“Congratulations,” I sniped when we first dumped the contents in an alley off the rue Diderot. “You could’ve sent me to the gaol for stealing words.” But Raymond had lost his sense of humor. He worked himself into a lather, kicking the papers, yelling he would throw them in the river, burn them, even take them to the toilet where they’d at least be of use. His disappointment had him so riled that he even turned on me. “What are you doing?” His lips snapped bitterly when I took up a random leaf. “You’re reading? You?”

I had to knock him down to stop his laughing.

How to tell Legrand that I’m working on intuition here? He would say that all intuition gets you is a first-class ticket to Devil’s Island. And then Raymond would chime in with his diagnosis: “It’s the fault of the posters. You should see him stare into them, Legrand! Just like hypnosis. I have to snap him out of his dreaming.”

We’re a people of pistons and dynamos now, but even standing shoulder to shoulder in a crowd of pumping legs, I’m aware of the passengers’ wanting to believe our rhythms are still our own.

In just six days we will witness the first departure of the Calais-Méditerranée Express, which people are calling Le Train Bleu because of the cobalt color of its cars. Its launch has kept the entire gare in breathless suspense for months already, thanks to the affiches and fliers that adorn nearly every post and pillar. I’ve felt the expectation in the pace of its throng. We’re a people of pistons and dynamos now, but even standing shoulder to shoulder in a crowd of pumping legs, I’m aware of the passengers’ wanting to believe our rhythms are still our own. We want to believe we haven’t been wound and set to march along to a tock that’s as constant as the hands on the clock that towers over the gare, reminding us not to miss the human pneumatique. To assure us that mass and dash are what we live for, they sell us a dream of not just new destinations but luxury rides, trimmed in gold and served with haute cuisine, an attendant on call to service every passing fancy. I’m not as naïve as Raymond thinks. As we followed the woman to the Lausanne Express, we passed an old man on a wooden bench checking his reflection in its brass fittings. I couldn’t decide if the exhilaration of speed merely had him winded, or whether he’d given up because he knew he couldn’t keep pace any more. Still, after years of parting coat buttons with a tap of two fingers and undoing watch bands with a flick, I can’t help but want to believe the illusion. After all, I’m a man who every day goes to the Gare de Lyon without ever managing to arrive anywhere else.

“Look at the handwriting,” I tell Legrand. “These aren’t just any jottings. Every letter went onto the paper as if being laid there for eternity. There’s not a slant or a serif that’s not sculpted. That means these words are important to somebody. And they’ll pay a price to get them back, I have faith.”

“More faith than good sense,” Raymond grunts. He packs the bowl of our pipe and holds it under a candle. A bluish curl of smoke snakes into the air. He drags off the other end and I can see the smoke billow through his teeth. “Imagine it! Michel has an eye for art even though he can’t make sense of a thing being said.”

“It’s not as if you read English either,” Legrand reminds him.

“No, but at least I can read! Michel likes to think he can outsmart the world, but how can you be such a genius when letters are nothing but stick figures to you?”

“I’ll learn soon enough,” I insist. “When I have the money to learn.”

Both of them snort. I would gladly remove Raymond’s teeth from his face if the hashish didn’t so soothe.

“You know English,” I say to Legrand. “Read them for us. Tell us what these pages say, so the great critic Raymond here can support his opinion that they’re worthless.”

Legrand shuffles through the sheets, skimming with an arched eye. He’s a serious man — he doesn’t even smoke with his customers.