Chapter IIIStill, on that 14th July, he bored me. It was a beautiful evening, the little boats floating down towards Vincennes, their fluttering sails covering the Seine and to my left Notre-Dame, fading to blue in the sunset. He had finished his tale, I had run out of questions to ask him, we were both silent, yet he remained glued to me, stopping when I stopped, starting again when I started. I would have liked to lose myself, alone, in that festive crowd, to walk at my own pace, to stop when I wanted to stop. It was impossible. Irimia’s clumpy boots pounded on beside me. I was starting to worry. I had a date at ten with Mado, in the Latin Quarter, and I couldn’t see a way to get rid of Irimia.
I’m saying this now, not to defend myself, but to clarify exactly the part I played unintenti
