianne. They had made love in this bed, leaned together out of that window, back in the spring last year, that time when they had both been so joyful, when the world made such sense. Entering the room, she could feel their own ghosts. She turned away, covering her face.

Pascal slammed the door. “Now. You tell me…” He could scarcely speak. “How long has this been going on? Tell me—Gini, in God’s name—how long have you been lying to me? Since you left Bosnia? Before?”

“No. No—I promise you.” She swung around to him with a look of pleading. “Pascal—it was last night. Only last night. Never before.”

“You expect me to believe that?” He jerked away from her. “Your face. Your eyes. I can’t look at you. You’ve cut your hair. You smell of him—I don’t know you. Dear God—just keep away from me. I’d have sworn on my life you could not do this—not you.”

“Pascal—”

“Just don’t say anything. Wait. For God’s sake, don’t touch me. I could kill you. I could kill him. Just wait. I must think. I can’t breathe…”

He turned away from her, clenching his fists, and began to pace the room. With a low, muttered exclamation he swung the window open and leaned out toward the soft air and the soft rain. The curtains fluttered in the wind; a piece of paper on the table drifted to the floor. On it, in Pascal’s handwriting, were the names of ten large Paris hotels and their telephone numbers. The St. Vincent was the last on that list. Looking at his handwriting, Gini began to cry.

“Is this how you found me? I thought you must have spoken to Max.”

“Max? No.” He turned around and gave her a blind look. “I can’t—I’ve been traveling for two nights and a day. I haven’t slept. I went to Amsterdam. I was going to meet you in Amsterdam. I thought—I meant it to be a surprise. Then, when I found you’d left, I came here. I got in about two this morning. I realized it was the collections—I thought you must be at Lindsay’s hotel. When I found where you were—it was so late, your room wasn’t answering, I decided to wait until morning…” He could not go on. She saw pain and incomprehension darken his face; he turned, closed the window.

“None of that matters. It’s irrelevant. I—I can’t think. I can’t see. All I can see is that man, blocking the door. I knew he was lying. I could tell from his face. Then I saw your coat on a chair. But even then, even then—I was still thinking, no, it can’t be true, I must be wrong. Except I did know. I knew immediately. I knew this morning, almost as soon as he answered the telephone. Something in his voice—” He broke off; she watched him fight to regain control. “I’ll never forget it. Standing in a hotel corridor. Dying inside…”