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narrow hallway to another roo m, his bedroom, where more French doors opened to a private balcony heady with the scent of mimosa. He sat on the neatly made bed and pulled me onto his lap. He brushed hair from my eyes and asked me something else, probably if I was really, really sure…and we both ended up laughing, because I was already doing this and how could we discuss anything even if we wanted to?
    Finally h e stood and unbuttoned his pants.
    “ You…beautiful,” he began in English. “ Très, très beautiful.”
    It was nice of him to say it though his words did not really move me. Words rarely did, in any language. What got to me, what really moved me, was how he had all the time in the world, first to trace my face with his fingertips, then to kiss me, then to massage my muscles and look and smile at me.
    At last we pressed ourselves together, sweaty skin to sweaty skin, and we had sex with all the fury the word implies.
    Oddly, wit h him inside me, I felt not only relieved but generous, as if I was giving the rewards again. Afterward we lay together not talking, just listening to the café outside and the birds overhead and the scooters zipping by. Maybe an hour passed. Then I propped myself up and told him in crystal clear English that I needed to go home to unpack.
    I doubt he understood me in detail, but he got my drift. We said goodbye affectionately, almost nostalgically. Although we were neighbors, who knew when we would see each other again? After all, getting involved with a man was not my reason for being in France.
    I did not intend to write “sex” on my blank slate.

CHAPTER THREE

I
    June of that year turned out to be very hot.
    First, the temperature. It soared, a dry heat with no thunderstorms. Going outside felt like sticking my head in the oven. Though my toe felt less swollen, less painful, less of a handicap for trekking back and forth to toilets, walking still hurt. So I stayed in. I applied my toe medicine faithfully twice a day, leaving the tube on the side of the tub as a reminder for the next dose. After short fitful naps on the narrow, lumpy, hand-me-down bed, I’d wake up to sketch within the glory of those new windows. I’d study French or read American paperbacks by lamplight. The dress code was easy: shorts, tank tops and no shoes. I drank lots of water and stayed put until my bladder urged me to travel again. (For that hourly odyssey, I used slippers. No way was I going to frequent the communal bathroom without shielding my poor feet against whatever other “mushrooms” might lurk there.)
    Slowly, slowly, I was adapting to my new home. The old loneliness still swooped in and out, a quiet empty abatement—what am I doing here?—but now I had an answer: Ah yes, the light. The light. It still drew me, and I drew it.
    Focusing on the fanfare of elms bordering the far edge of the plaza, I created pastel leaves skittering in every flavor of green, playing childish games with shadow. Using charcoal, I drew people at cafes dawdling over coffee longer than most people spend over a Thanksgiving turkey. I drew gypsies sashaying across cobblestones, sleeves and skirts and belts as bright as any exotic bird. In smudges of color and black swirls against white, I detailed teenagers smoking, children scampering at the spray of water in the cherub-laden fountain; dogs perched expectantly in café chairs.
    To my delight, the drawing grew deeper. I entered the artist’s beloved “Zone,” turning to images inside my own eyes instead of merely glimpsed through windows. Long Island, an empty beach, a forest peeking out of the sand…
    Not a bathtub; I didn’t want to envision that old bathtub.
    Time for the potty again.
    Slowly down the staircase I inched, leaning on the banister, swea ting from exertion and heat. The soft toilet paper I’d provided for the building had walked away after only a few days of living here. Not exactly a shock yet disconcerting since what else would anyone want to