"Want something to eat? I have some acras left."

Benjamin raised him head and shook it. "I'm not hungry, Paul. Thanks."

Paul was standing on the other side of bar where Benjamin was sitting, a glass of white rum in his hands. He had taken off his cap and put it on the counter. Paul was a tall, skinny, black young man who usually wrote stories for children but who also helped his uncle, from time to time, in the Antillian restaurant he had opened in the Jewish area, rue des Rosiers, "to avoid the competition," he said.

It was the same night, a Saturday and the place was full, like almost every weekend. Paul had opened many bottles of rum that night, and he knew all the cocktails in the world. The atmosphere was noisy and full of smoke and people were talking loud. Bob Marley was playing non-stop, like every night Paul took care of the bar. Paul liked only Bob Marley and despised those who dared telling him that Bob came from Jamaica and not French Antilles.

"You're not hungry," he mumbled, irritated, looking at Benjamin sitting in front of him. "You're never hungry...you don't eat, you don't sleep...look at you! If you go on like that, I'll have to ask you to leave! You scare the customers." Benjamin smiled a painful smile and took a sip of rum. Paul looked at him and sighed.

"How do you say rum, in French?"

Benjamin turned his head and saw Emma. She was sitting close to him, in front of the bar. He had not heard nor seen her come in. She was smiling. He closed his eyes and sighed again. "Did you follow me or what?"

She kept smiling. "It was not very difficult," she said, whispering, leaning over him. "Nice place," she added, looking around her at the crowded restaurant.

Paul was looking at her, still standing on the other side of the counter. "Who's that bimbo?" he asked in French.

Emma turned to him, suspicious. "What did he say?" she asked Benjamin, staring at the tall black man behind the bar.

Benjamin sighed again. "You don't want to know what he said..."

She stared at Paul without any expression on her face and then asked Benjamin: "Is he gay?"

Benjamin looked at his very tall friend behind the bar. His arms bent straight on the counter, Paul leaned toward Emma, staring at her with cold and irritated eyes. Benjamin smiled perversely. "Yes," he answered.

Emma hit the counter with her fist. "I knew it!" she shouted. She had been loud and almost knocked Benjamin's glass on the floor, but there was so much noise in the restaurant that nobody really paid attention.

"Gays hate me," Emma concluded before she drunk up the rest of the rum in Benjamin's glass.

He did not argue. She remained quiet a long moment. Paul went away because two young and drunk people wanted to pay their bill before leaving.

"Is he a good friend?" Emma asked, looking at Paul at the cash register. Benjamin nodded.

About six months after Marie's death, on the day of her birthday, Paul came to see him during the day, before going to help his uncle at the restaurant. Then he left and Benjamin stayed home alone. Marie and he had bought that flat after his first novel was published. It was a big, clear, gorgeous apartment. Everybody had advised him to sell it because it was too big for one person but he refused to sell to strangers the walls that had seen Marie everyday, the furniture she had touched. He did not even want to remove any of her clothes, or her books, left alone like him, abandoned like orphans, those old and new white covered books, on the shelves or piled up in complete disorder close to her side of the bed. Each of them was still filled with her smell that he was so scared to lose if he put them in another unknown place.

Paul had realized he had forgotten his lighter and had called Benjamin. But nobody answered. Benjamin had told him he would not go out. He was meant to be there. But he did not answer.

Paul had smashed down the door with the fire extinguisher from the corridor and entered the flat. Benjamin was not there. He found him a second after, lying in the hot water of the bath tub, unconscious, the veins of his wrists cut with a razor blade. Paul had called an ambulance just in time to save him. A few days later, when he had felt better, he had tried to make him swear not to do that again. But Benjamin had not answered.

Tonight, Paul had been relieved to see him coming in the restaurant, safe, on the night of Marie's birthday. He was also almost relieved to see him now talking with that girl, whoever she was and whatever she had swallowed to be so drunk. The fact was that Benjamin looked almost alive tonight.

"You're probably wondering why I followed you here, aren't you?" Emma asked.

"Because you want to sleep with me," Benjamin answered without a smile.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Don't flatter yourself, little sad man. I want to talk, that's all...because I'm sick of lousy parties, diamond rings and hostile French gays."

He smiled. "Your life is a nightmare."

"I can listen too."

He remained quiet for a long moment, staring at his empty glass in his hands. Then he raised his head and turned to Paul. "Paul!" he shouted to cover the noise in the packed restaurant, "send us two rums and a few acras, please!"

It took Paul a few seconds to react. Benjamin had already taken Emma to a free table in a corner of the restaurant. Then he told her everything. That he was a widower, how he had met his wife, how they went on holidays to the South of France... "Okay, okay, wait a minute," Emma said, interrupting him as soon as he started. She finally took off her coat, had a sip of rum and then she pointed her finger to Benjamin : "First of all...her name."

"What?"

"Your wife. What's her name?...you say 'my wife,' 'she,' 'her.' I need her name. That'll help me a lot."

"Marie."

"Mary? Fine. That's almost too much," she added with a sad smile. " Was she -"

"No," Benjamin said, raising his hand to stop her. "Not Mary, Marie."

"I see...but I can't pronounce it the French way."

"Well, try."

Benjamin drank up his glass, ate a few acras and ordered a couple of tea punches from Paul, while she was trying to figure out how to pronounce the name the right way. After a few tries, she was close enough and he agreed to continue his story. He told her about the accident, the car, the baby, even his suicide attempt...and about Vincent. When he finished, Emma did not say a word. She glanced at Paul behind the counter, then stared at Benjamin in silence.

"What? What?" he shouted, upset.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Believe what?"

"This...stupid, ridiculous, insulting story about Marie and this Vincent guy and his gorgeous E-type..."

"Insulting? For me?"

"For her, you, disgusting selfish jerk!" she shouted. "You don't really believe that she was cheating on you with the Jag guy, do you?"

He did not answer. He only hung his head. The blood rushed to his face and his cheeks turned purple. He was confused, hurt and angry.

"Do you?" Emma insisted, staring at him.

He was quiet, short of breath. She took a piece of bread from the table and threw it to him. He did not react. He only took off his glasses. He had deep shadows under his eyes.

Emma slowly shook her head, with a disgusted expression on her face. "Oh, yes, you do. You really do. You're pathetic."

"And what am I supposed to believe?" he suddenly shouted.

"Anything! Anything but that crap! How can you think for a minute that this woman you loved, who loved you, this woman you married and who was going to give you a child, for whom you try to kill yourself once and wanted to jump from this stupid bridge to-night, how can you even dare think that she was having an affair with a guy because he had a nice car?!...Sorry, buddy, but I don't buy that!"

"You don't even know what you're talking about!"

They were both yelling now and Paul came to their table because customers were beginning to wonder what was going on. "Hey, is there something wrong?" he asked Benjamin in French, looking suspiciously at Emma.

She got angry. "Oh leave us alone, for God's sake!" she shouted.

"What is it she's saying?" Paul asked Benjamin. "What is she telling you that makes you so upset? You're pale as a sheet!"

"That's okay, Paul," Benjamin sighed.

"Are you gonna let him breathe or what?" she interrupted. "You're not his mother! Get a life, will ya!"

Paul could not understand what she said. However, he pointed a threatening finger at her. "What did she say?" he asked Benjamin again, staring at her.

"Nothing, Paul, nothing," Benjamin, replied, exhausted. "She's drunk, that's all. She had a bad day. Her boyfriend dumped her tonight...that's okay, don't worry...do you think you still have some punch left?" he added.

"I'll go and check," Paul grumbled after a moment. He glanced at Emma, threateningly, and then went back to the bar.

"Well, I'll tell you what really happened," she continued as soon as Paul was away.

"What?"

"Vincent. She was not dating him, oh no! She just happened to...run into him!"

"Oh really?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir. Pure luck," she said, but when she saw Benjamin's face turn pale, she added: "Well, pure coincidence. Nothing else."

He passed his hand on the top of his head and sighed. He did not answer.

"Let me convince you," Emma said.

He shook his head with a poor, bitter smile.

"Did she drive to the beach?" she asked.

"Sorry?"

"Did she take the car to go there?"

"No, her bike."

Continued in Part 4.