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you know..."
    A Métro train passed by, overhead, in the direction of the right bank. Then a second one, going the other way. Their din drowned out Blunt's voice. He was saying something to me, I could tell by the movement of his lips. "... The prettiest girl I ever knew..."
    This scrap of speech which I managed to catch made me feel keenly despondent. Here I was, half-way across a bridge, at night, with a man I did not know, trying to drag some information out of him that would tell me something about myself, and I could not hear him for the noise of trains.
    "Can we perhaps move on a bit?"
    But he was so engrossed that he did not answer me. It was such a long time, no doubt, since he had thought about Gay Orlov, that all his memories of her were rising to the surface and making his head spin, like a sea breeze. He stayed there, leaning against the parapet of the bridge.
    "I'd appreciate it if we could move on a bit."
    "Did you know Gay? Did you meet her?"
    "No. That's why I need the information."
    "She was a blonde ... with green eyes ... A very special blonde ... How can I describe it? An ash-blonde ..."
    An ash-blonde. And who perhaps had played an important part in my life. I would have to study her photograph carefully. And, gradually, everything would come back. Unless he gave me some better clues in the end. It was already a piece of luck to have found him, Waldo Blunt.
    I took his arm, as we could not stay on the bridge. We walked along the Quai de Passy.
    "Did you see her again in France?" I asked him.
    "No. When I got to France, she was already dead. She committed suicide ..."
    "Why?"
    "She often told me she was frightened of getting old..."
    "When did you last see her?"
    "After the business with Luciano, she met this Frenchman. We saw each other a few times in those days ..."
    "Did you know the Frenchman?"
    "No. She told me she was going to marry him, to get French nationality . . . She was obsessed with getting a nationality..."
    "But you were divorced?"
    "Of course ... Our marriage lasted six months ... Just long enough to keep the immigration authorities quiet. They'd wanted to expel her from the States ..."
    I had to concentrate, so as not to lose track of his story. Especially as he had a very soft voice.
    "She left for France . . . And I never saw her again . . . Until I learned ... her suicide ..."
    "How did you find out?"
    "Through an American friend who had known Gay and who was in Paris at the time. He sent me a small cutting from a paper ..."
    "Did you keep it?"
    "Yes. It must be at my place, in a drawer."
    We were approaching the Trocadéro Gardens. The fountains were illuminated and there was a lot of traffic. Tourists had gathered in groups in front of the fountains and on the Pont d'Iéna. A Saturday evening in October, but because of the warmth of the air, the pedestrians, and the trees which had still not lost their leaves, it felt like a springtime weekend.
    "I live a bit further on ..."
    We passed the Gardens and had turned down Avenue de New-York. There, under the embankment trees, I had the unpleasant sensation that I was dreaming. I had already lived my life and was just a ghost hovering in the tepid air of a Saturday evening. Why try to renew ties which had been broken and look for paths that had been blocked off long ago? And this plump, moustachioed little man, walking beside me, hardly seemed real.
    "It's funny, I've suddenly remembered the name of the Frenchman Gay knew in America ..."
    "What was it?" I asked unsteadily.
    "Howard ... That was his surname ... not his Christian name ... Just a moment... Howard de something ..."
    I stopped and leaned closer to him.
    "Howard de what?"
    "De... de ... de Luz. L...U...Z... Howard de Luz..."
    Howard de Luz... the name was striking... half English ... half French ... or Spanish ...
    "And his first name?"
    "I don't know..."
    He made a helpless gesture.
    "You don't know what he looked like, physically?"
    "No."
    I would show him the photo of Gay, old