I wait till she’s gone round the corner. He stashes her cash and gulps his coffee. I’m buzzing from the grip of that tattooed clerk, and the adrenaline, along with the sight of the youth’s indolence, wakens the soldier in me.

No trouble to grip that neck. “What sort of a disgrace are you? Pilfering from an old woman. Eh?”

“I need money for my train home!”

“You’ve got a home? Where? Some shithouse? A whorehouse? Or did you crawl from under a rock?”

“Antigonish!”

Where the hell’s my bayonet? I’d love to stick his bowels and fling him in the road. I become aware of voices swirling around me.

“Laisse-le tranquille!”

“My God, he’s a kid—you’re twice the size of him, look at you!”

Are they hissing at me? I wish the fellow would stop snivelling. And that cat—I hadn’t noticed the matted cat tied to his belt. A woman in gardenia scent cradles the kid, glaring as if I’m the shameful one. He’s conned her all right. Far abler than he looks…I’d love to sign him up right here, have him outfitted and trained and put him to use in my regiment. He has everything I require: youth, a decent form unadulterated by an excess of bad food, even an uncouth charm that makes the gathering crowd treat him like a brother.

“If I could harness these qualities of his and direct them properly,” I whisper to the gardenia-scented woman, “he might amount to something.”

How lovely is her chemise covered in roses. She spits. I check my person to gauge what might have drawn her disapproval and am aghast to see I am not wearing an ironed shirt, nor have my trousers been recently laundered.

If only she could see the shirts I bought in France—the good ones with the ruffles. I found them fussy but others treated me like a gentleman as long as I had one on.

A pair of police: “Eh? Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

“Ça va maintenant,” says Gardenia-rose. “Mais, this homeless man was trying to beat up the boy and steal his train fare.”

Incensed, I scan the crowd for a face that will verify I’m no vagabond. The policewomen’s suspicion softens to weary forbearance and the older one knocks me on the shoulder with her baton: Effacer. Se perdre! Tenez-vous.

—

RUE SAINT-ANDRÉ…Rue Saint-Timothée…What building is this? The humble little library where I first found the lovely old copy of Beckles Willson’s Life and Letters of James Wolfe. Thank god for libraries—I can sink in that fat green armchair near the S–W section.

I pick up a magazine about skiing and pretend to read it, only to notice that the other armchairs are occupied by bona fide homeless men whose tatters, bags of filthy miscellany, and outright snores the librarian seems willing to tolerate.