It wasn’t his plan to stay up all night. His plan was to leave the Grand Duc around midnight and catch a few hours of sleep at the Gare du Nord before his train ride back to Toulouse. Now—he glances at his watch—it’s nearly six in the morning.
Montmartre has this effect on him. The jazz clubs and cabarets, the throngs of Parisians, young and defiant, unwilling to let anything, even the threat of war, dampen their spirits—it’s intoxicating. He finishes his cognac and stands, fighting the temptation to stay for one last set; surely there is a later train he can take. But he thinks of the letter tucked into his coat pocket and his breath catches. He should go. Gathering his overcoat, scarf, and cap, he bids his companions adieu and weaves his way between the club’s dozen or so tables, still half full of patrons smoking Gitanes and swaying to Billie Holiday’s “Time on My Hands.”
As the door swings closed behind him, Addy inhales deeply, savoring the fresh air, raw and cool in his lungs. The frost on Rue Pigalle has begun to melt and the cobblestone street shimmers, a kaleidoscope of grays beneath the late-winter sky. He’ll have to walk quickly to make his train, he realizes. Turning, he steals a glimpse at his reflection in the club’s window, relieved to find the young man peering back at him presentable, despite the sleepless night. His posture is square, his trousers cinched high on his waist, still sharply cuffed and creased, his dark hair combed back the way he prefers it, neat, without a part. Looping his scarf around his neck, he sets off toward the station.
