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again—in the Diable Vert it was time to sing. A group in one corner began the Marseillaise, a crowd of men across the room tried the one about the Breton housewife, her underdrawers eaten by a bull. The man who was a dog stuck his head out from beneath a table and bit somebody on the ankle. A tray of glasses smashed, a woman shrieked with laughter, a man shouted at a friend that only he could see.
    In the middle of it, Casson brooded. Where, where? He’d seen a tiny storeroom off the corridor that led to the courtyard, that was one possibility. Ju -lee, bent over a plank table, pants around her ankles. Primitive, but not such a bad idea. Or, maybe, actually on the table. No, that was to invite comedy. In his room? Easily the best solution, but La Patronne would be guarding the hotel door. So, was there another way? Yes. Pay. This was double occupancy, not the end of the world. Ah, he thought, the old Casson, the 16th Arrondissement Casson.
    What if she asked for money? No, it wasn’t like that. Or, at least, not quite like that. She returned with the wine, sat down again on his lap, and ruffled his hair. At some point she had put on more perfume. Casson refilled their glasses, Julie raised hers in a toast. “Mud in their eyes,” she said in English.
    Like a rocket on Bastille Day, the Friday-night mood. It climbed to the top of the sky, slowed, froze a long instant at the apogee, then burst, a thousand stars floating back to earth. For a time, the crowd in the Diable Vert felt good. Oh, maybe the last few years hadn’t gone so well but it wasn’t really their fault. Now everything was going to be different, they could see it, around the next bend in life. Justice at last, their rightful place, finally some money. Then the moment passed. They remembered who they were and they knew what was going to happen to them—the same things that happened to everybody they’d ever known. So, fuck this life they handed me. A little more wine, anyhow, you couldn’t go too far wrong with that.
    Casson felt it coming. Arguments, tears, fights, somebody sick in the middle of it. He pulled the girl against him, clung to her. A moment of surprise, then she put her arms around him and held him tight. Her back was damp beneath the satin shirt. “Maybe it’s time for us to go,” he said.
    He felt her nod against his shoulder.
    “Just across the square,” he said. “The hotel where I stay.”
    Again she nodded.
    Cold outside, but the air felt good after the bistro. She took his arm as they walked. Clichy was busy and raucous, the Paris night rolling along toward the dawn. A fat man with a wildly rouged woman came down the street. He tipped his hat to Casson —good evening, mon vieux. Here we are with our girls and what fine fellows we are. Casson gave him a nod and a smile. Then, panic. Did the man actually know him? Old somebody he’d once met at the somethings’ house?
    Julie squeezed his arm. “Look at the moon,” she said. Half a white disc just north of the river. From a dance hall on the other side of the square, le swing jazz, a trumpet, a saxophone, a spill of yellow light from the open door, then darkness. Behind them, a man laughed.
    “The lovebirds.”
    “Coucou.”
    Casson turned his head halfway, the two men from the bar, about ten feet behind them.
    “Just ignore them,” Julie said.
    “Gonzesse.” Cunt.
    Half a block. They walked quickly despite themselves. Then a turn into the side street and the Hotel Victoria. The men came up close, the one in the black shirt put a hand on Casson’s elbow. “I think we better have a talk,” he said, voice low and charged.
    Casson pulled away. “Leave us alone,” he said.
    It was the other one who hit him first, threw Julie out of his way and punched him in the side of the head. Julie screamed, Casson found himself on one knee. Was it even possible he’d been hit that hard? One side of his face had gone dead. Black-Shirt kicked him— meant to kick him in the head but