Willem gives me a quizzical look. His English is so good that I forget that not everything computes.
"This is about accidents?" I ask.
He looks at me, and for half a second, the mask slips off again. But then, just like that, it's back in place. No matter. He slipped, and I saw him. And I understand. Willem is alone, as I am alone. And now this pain that I can't distinguish as his or mine has opened up inside me.
“It's always about the accidents,” he says.
Nine
I choose a doozy.
Using the pin the tail on the donkey strategy, I close my eyes and turn in front of the subway map and place my finger on the benign-sounding Château Rouge.
When we exit the metro, we're in another Paris entirely, and there's not a castle, rouge or otherwise, in sight.
The streets are narrow, like in the La
