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Page 47.
Chapter 10
 A week, ten days, time passed. They spent every waking moment together, mostly at her secret family apartment on the Boulevard Saint-Germain near the Rue des Bernardins.
They ate together, slept together, went walking together, and even started bickering together.
“A sure sign of love,” Emma assured him at one point, as they sat by the window of her apartment. “I love it when we walk together, hand in hand, like boy and girl.”
“I love it too,” he assured her. “I don’t know how I ever lived without you, my beautiful sweet wife.”
She took it in good humor, in a swirl of startled and fond emotions. “So you have married me now?”
“In my dreams.”
She ran a finger down his cheek. They were eyeball to eyeball, so close they breathed each other’s exhalations. “Wet dreams,” she said.
They took the Métro all over Paris, just commuters like a million or more other Parisians. They would sit close together, a common enough sight. She wore fun, understate clothes most of the time, jeans and summer blouses, no socks or vaguely pinkish cotton socks, in nut-brown loafers. She had a purse for every occasion, preferring the almost compact, hard-cotton type with subdued patterns (flowers, fruits), that you swung on a round handle; and this purse she would set on her lap in the Métro with the loop over one wrist and her other hand always anchored fast onto Marc, never to let him go. He enjoyed watching the fast play of light and dark as the train shot along on city streets, overhead, or down in tunnels. It was always fun to ride with her.
They walked through the Louvre, enjoying the Mona Lisa and other famous paintings and sculptures.
When they came to the Egyptian relics, he said: “I wrote a poem on this theme once. A short one. I imagined myself thousands of years ago, doing exactly the sorts of things people do now or will do in a thousand years, only with different gods and spirits, but always the same prayers.”
“Read it to me when we get home.”
“Home.”
“To our apartment.”
He did that evening, read it to her as they sat by the window and he sifted through his pile of manuscript sheets, while they savored globes of cognac that glowed in the late air penetrating along with traffic noise.
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