So, I didn’t stick my nose outside all day except to run over to the Librairie d’Outremont for my fat Sunday New York Times, which I flipped through while drinking countless cups of coffee. Around three p.m. I was totally wired, ­wandering from room to room, running actually, unable to concentrate on a book or even on the godawful Sunday afternoon TV. At five I couldn’t take any more, so I called a cab and went to the Paradise for happy hour. It obviously wasn’t the ideal way for me to relax, since happy hour, ­especially on Sunday, is one of the most depressing ­institutions invented by man, but I had to do something or I’d really get depressed. Was I hoping to run into Mathieu? No, I’d never seen him there and as I said before, the crowd at the Paradise was mostly regulars. An attack of fleeting self-destructiveness? A sudden onset of masochism? Probably. Five minutes after I arrived I was ready to climb the walls, howling in despair. They’d done their cruising the night before, a few, not many, had spent the night with someone, and now they were calmly cruising again, a glass of beer glued to their hands, eyes more often scrutinizing baskets than faces. At midnight they’d still be there, their gazes a little foggier, desire extinguished by alcohol in some cases, exacerbated in others, and all of them frustrated. I left in the middle of a conversation with Bernard Thibeault, I guy I quite like, but who turns sentimental with alcohol. Going to bed with somebody once, for want of anything ­better to do, doesn’t create an inextricable tie. Bernard’s been looking for the love of his life for thirty years now and he still doesn’t understand that he’s such a lousy lay, nobody’s going to be interested in him for longer than one night.

It was still raining and Sainte-Catherine Street was ­deserted. Even the tourists, though there were plenty of them at this time of year, were staying in their hotels rather than braving such a miserable day.

I had a flash while I was eating a Mister Steer next door to the Cinéma Parisien: there might be a way to get in touch with Mathieu after all, without having to wait for La Cachette to open. I made a mad dash for the pay phone and called 411 for the number of the P’tit Café.

“Hello? Is François working today?”

“François who? There’s two.”

And I thought I was simplifying my life.

“Don’t know. He was working on the terrace Friday night.”

“Oh, François Simard . . . Yeah, he’s here. But the staff isn’t supposed to take personal calls . . .”

“This is urgent . . . it won’t take long . . .”

The sound of a receiver being plunked down, then:

“François! Another proposal!”