"Do you know how I could get to the cemetery...you know, the famous one...Jim Morrison and Edgar Allan Poe. Père...Lachoise."

Benjamin turned to her again, a little surprised. He really had thought she had gone. But no. She was still standing close to him. He saw this time that she was holding a bottle of tequila half empty in her right hand. She was smoking, too, and apparently also waiting for him to provide an answer to her question.

He looked at her a long time, without saying a word, and she became upset. "What are you staring at?" she asked, a little angry.

So he turned his head away again, looking at the lights of the other bridges before him. "Père Lachaise," he corrected, using the right pronunciation. "It's far," he added with a cold, cutting voice. "Take the subway."

"The subway?"

He sighed, irritated. "Yes. It's a big hole in the ground with stairs leading down. It's written 'Métropolitain'." He turned to her, angry. "You can read, can't you?"

She became as cold as he was. "You don't need to be rude," she simply replied.

Benjamin did not answer. He wanted her to go but he could not force her...at least not physically. Anyway, he had firmly decided not to leave the bridge.

The girl took a little can from the pocket of her coat. It was a salt box, a blue one with a little white whale printed on it. She put the bottle of tequila on the stone parapet, poured some salt on her hand, licked it and then took a quick sip of tequila.

Benjamin watched her, half surprised, half disgusted. He used to drink a lot before meeting Marie. Too much perhaps. He almost stopped completely after they married. Then he had published his first book, and earned quite a lot of money. He had only drunk champagne to celebrate. He drank champagne again when Marie had told him that she was pregnant. That was one month before their holidays to the South of France...

Of course, his second novel was not so easy to write, and there were the pressures from the publisher. Benjamin had been scared to go back to alcohol again after Marie's death. He almost did. Fortunately, Paul, a friend from college, had helped him. Thanks to him, Benjamin had been able to pass what Paul considered to be a "test". Paul liked good rum, though.

"I don't have a lemon," the red-haired girl said after having swallowed the tequila.

Tears came to Benjamin's eyes. He was so surprised that he turned his head again, confused. He did not want this drunken girl to see him cry. But the tears did not drop onto his cheek. As fast as they had come, they disappeared, as if something or someone did not want any kind of relief to come.

The red-haired girl stared at him, his straight nose, his skinny cheeks, his red eyes that he seemed to hide behind a pair of big round glasses, his very short dark hair that she could see in spite of the baseball cap he had stuck on his head. He was not very tall or particularly handsome, but his pain was touching.

"My name is Emma," she said.

"Leave me alone," he grumbled without looking at her.

"Okay, okay," she suddenly said, speaking very fast but a little embarrassed. "I confess...it's not to get a light or ask you my way that I came to talk to you...not even because I'm trying to pick you up, I swear...it's just because...I had a strange feeling when I saw you there on the bridge. The way you stared at the water...it scared me...I thought...I thought that maybe you were going to jump or something...I know, I'm ridiculous. Am I?"

He looked at her a long time but did not answer her question. He chose to ask another one: "Why are you talking to me in English?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "You seem to understand, don't you?"

"Why did you first talk to me in English?" he insisted.

She hung her head and laughed. Benjamin thought she was beautiful when she was laughing, even if her mouth was a little too big.

"I'm stupid," she said. "But I guess it's the cap...you looked American...that's definitely an American cap!"

Benjamin was about to tell her that indeed that was stupid and that she could find two million "typical" American caps in Paris, but it was true, Marie had bought this one in New York where she used to be a student almost ten years ago. It was blue but now a different blue than it used to be. Marie had worn it so many times, to prevent her hair from falling into her eyes, she used to say.

"To keep me warm," he said, removing the faded blue cap from his head. His hair was cut very short. He passed his palm gently over the top of his skull.

"Not used to it, are you?" the girl asked.

"Not yet."

"Is it a kind of vow or something?" she asked, smiling.

"Kind of."

Then they both stayed quiet. After a moment, Benjamin was the first to talk again. "What if I only spoke French?" he asked.

"I took my chance...but I guess it would have been a little more difficult for me...you probably would have already jumped by now!"

She laughed but Benjamin did not. So she stopped. "Do you smile sometimes?" she asked.

"What for?" he replied very seriously.

She remained quiet a short moment and then nodded. "I see," she said, nodding. "So I suppose it's not only because it's a bad day...do you want some?" she asked, holding the bottle of tequila out to Benjamin.

He shook his head. "I made another vow," he said

She laughed. "Never to drink the poison?" she asked, taking another sip of tequila.

"Never to drink the poison in the street," he replied without a smile.

Emma suddenly stopped drinking as if he had kicked her. She gave him a black look. "Don't despise me, Mr. Vow. I only borrowed it at a party. I came from a party, you know," she said opening her coat and showing him her cocktail dress. "It was a lovely party," she added, almost whispering, and certainly a little bitter. "I stole the bottle and the salt but there was no lemon left...I know, don't tell me, I forgot the glass...for the shots, I have to dose by guesswork. Works pretty well, though."

Benjamin did not answer.

They stood close to each other for a couple of minutes. The image of Marie was dancing in Benjamin's eyes. The party where he had met her...she danced a lot during that party. The first time he had seen her, she was dancing with Vincent. Vincent who she left to go out with and then marry Benjamin. Vincent who she never saw again after their wedding. Vincent so understanding, though. Vincent who she had found a way to die with.

A few cars passed on the bridge, driving probably a little too fast as usual. A man came walking slowly towards Benjamin and Emma. He wore a dirty torn coat, with some newspaper sheets underneath to protect him from the cold and that made him look fatter than he probably really was. The wine also surely protected him from the cold. When he passed in front of the two young people, they could smell the alcohol as a cheap perfume he abused. There was music too. The tramp held a little radio in his hands. "Heaven...I'm in heaven," Fred sang and "my heart beats so that I can hardly speak," Ginger replied. As the man came closer they were both dancing "Cheek to Cheek."

He passed slowly without a word and the music went away with him. Emma and Benjamin stared at him, their eyes following him as he walked away...and soon disappeared at the end of the bridge, as if he had only been a strange and absurd vision.

"Did you see that?" she asked after a moment, still looking at the other end of the bridge, where the street led to the Place de la Concorde and the big illuminated Christmas trees on the Avenue des Champs Elysées.

But Benjamin's surprise had already vanished. "Yes," he simply answered. His voice was desperately indifferent and Emma turned back to him. He was already back to his scary day-dreaming.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said, looking at him. He was standing on the sidewalk, leaning on the bridge parapet, staring at the lights of Paris in front of him. He probably did not even see them. He heard her voice, though and gave her a black look. "No," he replied in a very cool tone of voice.

"Did she just...dump you or...is it more serious?" she asked again, simply ignoring his warning.

Benjamin did not answer. He did not know how to answer. His silence and his pain usually scared people and it was the first time that a complete stranger actually dared ask him this type of question. So he just hung his head and shook it, amazed.

"Oh," she said, sorry. "I see...your wife, huh?"

He raised his head again.

"That's the ring," she explained, pointing to his left hand with the bottle of tequila. "Don't ask me why, but I always notice these kinds of things."

Benjamin raised his hand in front of his eyes to look at the ring and suddenly realized he was cold. He had forgotten his gloves, once more. That was his wedding ring. Marie's had been removed from her broken hand at the hospital by some unknown and faceless nurse and he was now wearing it on his necklace, with his communion cross, because it was too small for his finger. "When I'm old and fat, I probably won't be able to take it off, because my fingers will look like little sausages," Marie once said when she realized she was beginning to gain weight because of the baby. Benjamin had laughed. He still could not imagine her being fat. Pregnancy would have made her a little less skinny, for sure...smoother, he used to say, with a smile that irritated her. Sometimes, he tried to picture how she would have looked at seventy or eighty, with gray hair and wrinkles. He never imagined her fat.

"I was going to get married," the American girl said.

Maybe she had said something in between, but he did not hear it. He did not want to hear that, either. He raised his eyes to the dark sky and started to consider the possibility of a strategic retreat.

"That's why I came to Paris," she went on. "To see him...I mean my fiancé...he took me to that party...you know," she said, looking at Benjamin, "the party I went to tonight...a nice party. We broke up." She remained quiet for a moment and started again before Benjamin could speak. "He's gay," she said suddenly, staring at Benjamin to see the reaction on his face.

He had none. "That's why you dumped him?" he asked simply and rationally.

"No," she replied, "he dumped me."

"He told you he was gay?"

"No. His boyfriend did." And then, after a short silent moment, she added, whispering: "I think he hates me."

Benjamin looked at her, the expression on her face, trying to figure out if she was telling the truth or simply making up a silly story to distract him from the bridge and the river. She had a sincere but painful smile. This pain, fake or not, gave her a certain charm he had not noticed before.

She put the bottle and the salt box on the parapet and then took off a diamond ring she wore on her left hand. She admired it a few seconds, her eyes strangely shining because of the alcohol. She showed it to Benjamin who did not say a word. Then she bent over the parapet and dropped it into the river, imitating the noise of a falling bomb. A barge was slowly passing under the bridge Alexandre III and the engagement ring fell into the tons of sand the boat was carrying.

"Damn!" Emma shouted.

"Who cares?" Benjamin said. "Sand or water...it's lost, anyway."

"You don't understand," she replied, irritated. "I wanted it to be...poetic. A river, especially in Paris and even if it's polluted, is always poetic...a heap of sand on a stupid barge is definitely not!"

He shook his head and did not argue. She remained quiet a long moment, listening to and watching the barge that calmly went away along the Seine.

"So," she finally said, "would you have jumped if I hadn't come?"

He strongly sighed and put his cap back on his head. He had decided to give up. "I've got to go. Sorry."

He was already walking away from her, following the same path that the old tramp had taken a few minutes before. She tried to prevent him from leaving. "No, wait!" she yelled. "What about the cemetery? You didn't tell me the way!"

"I already told you," he shouted over his shoulder, without even looking at her, "take the subway. You'll find maps in there!"

And he was gone, leaving her alone on the bridge. A cool wind caressed her a little too close and she shuddered. She closed her coat and crossed her arms on her chest, still watching Benjamin walking away from her. His hands in his pockets, he was hunched over, looking smaller than he actually was.

Soon he disappeared up the Churchill Avenue to join the place where the lights and the noise of the cars would last the whole night.

Continued in Part 3.