In the rush of traffic round Etoile, the radiating spokes of the grand avenues revolved slowly around him, the sense of Paris like a great wheel, poised, rotating on the spindle of the Tower. Never mind London’s postal districts – packed like squares of wheat – a librarian’s vision: a grid, a timetable, a schedule of deliveries. Paris rotates in a map of the universe, in a vast orrery, a mechanism from Antikythera, its purpose inexplicable, its intricate movements jewelled by Cartier and Hermès.
The cab broke out of orbit round the Arc de Triomphe in a slingshot down Avenue de Wagram. Morgan leaned forward against the push of the acceleration to speak to the driver.
“En effet, Brasserie du Nord s’il vous plait; c’est juste en face de la gare.”
“J’connais. On mange bien là-bas.”
“Tout à fait.”
Away to the north-east, high over their heads, airliners were beating their way ponderously across the sky, flight-paths intersecting over the sullen streets of the suburbs and the cités, over the ice-cold compound of Drancy where the loudspeakers had boomed and screeched for three and a half terrible years, calling out lists of names for the transports to the East, convoy after convoy.
The cab-driver lowered his window, letting in a rush of sweet April air.