The firemen had been forced to use a blowlamp to cut and then open the door of the dark green Jaguar E-type. They had done it quickly - they were used to it - but they already knew that it was too late.

One of the firemen who helped to take the two young people out of the Jag had to go away and, leaning against a pine tree, he threw up. He was young, inexperienced and it was his first time. The other firemen did not blame him. The young woman they had taken out of the car was really beautiful. One of them had deeply sighed when he closed the door of the ambulance. Then he waved at the driver who immediately left and drove to the nearest hospital.

The fireman saw his young colleague walking back to him. He was pale. They did not talk but the older one thought that the sea was gorgeous from that spot. It was late summer on the French Riviera, between Cannes and Nice. The sun was setting on the sea. It was very hot. The Jaguar had wanted to avoid another car driving on the wrong side and had left the narrow and twisting mountain road. The other car had crashed on the mountain rock. The green Jaguar broke the security gates and jumped into the void. It crashed on the pine trees and the rocks one hundred meters down.

The older fireman looked a long time at the sea on which the sun was starting to set. He was tired. The whole summer, he had been fighting forest fires in the dry region. He was not supposed to work that day, but he had come to replace a friend who was sick. He turned to the Jag and then closed his eyes. He still could see the face of the young woman...and her tee shirt...her white and scarlet tee-shirt...he sighed and thought that maybe he would never get used to it. Then he joined the others, back up on the road.

Benjamin stood on the bridge Alexandre III, staring at the river. He had been there for almost half an hour, in spite of the wind and the cold air on this January night.

Today was Marie's birthday. Benjamin remembered that the bridge Alexandre III was her favorite in Paris because, she said, the street lamps looked like fat cartoon characters with big bellies.

He stared at the river below. Some big ice-chumps were floating on the surface. He thought he couldn't cry anymore. About a year after Marie's death, he had suddenly realized that he was no longer able to weep. All he had left now was the pain. A dry, cold pain that pierced into his chest, prevented him from sleeping and that he could not get rid of.

She was already dead when he arrived at the hospital. They even said that she had probably died immediately, that "Thank God, she had not suffered"...as if it would have helped him. A nurse had cleaned the blood from her face. When he had arrived, there was nothing left but a pale face and closed eyes whose color he would never see again.

She would have been twenty-nine today. It was more than a year she was gone now. Benjamin was looking at the water, thinking that maybe it would be easier this time. He didn't hear her coming and she even had to repeat her question so that, at last, he paid attention to her: "Have a light?" she asked in English, with an American accent.

Benjamin heard the voice and calmly turned his head towards her. She was tall. Taller than he was. That was the first thing he noticed. She wore a long, beige cashmere coat, opened to expose a short black cocktail dress. She was slim. Her hair was long and red. At a second glance, Benjamin saw her face. She was pretty... well, not really...a strong face. She was holding a cigarette in front of her mouth, and her blue eyes were staring at him.

Since he had not answered yet, she insisted: "A light?" She showed him the cigarette more obviously. "A light? Matches? A lighter?"

He looked at her a little longer and then turned back to the contemplation of the Seine. "I don't smoke," he finally answered without even looking at her.

She remained quiet, putting the cigarette in her pocket.

The man in the other car was dead. Actually, the doctors explained to Benjamin that he had suffered from a heart attack and had lost consciousness. That was why he was driving on the wrong side of the road and had hit the Jag. But Benjamin did not really listen to the long explanations. He only heard a few words: the man was dead. And he had nobody to blame, nobody he could take revenge on, nobody he could kill.

Marie's funeral was quick and private. Benjamin came back to Paris and refused to talk to anybody for a month. He remained in their flat, locked inside, without sleeping, barely eating and leaving his prostration only to cry and yell like a wounded animal the pain he was unable to express another way.

Then he had started to think again and with the thought had come the doubt.

The man who was driving the Jaguar died in the accident too. His name was Vincent. He was a friend of Marie's. As a matter of fact, he had been her boyfriend for quite a time, before she met Benjamin and later decided to marry him. Vincent was handsome, probably more handsome than Benjamin, and he was rich and successful. He drove a nice dark green E-type Jaguar that he was very proud of. The E-type had always been Marie's favorite car.

Benjamin thought that she had not seen him since they married three years before. Their relationship had ended very peacefully, Marie used to say. Vincent was intelligent enough to understand that she was not in love with him anymore and would certainly be happier with Benjamin, even if he was only a young writer trying to publish his second novel after a very promising first one and even if he did not drive at all.

Marie had not told him that she had seen Vincent again. Benjamin had come with her to the Riviera to spend their vacation in her parents' house near Cannes. Benjamin was working on his new novel when the accident happened. He thought Marie had gone alone to the beach. When he learned she died in the car that Vincent was driving, doubts came and with them a pain even stronger than the one that the loss and the absence had brought.

Continued in Part 2.