Now here came an old American stamp with a picture of an early automobile in the center. It was, per the catalogue, an “invert”—the automobile had been printed upside down relative to the stamp’s frame. Presale estimate: 70,000 francs. Just the kind of thing the man might bid on for his unlikely crashed zeppelin-Chinese-British Guyanese stamp collection. And the man did, and he won it bang on the nose—70,000 francs.

Rafe bid on the next lot. He was at a stamp auction after all, it wouldn’t look right if he didn’t occasionally bid on a stamp. It was something from the Kingdom of Hawaii, on an envelope, with an estimate of eight thousand francs. Like the Niger Coast Protectorate issue, it featured a queen, this one called Kaleleonalani. Her look was as glum as Victoria’s. Is this what royalty did to people? Uneasy lies the head?

The lot opened at 3,500 francs, well below its estimate. Rafe bid the next increment—4,000. Then waited for someone to bid 4,500, at which point he could gracefully bow out.

No one did.

The auctioneer, over sixty but aging nicely with a grand head of hair and a peppy blue suit, looked around, surprised, or feigning surprise. “Personne?” Nobody? Apparently not. “C’est très bon marché.” So cheap. Still nothing. Shit, thought Rafe.

The auctioneer began his countdown: Quatre mille, une fois . . . quatre mille, deux fois . . .

The auctioneer’s hammer hovered over its pad. What would the auction house do if he failed to pay? Rafe didn’t want to find out. He had registered with his real name.

And then, thank god, Quatre-cinq. The bid came in a faint voice from behind Rafe. An old man in an ancient blazer leaning forward onto a walker. Maybe he’d just woken up. Rafe wanted to kiss him. The auctioneer looked at Rafe. Did monsieur wish to raise his bid? Monsieur pretended to consider. Monsieur concluded his deliberation and shook his head. Queen Kaleleonalani sold for 4,500. The man with the walker nodded, satisfied. The overweight man with the combover, apparently done for the day, stood up and headed for the door.

Rafe waited ten seconds, then stood and followed him out.

Harvard Club

HARVARD CLUB

Catherine was still getting used to the Genevan don’t walk signals. Back in the States, when Don’t Walk started flashing, you could still start across the street without a thought. You had plenty of time. You could finish applying your lipstick. You could crawl. But here in Geneva, even though this was relatively easygoing Suisse Romande, not German-speaking Switzerland (which is more German than Germany), the don’t walk signals didn’t take any shit. If you were in the street when they flashed, you ran. If you were on the curb, you stayed on the curb. Or risked being run down when the signal stopped flashing and cross traffic got a green, which would happen in about two seconds.