THAT MARCH WAS A BAD TIME TO BE IN PARIS. A HARD, UNPLEASant wind whipped the branches of the bare trees and drove gusts of cold rain through the streets. Heavy traffic splashed through pools of standing water. Huddled pedestrians ducked into doorways. The taxis had all gone to wherever taxis go when it rains. I had come to Paris to meet my wife to try to revive a marriage already broken by a year of separation, and it wasn’t working. Our favorite little hotel was damp and underheated. Our favorite little restaurant had lost its Michelin star and deserved to lose it. My wife and I had changed as well. Too much had been said and done in the past year. We just couldn’t put it together again. Humpty Dumpty. To avoid another evening of strained conversation at a table for two we arranged to have dinner with some old friends who lived in the 6th arrondissement, an Englishman and his delightful American wife. I had heard that she was having some trouble with leukemia but I hadn’t known how bad it was.
