The pavé glistens with rain. On the corner is a small café and next to it what was once a print shop but is now a shuttered shell, the owners departed, leaving behind nothing more than the ghost of their presence, their name on the shop sign: Imprimerie Bertrand. Paris is a city inhabited by ghosts. Ghosts of young men, ghosts of Jews, ghosts of communists and socialists. A poster advertises thousands of francs’ reward for anyone giving information about a wanted ‘terrorist’, but a long strip has been torn out of it so that the face is no longer there. Is she a terrorist? Presumably she is. She places her suitcase down on the pavement outside number 45, rings the bell and waits, conscious that people might be watching, conscious that she is exposed there on the street without a decent cover story. What if there is no one at home? What will she do then? But after a while there is the sound of someone shuffling around inside and a man’s voice calling out, ‘Who is it?’ Alice speaks softly and urgently, leaning towards the door.
What do You think about The Girl Who Fell From The Sky?
