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training in criminal psychology, I have attended courses that helped me heighten my abilities. It’s useful, but, like my so-called photographic memory, far from infallible. I use it—and allow myself to do so at this point.
    And from here on I am struggling with a host of memories. Instead of being able to watch a movie unfold before me, I now enter the realm of a series of snippets from a greater work, like seeing tiny little parts of a narrative that not even the best film editor could work up into a cogent, fully told story. It’s tough going.
    I can recall chatting briefly with the elderly non-couple, both slightly deaf, both using their best English, she more successfully than him. Tamsin takes Beni to the kitchen—I cannot see them there, but I hear laughing and giggling. Very cozy. Alistair and Chuck draw aside and have their heads together. I compliment Madelaine on her expert coiffure—it is a work of art and she knows it. Gerard is looking a little lost. Beni joins Alistair and Chuck. Alistair lights a cigar, Beni a cheroot, and the men move to the balcony. We all follow. Alistair pours more champagne. The table on the balcony is set with little dishes: tiny brown Nicoise olives, salty and bitter; slices of dry sausage, not greasy but spicy; little square crackers sit beside pâté de foie gras. Total over-indulgence—I love it!
    We all nibble and take in the view. Gerard points out landmarks to me: to our right the stubby towers and glinting domes of the Hotel Negresco on the Promenade des Anglais below us; the sun caresses the red-tiled roofs of the higgledy-piggledy Old Town to our left; and the Port area is beyond, nestling under the hill surmounted by the Chateau. I hear Alistair talking to Beni about me. They laugh. I wonder what he has said. I suspect it is not good. For me. With his English tested and having mainly succeeded, Gerard begins to talk to Beni in French.
    I try to engage Tamsin. I try again to work out where she is from. Then I ask myself why this matters to me, and I suspect snobbishness on my part. The same snobbishness I hate so much about the English themselves. I tell myself off. I try again to make sense of what she is telling me. She is talking about how special the area is. How she is living her dream. I cannot imagine Alistair Townsend being anything but a part of my nightmares, but I listen, patiently. She wanders from one topic to another. I lose the will to live. Beni approaches and she tells us both how excited she is that it is her birthday, that she will be getting a wonderful gift, a magical gift, from Alistair, and that we will all be amazed.
    Alistair calls us to the dinner table, we move inside, and he appoints us our places. Alistair is at the head of the table, Tamsin to his right, Madelaine to his left. Next to Madelaine is Beni, then Gerard, then me, then Chuck, who is next to Tamsin.
    We are all passing bread from one to another, breaking off chunks and nibbling. There is no butter. We pour olive oil and balsamic vinegar onto our plates for dunking.
    Chuck asks me about my work as a criminologist, but I deflect as much as possible. He needs little encouragement to talk about his work as a spy novelist. It seems it is his passion as well as his work. He tells me stories about the Palais during the Second World War, when it was Gestapo Headquarters for the area. He tells me that the Townsends’ apartment, the one we are in, was the living quarters for the senior officer. He tries to explain the relationships between the SS and the Gestapo. I can feel his enthusiasm for his subject, but do not share it. He tells me about photographs he has seen of large swastikas flying from the Townsends’ balcony, of how the local population grew to hate being watched over from the Palais by the secret police. He seems gleeful. I try to imagine those times, but I cannot.
    Alistair brings a huge bowl of salad from the kitchen, and we all pass it around and