Chapter 17
I’ve been in Paris for an hour. Already I feel more sophisticated. A lock turns, hinges squeak, floorboards moan. Esmé opens her bag, removes me and Monsieur Passeport, and places us on a round, wooden table.
“Allo!” she says to her apartment. She strides over to one corner and pulls thick, red curtains along brass rods, revealing floor-to-ceiling windows. She leans on two large, curved metal handles that sound too tired to move. After a few determined twists, one is convinced, then the other, allowing the windows to separate at the center and swing outwards over a wrought-iron balcony. Cold air rushes in.
I can see sky again. It’s gray. But it’s Paris gray.
Esmé turns and strolls around her apartment, touching parts of it, a pillow, then a painting, as if awakening a sleepi
