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than her, gazing at the moon, her coat collar up, shielding her from the night fog. He had gone with a journalist friend named Gorta, who—he went on to say—with his hair long and straight like a Sioux, was more like a Dostoevsky character than a John Reed. Carbonfilled clouds in the shape of whirlwinds had snuck into all parts of the city. There are steady winds and variable winds. Ones that change direction with a force that can knock down both jockey and horse. Winds that suddenly reorient themselves, turning the hands of time counterclockwise. Winds that can blow for years. Winds of the past that live in the present.
    André’s speech wasn’t very well put together. He jumped from one thing to another, without transitions, using awkward wording. But nonetheless, Gerta, for some reason, at least that night, could see through his words as if they were images: at the forefront, an image of a cyclist reading the lists the Nazis had posted on the streetlamps, workers drinking beer below an equilateral cross or passed out in the shade beside the trash containers, the filthy gray of the sky, Saarbrücken’s main street filled with banners hanging from its balconies, crowds of people leaving factories, cafés, greeting one another with a “ Heil Hitler ,” their arm raised, their smile casual, innocent, as if saying “Merry Christmas.”
    There were still a few months left until the plebiscite’s outcome would decide if the territory would join with France or become a part of Germany. But, judging from the photos, there wasn’t a doubt. The entire carbon basin had been won over by Fascism. SARRE—WARNING—HIGH ALERT was how the report’s headline read. The images and text credited to a special correspondent by the name of Gorta. André’s name did not appear anywhere in the report. As if the photographs were not his.
    â€œI don’t exist,” he said with hands in his coat pockets, shoulders slumped, though she spotted the vertical lines at the corners of his mouth hardening. “I’m nobody.” Now he smiled bitterly. “Just a ghost with a camera. A ghost photographing other ghosts.”
    Perhaps it was right then and there that she decided to adopt that man abandoned at the edge of the Seine, with those cocker spaniel eyes. Soon after, they found themselves sitting on a wooden bench. Listening to the trees, the river. Gerta with her knees to her chest, hugging her legs. For certain women, there’s great danger in having someone place a fairy godmother’s wand in their hands. I’ll save you, she thought. I can do it. It may cost me and you might not deserve it, but I’m going to save you. There isn’t a more powerful sensation than this. Not love, piety, or desire. Though Gerta still hadn’t learned this, she was too young. That’s why, somewhere along the way, she rubbed his head with a gesture that was a cross between messing up his hair and taking his temperature.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she said in a good fairy’s voice, poking her chin over her sweater. “The only thing you need is a manager.”
    She smiled. Her teeth were small and bright, with a tiny gap separating the two front ones. It wasn’t the smile of a full-fledged woman but of a young girl—better yet, a fearless boy. An adventurous smile, the kind you put on in front of your opponent during a game. Tilting her head slightly to one side, inquisitive, teasing, as the idea ran through her head like a mouse in the floorboards above.
    â€œI’m going to be your manager.”

Chapter Five
    I t was all a game at first. That shirt I like, that one I don’t. While he went into a changing room at La Samaritaine department store, she would wait for him at the entrance of the dressing area outside. Lounging with blasé entitlement on some sort of a red velvet sofa with her legs crossed, swinging one foot back and forth,