This was precisely what had happened both times before. I stood at the bridge, considering this, and memorizing the details.

Then I beheld a battered little car jerking to a stop on the far side of the river, and out he climbed—the young brown-haired one—awkwardly as before, and rising to his full height tentatively and fixing me with his ecstatic and glittering eyes.

He’d left the motor of his little machine running. I smelled his fear as I had before. Of course he knew that I had seen him, there could be no mistake of that. I’d been here a full two hours, waiting for him to find me, and I suppose he realized this as well.

Finally he screwed up his courage and came across the bridge through the fog, an immediately impressive figure in a long greatcoat, with a white scarf about the neck, half walking, half running, and stopping a few feet away from me, as I stood there with my elbow on the rail, staring at him coldly. He thrust at me another little envelope. I grabbed his hand.

“Don’t be hasty, Monsieur de Lioncourt!” he whispered desperately. British accent, upper-class, very like David’s, and he’d got the French syllables very close to perfect. He was near perishing with fear.

“Who the hell are you!” I demanded.

“I have a proposition for you! You’d be a fool if you didn’t listen. It’s something you’ll want very much. And no one else in this world can offer it to you, be assured!”

I let him go and he sprang back, nearly toppling over, hand flung out to catch the stone rail. What was it about this man’s gestures? He was powerfully built, but he moved as if he were a thin, tentative creature. I couldn’t figure it out.

“Explain this proposition now!” I said, and I could hear his heart come to a stop inside his broad chest.

“No,” he said. “But we shall talk very soon.” Such a cultured voice, a polished voice.

Far too refined and careful for the large glazed brown eyes, and the smooth robust young face. Was he some hothouse plant grown to prodigious proportions in the company of elderly people, never having seen a person his own age?

“Don’t be hasty!” he shouted again, and off he ran, stumbling, then catching himself, and then forcing his tall, clumsy body into the small car, and driving off through the frozen snow.

Indeed, he was going so fast as he disappeared into St. Germain, I thought he would have a wreck and kill himself.

I looked down at the envelope. Another damned short story, no doubt. I tore it open angrily, not sure I should have let him go, and yet somehow enjoying this little game, and even enjoying my own indignation at his cleverness and capacity for tracking me.

I saw that, indeed, it was a video tape of a recent film. Vice Versa was the title. What on earth … ? I flipped it over, and scanned the advertisement. A comic piece.