That afternoon, the sophisticated bookshops, boutiques, and the print shop were all closed. Only a café with its vintage façade reading “Vins et Liqueurs” was open, the waiters setting tables for the evening shift.
I saw immediately that something was wrong as I quickened my pace. The dark blue portal was shut, and there was no bell to ring. I stood outside the door in acute disappointment, then wandered back home to the flat I was subletting on the Île Saint-Louis.
The next day, when I phoned Madame Rosier to arrange a time to return her magazines, a different woman answered. I heard the staccato yapping of a dog in the background.
“Qui êtes-vous? Que voulez-vous avec ma tante? Tais-toi petite bête!”
My awkward explanation about the magazines was continuously interrupted by the dog’s
