“Joking apart, what the hell are you doing here, Mr. Potboiler?” he asked.

Though pretending not to be interested, he was a journalist sniffing out the territory, putting out feelers, drawing me out. He knew bits and pieces about my past. Maybe he could tell I was nervous from the way I was fumbling in my pocket, toying with the scribbled threat I had received fifteen minutes earlier and the pair of sunglasses that were just like the ones that Vinca used to wear.

“Doesn’t hurt to go back to your roots, does it? As we get older, we—”

“Cut the shit.” He sniggered. “This alumni reunion is exactly the kind of thing you loathe, Thomas. Look at you, with your Charvet shirt and your Patek Philippe watch. D’you really expect me to believe that you flew here from New York to bond over nineties TV shows and shoot the shit with guys you despise?”

“You’re wrong—I don’t look down on anyone.” That much was true.

Pianelli regarded me suspiciously. Then something in his eyes shifted imperceptibly. They began to shine as though the penny had just dropped.

“Oh, I get it,” he said, nodding. “You came because you read my article!”

The remark left me as winded as a punch in the stomach. How did he know? “What article?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”

I affected an offhand tone: “Listen, I live in Tribeca—I read the New York Times over my morning coffee, not your local rag. What article? You mean the one about the fiftieth anniversary?”

From his puzzled look, I could tell we weren’t talking about the same article. But my relief was short-lived.

“I meant the article about Vinca Rockwell.”

This time, I was so shocked that I froze.

“So you really haven’t heard?” he said.

“Heard what, for fuck’s sake?”

Pianelli shook his head and took a notepad from his bag. “I’ve gotta go do some work,” he said as we reached the main square. “I’ve got an article to write for my local rag.”

“Stéphane! Wait!”

Satisfied with the effect he had produced, Pianelli stalked off. “Let’s talk later,” he said with a little wave.

3.

The place des Marronniers was humming with the music of the school band and the murmur of small groups engaged in lively conversations. If there had ever been chestnut trees on the square, they had long since been killed off by some parasite, and although it was still called the place des Marronniers, it was now adorned with date palms, their graceful silhouettes conjuring images of exotic holidays and idleness. Buffet tables had been set up in the huge marquees hung with garlands of flowers and furnished with rows of chairs. Outside in the crowded square, waiters in straw hats and striped shirts performed an intricate ballet as they moved around refilling glasses.