I know that Eugene has an opinion on such matters, but I’m able to unlock the door, slip through, and leave him in the hall by himself to talk to the walls.

“Honey,” I call out, “I’m home.”

I expect to find Mimi still in bed, wrapped up in the sheets and the blankets like a giant burrito, but instead, she’s sitting in the chair with her sketch pad.

I know better than to disturb her when she’s working, so I sit on the edge of the bed and wait. She doesn’t like me looking over her shoulder, but I look anyway. Outside, on the bridge, the day is bright and cheery. The sky is blue with wispy clouds. Even the river looks pleased with itself.

But on Mimi’s pad, the day has become night, black and oppressive. Instead of the crush of tourists, Mimi has drawn a solitary figure slumped against a stone wall, shoulders hunched, face turned away from the light.

Mimi normally paints water, so this image is somewhat disturbing.

“Is that me?”

Mimi doesn’t look up from the drawing. “Do you want it to be?”

“I like it.”

“Maybe it’s Eugene.”

“Eugene?”

Mimi uses a charcoal stick to turn the background a black velvet. “I’m feeling better.”

“Good.” I take the perfume tube out of my pocket and hold it out. “You might like this.”

Mimi turns the tube over in her hand. “Perfume?”

“From Bloomingdale’s in New York.”

Mimi waits.

“The woman who knocked me down, she gave it to me to give to you. I think it was her way of thanking me for walking her back to her hotel.”

“My hero,” says Mimi. “And now my hero can feed me.”

“You’re hungry?”

“I’m hungry.”

“The breakfast room is closed.”

“I know.” Mimi puts the pad to one side.

I gesture to the pad. “What about Eugene?”

Mimi slips into her shoes. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Mimi is down the stairs and out the door, and I have to hurry to keep pace with her. She strides up the street, takes a left and then a right, trots through a small square without even looking at the crazy statue made up of parts of a horse, a table, and a granite column. On top of the column is the bust of someone most likely famous, but Mimi picks up speed at this point, and I don’t have time to read the plaque.

Nor do I have the inclination.

A few more turns before she comes to a stop.

“Let’s eat here,” she says.

“Is this a guidebook recommendation?”

Mimi pushes her way through the doors and strides up to a woman holding menus. “A large table by the window. We may have friends joining us.”

The woman guides us through a large, open room.

“Friends?”