Le Chat Gris was in the Latin Quarter, a dark, busy area on the south side of the River Seine. Here the streets were full of students and the smell of cheap food. It was a small, narrow building, wedged between an art gallery and a café. A metal cat, more rusty than gray, hung over the main entrance and there were brightly colored flowers in the front windows. On closer inspection they turned out to be made of plastic.

The reception area was so small that if you went in too quickly you’d be out the other side. There was a receptionist standing behind the desk, which was just as well as there wasn’t enough room for a chair. He was an old man, at least sixty, with a crumpled face and something terribly wrong with his eyes. When he looked at our passports he had to hold them up beside his ear. He took our names, then sent us to a room on the fifth floor. Fortunately there was an elevator but it wasn’t much bigger than a telephone booth. Tim and I stood shoulder to shoulder with our suitcases as it creaked and trembled slowly up. Next time, I decided, I’d take the stairs.

The truth was that Bestlé hadn’t been too generous with the accommodation. Our room was built into the roof with wooden beams that sloped down at strange angles. It made me think of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. You needed a hunched back to avoid hitting your head on the ceiling. There were two beds, a single window with a view over the other rooftops, a chest of drawers, and a bathroom too small to take a bath in.

“Which bed do you want?” I asked.

“This one!” Tim threw himself onto the bed next to the window. There was a loud ping as several of the springs snapped. I sat down, more carefully, on the other bed. It felt like the quilt wasn’t just filled with goose feathers, but they’d also left in half the goose.

We dumped our luggage and went out. This was, after all, Thursday morning and we only had until Sunday afternoon. Back in the reception area, the receptionist was talking to a new arrival. This was a square-shouldered man with narrow eyes and black, slicked-back hair. He was wearing an expensive, charcoal gray suit. Both of them stopped when they saw us. I dropped the key with a clunk.

“Merci,” I said.

Neither of the men said anything. Maybe it was my accent.