.7 I dreamed I was dying. I dreamed I was Vera Holodnaya. I had the Spanish influenza, and I was drowning inside my own body. Someone had propped me up on white pillows, but still I couldn’t breathe. A curtain moved in a soft breeze, in and out of the window, but the air was not there for me. I wanted to cry out, but when I opened my mouth, my scream was the scream in a silent movie, full of emotion, quiet as the grave. I awoke covered with sweat, shaking , ran to the bathroom and threw up, the white rice I’d eaten the night before floating like little islands in the water of the toilet. The sun was just coming up outside as I showered and brushed my teeth twice. I washed out my underwear and my bloody socks. The broken blisters on my feet were dry and hard, as if my thin skin were in a hurry to be calloused. In the mirror, my face looked whiter than rice, except for the bruise between my eyes, which was shading toward a yellowish green. I put some foundation on it, rubbing it gently over the tender skin, then did the rest of my face, trying to remember what the makeup artist had done, but also trying to go slightly less diva than the night before, not wanting to look so much like the girls on Pigalle. Putting my face on calmed me. War paint, my father had always called my mother’s heavy foundation, rouge, tubes of red lipstick. I took two of the three credit cards out of my wallet and tucked them inside the suitcase. Last night I hadn’t cared if I was robbed on Pigalle, but in the morning light, it seemed foolish to carry all of them with me and risk having to cut short my search if they were stolen. I tossed in my bottle of Valium to keep the Percoset company and away from me for now. I put the suitcase in 60 the closet and went outside. The bar across from the hotel was already serving coffee. I ordered. I felt chilled, though the sun was up, the day heading for lovely. I shivered, my hands shook, and I had to lean low over the cup, holding it between both palms. It was Saturday. The bakery was open. The other shops would be raising their metal shutters soon. Since the Rue Ste-Odile wasn’t on the map I bought last night, I would just have to find an older map to see where it had been. Or find an even older taxi driver. Someone in Paris had to know. I thought of the book stalls along the Seine. They seemed a likely place to start. Failing that, I would juststartwalkingthroughtheneighborhoodsoneithersideofthecanal.Someone would know, I kept thinking as I drank my coffee. Someone had to know. This was Paris, not Brigadoon. Streets did not just disappear without some record. People were another story. Iorderedanothercoffee.Standingatthebar,IcouldseetheHôtelBatignolles across the street and somehow, because of the plate glass window or the lighting , it seemed far away, like a slide in a magic lantern show. Who knew what I might find once I started looking for Sophie Desnos? Would I be back at the hotel that afternoon, that night? The idea that I didn’t know sent a small wave of panic up the back of my legs, but I resolutely ignored it. I paid for the coffees, then crossed the street and went into the lobby. The night clerk was just closing out, getting ready to head home. “Madame?” he said. “I have some business,” I said. “I may not be back every night. I might even be gone for a few days at a time. Will you charge the room to my card until I check out?” Hewokehissleepingcomputerwithoneflickofhismouse,checkingtomake sure they had my credit card number. “Certainly, Madame. Do you have any idea how long you—” he paused, since what we were really talking about was an empty bed, left luggage, and not me—“will be staying with us?” I shook my head. “I may know tonight. Or so I hope.” He took his turn nodding. The day clerk came out from the office behind the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand. The night clerk finished entering my open reservation with a final tap of the computer keys. “It’s done, Madame,” he said. “Good luck...