“Clarity?” Catherine sighed. Oh shit. “Can I please god have some vodka first?”

She could drink less tomorrow. She could drink less after this.

Rafe ordered her a vodka and soda.

Majid continued. “We can tell the truth. We can bear to hear the truth.”

The bartender brought Catherine’s drink. She took a large swallow.

“We all know the situation,” Majid said. “I don’t think it is tenable. I don’t think it is fair to anyone.”

The band was singing about somebody shooting a sheriff. Catherine was sorry she hadn’t turned around and left the club. She didn’t need this. She didn’t want this.

“What do you suggest?” Rafe said.

“Catherine can tell us,” Majid said.

“Tell us what?”

“You know what. She knows what.”

They both looked at her. She looked at the dance floor. She took another swallow of her drink. “Wow,” she said. “Reggae in Switzerland. Who knew?”

On the dance floor a couple was kissing passionately. A short man with a goatee and a woman with elaborate tattoos.

Majid was watching Catherine. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” he said.

“You think?” said Catherine. “What am I supposed to do? Give one of you a rose?”

“He said no telenovela,” Rafe pointed out.

Majid smiled weakly. “Or Rafe and I could have a duel.”

Were they both comedians now? Catherine got up off her stool.

“What the hell happened to you two today?”

Neither of the men answered.

“Maybe you should,” she said. “Fight a duel. Let me know who wins.”

They both said “Catherine . . .”

She left.

Pleski

PLESKI

The Syrian always felt conspicuous on the Rue de Hesse—he hardly looked like a banker or a rich bank customer—so he never lingered. But today, after taking the bus into town, he did. He’d had an upsetting argument in the morning with his roommate who wanted to get rid of the cat. The roommate had lately become religious, attending mosque and wearing a taqiyah, a white skullcap, even when he wasn’t praying. The cat, he said, had to go. But what about the Prophet? The Prophet’s own cat Muezza? A false view, the roommate said. A corruption of the truth. The Syrian didn’t know how long he could hold out against this.

Seeing the woman, even just lingering on her street, was a comfort to him. He knew he could never talk to her. He could not imagine ever touching her (although they had nearly brushed hands when he stole her purse). But she represented a better world, a peaceful, prosperous, beautiful world, and it was good to know there was such a world even if he could never be part of it.

And she had smiled at him.