Paris in the Present Tense

by Mark Helprin

“It’s not as if she was always faithful to you.” For Jules, it was as if a bomb had exploded nearby and knocked the wind out of him. (This had happened once, in Algeria, and he knew what it felt like.) “What?” he asked, as he recovered, observing in François a moment of panic quickly made unobservable by his long practice in debate. “I mean, she died, Jules. She left you.” “That’s not what you meant, because you said always, and that doesn’t fit.” “It is what I meant.” “No, it isn’t. It’s not as if I haven’t known you forever, François. I know what you meant. Why did you say that? Who told you?” “Do you really want me to say, Jules? Because it would be better if I. …” “Yes. You have to.” “Do I really?” “If you ever want to see me again.” “Then I won’t see you again, ever, because no one told me,” François said. “No one had to. Jules, it was a long, long time ago, and we were all so young.” Even as he dismounted from the wall, Jules reeled. It was as if he were falling off a cliff and nothing was left of the world. After he jumped down, he couldn’t look in François’ direction, much less at him. Instead, he turned and blindly made his way up the hill, the fountains on his right still bursting forth unpredictably.