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the outside, no less, she continued being the smiling princess with green eyes and flared pants, who had managed to dazzle the entire Left Bank.
    Paris was one big party. With a simple bike wheel, wine rack, and a urinal, the Dadaists were capable of converting any night into an improvised spectacle. There was smoking, an ever-increasing amount of drinking, vodka, absinthe, champagne … Every day a manifesto was signed. In favor of popular art, by the Araucanian Indians, from the cabinet of Dr. Caligari, of Japanese trees … That’s how they passed the time. The texts written one day were compared to ones written on others. The Paris carousel and Gerta giving it a whirl, turning on herself. She signed manifestos, assisted political meetings, read Man’s Fate by Malraux, bought a ticket for a trip to Italy she never took, drank far too much some nights, and, above all, saw him again. Him. André. She even dreamed of him. Though it was more of a nightmare. He pressed down on her chest, completely aroused, making it impossible for her to breathe. She woke up screaming, with a frightened look in her eyes, staring straight at the pillow. Not wanting to move or rest her head on the same part of the bed. Perhaps that dream happened later on, who knows … It’s also not that important. The fact was, she saw him again.
    Of course, there’s always chance. As well as destiny. There are parties, mutual friends who are photographers, electricians, or awful poets. Besides, everyone knows how small the world is, and that in one of its corners you can fit a terrace-balcony, from which you can see the Seine, hear the voice of Josephine Baker, like a long, dark street, and on which, just as she was heading back inside, the Hungarian grabbed her by the arm to ask her:
    â€œIs it you?”
    â€œWell,” she responded in a dubious fashion, “not always.”
    The two share a laugh as if they’ve known each other for ages.
    â€œI didn’t recognize you,” said André. Looking both shocked and amused, with a slight wink of the left eye, as if at any moment he would lunge like a hunter over its captive. “This bright red looks good on you.”
    â€œPerhaps,” she said, readjusting her elbows on the balcony railing. She was going to say something about the Seine, about how beautiful the river looked with the moon looming over it, when she heard him say:
    â€œIt’s not surprising that on nights like these people leap from bridges.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOh nothing, it’s just some verse,” he said.
    â€œNo, really, I didn’t hear you because of the music.”
    â€œThat sometimes I want to kill myself, Red. Get it?” He said it loud and clear this time. Taking her chin in his hand and looking her straight in the eyes, never erasing that slightly sarcastic smile from his face.
    â€œYes, this time I heard you, and you don’t have to yell,” she said, taking the glass from his hand without his noticing. She hadn’t realized until then that he was completely drunk.
    A short time after, they were alone, walking along the riverbank, she letting him do the talking, half of her paying attention, the other half pitying him, as if he had come down with a fever or some harmless sickness that would soon pass.
    What he had, which might very well pass or not, could be called deception, wounded pride, a desire to be fussed over, exhaustion … He had just returned from an assignment for Vu magazine in Saarland.
    â€œSarre…” he said its name in French as if he were dreaming.
    But Gerta understood what he was trying to say. In other words, the League of Nations, carbon, bonjour , guten Tag … and all of that. André had told her that he had been in Saarbrücken during the last week of September, where there were posters and banners with swastikas everywhere. They walked along the river’s edge, staggering slightly, him more