Dear Roxanne,

Mr. Branch sent me newspaper clippings about Charlie and your troubles. He asked me to tell you that you did a brave thing finding fronts for friends who had suffered injustice. I’m writing to say how sorry I am about the agency. I know how hard you worked.

As you can see, I followed Jerrold Davies’ advice and came here to write a book, to get distance between me and everything I’ve ever known. The French I learned from you isn’t much use to me here in ordinary life, so every day is an adventure. At first I stayed in a crappy hotel on the rue Jacob, but then I met some bad cat musicians who had a summer gig in Nice, so I sublet the drummer’s tiny Montparnasse apartment. It has a hot plate and a sink, and at least I don’t have to share a bathroom. I wash clothes in the bidet. But in Paris no one cares where you live, and no one cares what you drive—no one has a car anyway. Everyone really lives in the cafés and bars. The Left Bank cafés are like theaters, and for the price of an aperitif you can watch for hours, and meet Americans you would never meet anywhere else. They’re all writers, or they edit literary magazines or write for one, or they’re stringers. I’ve sold some freelance pieces, but the book I’m writing takes most of my energy.

Everywhere here I see the African students and their girlfriends in their colorful clothes. Africans from Algeria and Senegal and Ivory Coast have their own cafés and restaurants, and white people eat there too. No one thinks anything of it. Here, when a bunch of us, white and black, are at a café, people just say les americains, not black or white. At the Ivory Coast café two weeks ago I saw Jerrold Davies and his wife, Annette. I had a long, lively evening with them. They thought for sure you were with me. I had some explaining to do. The truth was hard to tell.

I’ve found a little Left Bank theater that shows old movies with subtitles in French so I’ve finally been to your Church of Rick and Ilsa. I saw Casablanca with French subtitles. I saw it three times. At that same theater, I saw a lot of the films you’ve talked about. Jerrold and I and Annette went together to see The Ice Age that won him the 1940 Oscar. Watching these old movies is walking through your past, Roxanne, your imagination.

Jerrold lent me this typewriter, and he’s given me part-time work helping out on the set of The Oubliette. I’m grateful for the new experience, and the little bit of extra money means I can stay in Paris and finish my book. For the first time in my life what I write has to come to me, not me going to it.

Terrence