“I can’t sleep, Georgia!” bellowed a voice from above me.

Startled, I backpedaled from the lamppost and looked up at the man who was clinging to the lamp, arms and legs entwining it and grinning down at me. He too had black hair, and he looked somewhat like the searcher in the prop-cart with similar penetrating eyes, but they were darker and his skin was darker too, and he was perhaps a bit taller.

A hand clapped on my shoulder and a third man shook me companionably, smiling into my face. He too was dark-haired, with arched eyebrows and high cheekbones. He was not handsome like the other two men; his lips and eyes were round and he had a rather unfortunate nose which, while prominent, looked like its slope had been peeled flat with a knife, but his smile was infectious and I returned it. From above us the man clinging to the lamppost recited some lines in a ringing voice.

I barf wine in a grave Georgia
You're so late Georgia
What do you think I said Georgia
Down is like up Georgia
The wind is taking me with it Georgia
Whatever you believe I don't accept Georgia
Your smile is like salt Georgia
I creed like a burglar Georgia
But that's better than you Georgia
The sun stinks and that stinks too Georgia
I'm leaving Georgia
I'm running away Georgia

The lyricist slid down the lamppost to land before me like a fireman. “I say, you might be of some help to me, my fine fellow!” he exclaimed, and Knife-Nose with that grip still on me made closed-mouthed guffaws in his throat. “Please tell me, have you met a certain
Philippe Soupault in your travels?” His face mugged in anticipation mere inches
from mine.

“I beg your pardon?” I stammered. “No. I do not know anyone in Paris.”

The man in the cart stomped his foot and his angry expression carved my attention into a channel back to him again.

The hand on my shoulder now landed
on the top of my head and twisted it to face the speaker once more, and the eyes
of the deep-eyed lyricist twinkled with delight. “Well, you’re in Paris. You know yourself, don’t you? So, you’ve never made the acquaintance of Monsieur Philippe Soupault? Are you sure?”

“No,” I said, and then it came to me in a rush as the stranger lowered his face to give me an upward gleam from those intense, smoldering eyes. “Not…until now.”