My father had said goodbye to me two days earlier at the Gara de Nord in Bucharest. On that memorable afternoon, I was welcomed to France by my distant cousin Eduard, whom I had last seen when I was a timid and secretive eleven-year-old. He greeted me in Romanian, embraced me, and remarked on the grandeur of the Parisian Gare du Nord where we presently stood. ‘Are you hungry, Dinu?’ I answered that I thought I was. ‘There’s a pleasant brasserie a short walk from here. I had forgotten how skinny you are. Let me treat you to a substantial meal before I take you to your apartment.’ I thanked him for his generosity. ‘You need to stay out in the sun, Dinu. You are far, far too pale.’ I did not say to Eduard that he might have been echoing my father, who frequently commented on my unhealthy appearance. ‘I shall try to enjoy the summer weather,’ I observed instead. ‘I shall make it my cousinly duty to see that you do.’ We were seated in the crowded restaurant by now. ‘Remind me of your age, Dinu.’ ‘I am nineteen.
