Walking across the bridge to the Americain Hotel, housing the café, Vivi re-remembered from times past the dark curving shadow water, still, aquatinted even in sunshine.
They scuttled across the tram rails, missed being hit by a couple cars and bikes, walked up the steps to the Café Americain entrance, the tiles saying Welkom, into the decor of another era, stained glass, the large arched window, the golden maybe-Tiffany fixture hanging and – Yes! Fairly empty nearing noon, so banquettes awaited them. Vivi slid into a plush rust-coloured banquette, the man she knew at this juncture only as the Surf Doctor (or Mister Legs) slid in beside her.
“Beautiful room,” she said, as a waiter came over with menus.
“Yes,” he said, looking at her. “Classic.” He ran his hand on the banquette materia
