“Norman, when I sit down to talk to you and Bob McAlmon, I want to have something to say. Something valuable. I want to be a part of something important—a magazine, a book, a dialogue, something. To contribute ideas, not just money. And to know that my ideas are good. I thought if I came here, to Paris—this Quarter—that it could happen for me. I want my life to mean something.”

A jazz trio in bow ties and tuxes had rolled in from nowhere—guitar, double bass and trumpet—tootle tootle. And now a lone voice joined the music, soaring up above the party, strong and clear. Unmistakable.

Lulu reclined along the crumbling wall, where Betterson and McAlmon had sat. Slowly she extended one provocatively bare leg into the air and pointed her toe. Her song, about two stray cats roaming the streets of Paris, was frisky, impish. She flung an arm behind her head as she sang. Now she was up on all fours on the wall, arching her back just like the cats she was singing about.

“Look, honey.” Betterson’s face was in shadow, and Genevieve couldn’t quite discern his expression. “You wrote a few poems that are no good. Come on, that’s not the end of the world. You can’t tell me it’s a dream you’ve had your whole life. Try something else. What about your drawings? There were some great caricatures in your notebook. And that sketch of Bob—it was right on the button. Maybe we could put a few in the magazine.”

“Oh, please,” said Genevieve. “Spare me your pity.”

But Betterson’s attention was on Lulu now. She was standing on the wall, pouting and high-kicking as she sang of how, at dead of night, the cats became kings of the city. A swarm of people were capering around on the shore, trying to dance on the shingle. They looked like so many crabs darting about.

Betterson mumbled something and headed off to get closer.

Genevieve turned to walk back along the water’s edge. But as she neared the crowds, she spotted a familiar figure descending the steps by the Pont Neuf, dark head bowed, one hand holding a cigarette. Shirt loose and unbuttoned at the neck.

Something inside her leaped up and fell again.

Zachari stood alone, watching Lulu’s act. His cigarette end glowed yellow in the dark. Several weeks had passed since the night she and Lulu had gotten Olga drunk and then brought her back to his shop. She had successfully avoided him throughout that time, but she’d known she couldn’t avoid him forever. He was standing with a couple of the women in swimwear now. He was drinking from a bottle of champagne.