My first day here, passing Chang’s doorstep, I’d read the headline emblazoned across the newspaper lying on her doormat. The word trafic stood out among the rest. I didn’t realize it meant traffickers—not congested car traffic. Once again, the reality of how little I understand about this city slaps me across the cheek.

I smile at Chang. “Do you own this building, Madame?”

She pours me a cup of tea. “Chang. Now I do. After my husband passed away—that’s him there.” She points to a wall of photos above an entertainment stand, where a television might normally be, and to a frame holding a photo of her wearing a beautiful red dress—a cheongsam. In it, her head reaches the shoulders of a dashing young man with a thick mustache. It could have been taken ten years ago for all she’s aged, but the faded yellowing of the image would suggest the eighties. “Maxime de la Chapelle was a good businessman—have a cookie, eat, eat—I miss him every day. That’s him in his Serge Gainsbourg phase—all broody eyes and cigarettes.”

“Wasn’t there a biopic a few years ago?”

Chang leans forward and clutches her knees. “Oh yes. Serge was an icon here—still is. Most of the world wasn’t ready for him—did you see that duet with his daughter?—but France was. His outrageous songs mainstreamed women’s sexual empowerment for a hot second.” She sighs, the action curving in her small shoulders. “Maxime loved him.”

I nod, my mouth full of almonds and sugar. After half a sandwich for lunch, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. “That must be hard . . . losing a spouse.”

“Yes. Unbearably hard, for a while. As hard as . . . well. It’s a difficult loss.” She adjusts her glasses, then tightens the lavender knit shawl around her with a sympathetic nod. “At times it’s challenging to manage all the real estate he left me. Worse—everyone thinks we weren’t married because I kept my last name. Makes for more red tape and headaches.”

Part of me wonders why she’s telling me all this, remembers I need to get going, and another part just wants to sit here all day. A lunar calendar drenched in celebratory red hangs beside a series of French cookbooks lining the narrow counter of her kitchen nook. The army-style backpack she was digging in my first day sits beneath on the hardwood floor. A grappling hook hangs over the canvas flap, and a set of knitting needles beside it.