I follow the crowds around the corner, and at the end of a street full of cafés advertising menus in English, Spanish, French, and German is a huge white-domed cathedral.

“Excusez-moi, qu’est-ce que c’est?” I ask a man standing outside of one of the cafés.

He rolls his eyes. “C’est Sacré-Coeur!”

Oh, Sacré-Coeur. Of course. I walk closer and see three domes, two smaller ones flanking the big one the middle, reigning regal over the rooftops of Paris. In front of the cathedral, which is glowing golden in the afternoon sun, is a grassy hillside esplanade, bisected by marble staircases leading down the other side of the hill. There are people everywhere: the tourists with their video cameras rolling, backpackers lolling in the sun, artists with easels out, young couples leaning into each other, whispering secrets. Paris! Life!

At the end of the tour, I’d sworn off setting foot in another moldering old church. But for some reason, I follow the crowds inside. Even with the golden mosaics, looming statues and swelling crowds, it somehow still manages to feel like a neighborhood church, with people quietly praying, fingering rosaries, or just lost in thought.

There’s a stand of candles, and you can pay a few euros and light one yourself. I’m not Catholic, and I’m not entirely clear on this ritual, but I feel the need to commemorate this somehow. I hand over some change and am given a candle, and when I light it, it occurs to me that I should say a prayer. Should I pray for someone who’s died, like my grandfather? Or should I pray for Dee? For my mom? Should I pray to find Willem?

But none of that feels right. What feels right is just this. Being here. Again. By myself, this time. I’m not sure what the word for this is, but I say a prayer for it anyway.

I’m getting hungry, and the long twilight is starting. I decide to go down the back steps into that typical neighborhood and try to find an inexpensive bistro for dinner. But first, I need to get a macaron before all the patisseries close for the day.

At the base of the steps, I wander for a few blocks before I find a patisserie. At first I think it’s closed because a shade is drawn down the door, but I hear voices, lots and lots of voices, inside, so hesitantly, I push the door open.

It seems like a party is going on. The air is humid with so many people crammed together, and there are bottles of booze and bouquets of flowers. I begin to edge back out, but there is a huge booming protest from inside, so I open it up again, and they wave me in. Inside, there are maybe ten people, some of them still in bakers’ aprons, others in street clothes. They all have cups in hands, faces flushed with excitement.

In halting French, I ask if it might be possible to buy a macaron. There is much shuffling, and a macaron is produced. When I reach for my wallet, my money is refused. I start to head for the door, but before I get to it, I’m handed some Champagne in a paper cup. I raise the cup and everyone clinks with me and drinks. Then a burly guy with a handlebar mustache starts to cry and everyone pats him on the back.

I have no idea what’s going on. I look around questioningly, and one of the women starts talking very fast, in a very strong accent, so I don’t catch much, but I do catch bébé.

“Baby?” I exclaim in English.

The guy with the handlebar mustache hands me his telephone. On it is a photo of a puckered, red-faced thing in a blue cap. “Rémy!” he declares.

“Your son?” I ask. “Votre fils?”

Handlebar Mustache nods, then his eyes fill with tears.

“Félicitations!” I say. And then Handlebar Mustache embraces me in a huge hug, and the crowd claps and cheers.

A bottle of amber booze is passed around. When all our paper cups have been filled, people hold them up and offer different toasts or just say some version of cheers. Everyone takes a turn, and when it gets to me, I shout out what Jewish people say at times like this: “L’chaim!”

“It means ‘to life,’” I explain. And as I say it, I think that maybe this is what I was saying a prayer for back in the cathedral. To life.

“L’chaim,” the rowdy bakers repeat back to me. And then we drink.

Thirty-three

The next day, I accept Kelly’s invitation to join the Oz crew. Today they’re going to brave the Louvre. Tomorrow they’re going to Versailles. The day after that, they’re taking the train to Nice. I’m invited to come with them for all of it. I have ten days left on my ticket, and it feels like I’ve found as much as I’m going to find. I found out that he left me a note. Which is almost more than I could’ve hoped for. I am considering going with them to Nice. And, after my wonderful day yesterday, I’m also considering going off on my own somewhere.

After breakfast, we all get onto the Metro toward the Louvre. Nico and Shazzer are showing off some of their new clothes, which they got from a street market, and Kelly is making fun of them for coming to Paris to buy clothes made in China. “At least I got something local.” She thrusts out her wrist to show off her new high-tech digital French- manufactured watch. “There’s this huge store near VendÔme, all they sell is watches.”

“Why do you need a watch when you’re traveling?” Nick asks.

“How many bloody trains have we missed because someone’s phone alarm failed to go off?”

Nick gives her that one.

“You should see this place. It’s bloody enormous. They sell watches from all over; some of them cost a hundred thousand euros. Imagine spending that on a watch,” Kelly goes on, but I’ve stopped listening because I’m suddenly thinking of Céline. About what she said. About how I could get another watch. Another. Like she knew I lost my last one.

The Metro is pulling into a station, “I’m sorry,” I tell Kelly and the gang. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Where’s my watch? And where’s Willem?”

I find Céline in the club’s office, surrounded by stacks of paperwork, wearing a thick pair of eyeglasses that somehow makes her both more and less intimidating.

She looks up from her papers, all sleepy-eyed and, maddeningly, unsurprised.

“You said I could get another watch, which means you knew Willem had my watch,” I continue.

I expect her to deny it, to shoot me down. Instead, she gives me a dismissive little shrug. “Why would you do that? Give him such an expensive watch after one day? It is a little desperate, no?”

“As desperate as lying to me?”

She shrugs again, lazily taps on her computer. “I did not lie. You asked if I knew where to find him. I do not.”

“But you didn’t tell me everything, either. You saw him, after . . . after he, he left me.”

She does this thing, neither a nod nor a shake of the head, somewhere in between. A perfect expression of ambiguity. A diamond-encrusted stonewall.

And at just that moment, another one of Nathaniel’s French lessons comes back to me: “T’es toujours aussi salope?” I ask her.

One eyebrow goes up, but her cigarette goes into the ashtray. “You speak French now?” she asks, in French.

“Un petit peu.” A little bit.

She shuffles the paperwork, stubs out the smoldering cigarette. “Il faut mieux être salope que lâche,” she says.

I have no idea what she said. I do my best to keep a straight face as I try to find keywords to unlock the sentence like Madame taught us, salope, bitch; mieux, better. Lâche. Milk? No, that’s lait. But then I remember Madame’s refrain about venturing into the unknown being an act of bravery and her teaching us, as always, the opposite of courageux: lâche.

Did Céline just call me a coward? I feel the indignation travel from the back of my neck up to my ears to the top of my head. “You can’t call me that,” I sputter in English. “You don’t get to call me that. You don’t even know me!”

“I know enough,” she replies in English. “I know that you forfeited.” Forfeit. I see myself waving a white flag.

“Forfeit? How did I forfeit?”

“You ran away.”

“What did the note say?” I am practically screaming now.

But the more excited I become, the more aloof she becomes. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“But you know something.”

She lights another cigarette and blows smoke on me. I wave it away. “Please, Céline, for a whole year, I’ve assumed the worst, and now I’m wondering if I assumed the wrong worst.”

More silence. Then “He had the, how do you say it, sue-tours.”

“Sue-tours?”

“Like with sewing on skin.” She points to her cheek.

“Sutures? Stitches? He had stitches?”

“Yes, and his face was very swollen, and his eye black.”

“What happened?”

“He would not tell me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?”

“You did not ask me this yesterday.”

I want to be furious with her. Not just for this, but for being such a bitch that first day in Paris, for accusing me of cowardice. But I finally get that none of this is about Céline; it never was. I’m the one who told Willem I was in love with him. I’m the one who said that I’d take care of him. I’m the one who bailed.

I look up at Céline, who is watching me with the cagey expression of a cat eyeing a sleeping dog. “Je suis désolée,” I apologize. And then I pull the macaron out of my bag and give it to her. It’s raspberry, and I was saving it as a reward for confronting Céline. It is cheating Babs’s rule to give it to someone else, but somehow, I feel she’d approve.

She eyes it suspiciously, then takes it, pinching it between her fingers as though it were contagious. She gingerly lays it on a stack of CD cases.

“So, what happened?” I ask. “He came back here all banged up?”

She nods, barely.

“Why?”

She frowns. “He would not say.”

Silence. She looks down, then quickly glances at me. “He looked through your suitcase.”

What was in there? A packing list. Clothes. Souvenirs. Unwritten postcards. My luggage tag? No, that snapped off in the Tube station back in London. My diary? Which I now have. I grab it out of my bag, leaf through a few entries. There’s something about Rome and feral cats. Vienna and the Schönbrunn Palace. The opera in Prague. But there is nothing, nothing of me. Not my name. My address. My email address. Not the addresses of any of the people I met on the tour. We didn’t even bother with the pretense of keeping in touch. I shove the diary back in my bag. Céline is peering through narrowed eyes, watching while pretending not to.

“Did he take anything from my bag? Find anything?”

“No. He only smelled. . . .” She stops, as if in pain.

“He smelled what?”

“He smelled terrible,” she says solemnly. “He took your watch. I told him to leave it. My uncle is a jeweler, so I know it was expensive. But he refused.”

I sigh. “Where can I find him, Céline? Please. You can help me with that much.”