“A few years ago I found myself in the south of France. It was early winter and I was writing a travel piece for one of those glossy magazines you read on airplanes when you’re stuck on the tarmac or trying to terminate a conversation with a chatty neighbour. On the way back to Paris and the plane home, my train stopped in Toulouse. On the spur of the moment I yanked my bag off the rack and jumped down. Storing my things in a luggage locker, I started up the rue Bayard, past the American Express... where, almost forty years earlier, I had gone daily hoping for a letter from Raissa Shes-tatsky. Sometimes yes, but mostly no. I drifted through the narrow red-brick streets until I arrived at the Père Léon, the café where I went to read her letters or, when there weren’t any, to think about her and to wonder if I’d ever make love to her again. I was about to go in—for some absurd reason I expected the same waiters to be there—but instead I kept walking. During those unhappy months so many years earlier, it had seemed as though I were fixed to a miniature railway track that ran from my apartment on rue Victor Dequé to a table in the window of the Café Père Léon.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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