Harvey’s room looked out on a Ferris wheel. But Harvey soon found a place she liked in Montmartre. The apartment complex had a birdcage elevator with a sliding grate door. The elevator moved slowly between floors and would not come at all if the grate had not been properly closed by the previous occupant. There was red paisley carpet on the stairs, and hall lights clicked on when they sensed motion. Most residents were long past retirement and had lived in the building since their glory days in the 1970s. The concierge, Monsieur Fabrice, was a slight, yellow-haired man in his seventies who was once connected to the fashion world of Yves Saint Laurent. He lived now on the first floor with two cats, oversize velvet cushions, and heavy-framed photographs of Richard, his late husband of four decades. Monsieur Fabrice told Harvey where to put her garbage, not to flush the toilet between midnight and six unless absolutely necessary, and that the hillsides of Montmartre were once covered with windmills.
