I was left on my own in front of the Prince de Condé leather shop. I pressed my forehead to the window in an effort to see if any trace whatsoever remained of the café: a section of wall, the rear door that led to the telephone, the spiral staircase that led to Madame Chadly’s little apartment. Nothing. Everything was stark and featureless, covered with an orange fabric. And the whole neighborhood was like that. At least there was no longer any reason to worry about running into ghosts. The ghosts themselves were dead.
