scooted closer to the door, keeping an eye on Valerie, who glanced at me and back down at her book. She obviously couldn't care less if I was eavesdropping.
"Dude. Anywhere we have a permanent address is off-limits for . . . `dates.' Or whatever. You know the rules. In any case, date's over!"
There was a pregnant silence, which I imagined was taken up by lots of boy-to-boy stare-down action, and then the door opened and Vincent walked in, looking apologetic. "Kate. I'm sorry, I have to take care of something. I'll walk you to the M�tro." I waited for him to give an explanation, but none came.
"That's okay," I said, trying to sound like I didn't mind. "But don't worry about seeing me to the M�tro. I'll do some wandering on my own. Walk up to rue des Rosiers for some shopping or something."
He looked relieved, as if that was the response he had hoped for. "I'll at least come downstairs with you."
"No, really, that's okay," I said, feeling a little cloud of anger form inside me. Something was obviously going on that I didn't know about. But it was still rude of Jules to demand that I leave. Not to mention cowardly of Vincent to give in.
"I insist," he said, and opening the door for me, he followed me out into the hallway. Jules stood, arms crossed over his chest, glowering at us.
Vincent walked me down the stairs and into the courtyard. "I'm sorry," he said. "There's something going on. Something I have to take care of."
"Like police business, you mean?" I said, unable to hide my sarcasm.
"Yeah, something like that," he said evasively.
"And you can't talk about it."
"No."
"Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you around our neighborhood . . . ," I said, attempting to mask my disappointment with a smile.
"I'll see you soon," he said, and reached out his hand for mine. Though I wasn't very happy with him, his touch warmed me to my toes. "Promise," he added, looking like he wanted to say more. Then, giving my hand a squeeze, he turned to walk back into the building. My bad mood eased a little with his gesture, and I wandered through the gate feeling not quite ditched but not very pleased with how things had turned out, either.
I started walking north, trying to decide whether to visit the shops on the rue des Rosiers or stroll under the shady arcades surrounding the seventeenth-century square called Place des Vosges. I wasn't even halfway up the block when I decided my heart wasn't in it. I wanted to know what was going on with Vincent. Curiosity was killing me, and if I wasn't going to get any answers, I just wanted to go home.
I stopped at the crepe stand outside the Dome caf� and waited as the vendor spread the batter on the piping hot circular grill. I couldn't help but wish that Vincent were here getting a crepe with me as I watched people come and go from the M�tro stop across the street. As if prompted by my wish, I spotted Vincent approaching the entrance with Jules. They began making their way down the stairs.
This is my chance to find out what's going on with the policeman charade, I thought. Vincent had said that there was something he had to take care of. Based on his behavior at the Village Saint-Paul, it seemed more like someone he had to take care of. I wanted to know who it was. I reasoned that if I was going to keep seeing Vincent, or whatever it was we were doing, I should be aware of any mysterious activities he was involved in.
"Et voil�, mademoiselle," said the vendor, handing me a paper-towel-wrapped crepe. I pointed to the change I had left on the counter and called, "Merci," as I sprinted toward the subway entrance.
Once through the turnstile, I spotted the boys heading down the tunnel to the train. When I reached the bottom of the steps, I saw them standing halfway down the track. Before they could notice me, I slipped onto one of the plastic benches lining the wall.
It was then that I saw the man.
Just a stone's throw away from Vincent and Jules, a clean-cut thirtysomething man wearing a dark suit stood at the edge of the platform, holding a briefcase in one hand and pressing the other against his lowered forehead. It looked like he was crying.
In all my years of riding the Paris M�tro, I