Thursday rendezvous, by appointment.

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Autumn 1986, Rue Daguerre at dusk at the end of a cold November. Chestnuts roasting on a brazier at the street corner, currents of warm air swirling from the doors of bakeries, bars and the stairwell down to the metro, all with their attendant smells. Carcasses of deer, boar and rabbits skinned and waiting, hanging on hooks outside the butcher’s in the cold. No flies. Mitterrand trundles along the pavement, coat, scarf, hat, looking aloof and not making eye contact. Cold nose, cold cheeks. Presidential men in black trying to be discreet. A foreign acquaintance of not much significance waits in Brasserie Péret at a table in the back, away from the window. A curious friendship that won’t last.