Jerrold’s lined face relaxed into contemplation. “I have so many fond memories of Leon, of Empire, and all the good times at Summit Drive before he became so enthralled with Denise. His political judgment was bewitched as well, corroded with Communist suspicion. Julia would have never left him had she not been driven to the limit. She was devoted to him, and to you, chérie.” He smiled tenderly. “I have brought you something that I found in your grandmother’s apartment after she died. Something I could not let be offered for sale.” From the satchel on the floor, he gave me an antique music box, burnished wood with an inlay of onyx and lapis in an intricate pattern.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, “I bought this for her at a watchmaker’s shop on the rue Saint-Honoré for Christmas!” I opened it, and an elaborate, tinny version of “The Blue Danube” echoed out. Tears came to my eyes.

“Yes, it was the first Christmas I was in Paris, and I swear to you, without Julia—really, without the two of you, chérie—I might have shot myself, I was so devastated. But she created a genuine American Christmas, and you, you gamine, you did cartwheels down the parqueted hall. Do you remember?”

Of course I did. Jerrold and I spun our shared memories of Julia and Paris, and the soirées at the Parc Monceau apartment, the clever people who congregated there, Julia’s genius at creating happiness and connection among so many disparate types. The time she had smuggled in a print of Casablanca from somewhere, how she hung a bedsheet in the drawing room, and showed it for three nights straight to a packed house, all of us crying our eyes out at the end, the airport scene, no matter how many times we’d watched it. As we talked, Jerrold broke out the two bottles of Sancerre that were also in the satchel and offered to make us some genuine French omelettes to accompany it. I followed him into the kitchen, where, ever the director, he gave me instructions.

We three talked long and late into the night. Jerrold insisted that we must come to Paris. This was the best time to be an American in Paris. Ever since the Liberation in forty-four, the French, inasmuch as they loved anything, loved all things American, especially American jazz. “Sidney Bechet is a god in France! You remember when we went to see him, chérie?”

“I’ll never forget it. I have his albums, and I love them, even if Terrence isn’t that crazy about him.”

“I like progressive jazz. My brother is a trumpet man.”

“Your brother must come to France. They are mad for American jazz. France is good for American artists. Annette and I have been to dinner a number of times with Jimmy Baldwin. I see you have his book, Notes of a Native Son, on your shelves.”