His heart sings as he walks out of the Gare de Lyon and stumbles into the morning sunshine. Taxi touts vie for his attention, ‘Taxi, monsieur?’ But he shakes his head and drags his luggage towards the Métro. It would be nice to get his first look at the city by taxicab, but his bursary, while generous, won’t pay for such luxuries. Later, he’ll explore on foot, radiating out from the Latin Quarter where his student flat is located, in an ever-widening arc, following the snail-like spiral of the arrondissements, all the way to the twentieth.

He’s been studying a map of the city for weeks and when he closes his eyes, he can picture the neighbourhoods and landmarks in his head. Tour Eiffel, Arc de Triomphe, Montparnasse, Notre-Dame. Every one of these splendid architectural gems, gloriously here, on his doorstep, waiting to be discovered. For the first time in his life he understands what it means to be free. No more skulking about the menacing alleys, or dodging shadows under a brutal sun. No one knows him here. Cloaked by a glorious anonymity, he can wander the streets unmolested and alone.

A few days later, still buzzing with the newness of his surroundings, he passes a cafe where tables crowd the pavement under a row of linden trees. A girl, sitting with two others, calls him over. ‘Have a drink with us, why don’t you?’ He freezes, terrified, but the girl’s smile and bright flaxen hair have a hypnotising effect on his fear. Before he knows it, he’s joined their table, and a glass of wine appears. He’s never drunk alcohol before, and the sharp taste comes as a shock.

With its dark berry colour, he thought that wine would be sweeter, like nectar. But the second sip is better and the next one better still. And there he is, drinking a goblet of wine in the golden light, a true Frenchman at last. The spirits loosen his tongue, and their free-ranging talk slips and glides over the usual subjects: films and books and favourite authors. The girl with the flaxen hair, the one from Norway, smiles at him over the rim of her glass, while the dark-haired girl lights a slim cigarette and playfully blows smoke in his eyes.

‘So, where are you from?’

He squirms. Should he tell them the truth? He has nothing to hide. And yet he hesitates, wondering if his newfound friends will look badly upon him, once he reveals his colonial origins. But the alcohol has made him reckless, and at the cusp of new beginnings, he is anxious to start off on the right foot, and to be honest and forthright in all things. So he tells them he is from the desert land across the water, a vast and unknowable place of dark shadows and blazing light.