He didn’t deserve it. I spend the rest of the night on an inventory of my weaknesses—why I led Gita to believe she might win asylum; how I didn’t allow myself to see Luke’s HIV so now we’re caught on our heels, only waiting for more drugs. Macon’s gone when I get up and walk into the kitchen. I don’t call Luke to tell him about the disaster at the palace. He doesn’t need any of my bad news. Let him sleep. Let him sleep as much as he can. At eight I go down to the street and find a cab. I can’t decide how far the hand of OFPRA reaches into France now that Gita’s appeal has been denied. I don’t know, for example, if she’s technically allowed to leave the center with me today and go to the academy for her job. Maybe Truffaut will consider her a flight risk and refuse to let her. By the time my cab turns left on Rue de Metz and stops in front of the wall of graffiti, I’ve decided to try it. Maybe Gita and I will get at least one more trip across the city together.
