Chapter 15
The restaurant terrace was empty when Julian walked back up the iron steps just before closing time. The white linen tables had been stripped down to their bare wood, the silver cleared, the amber lamps turned off to save electricity against the coming frost.
The young waiter with the white apron was stacking chairs against the brick wall near the kitchen entrance. He stopped when he saw the old man in the black tuxedo standing by the edge of the terrace, his overcoat unbuttoned, his silk bow tie slightly crooked at the collar.
"We're closed, Monsieur Vance," the waiter said, wiping his hands on a damp cloth. "The kitchen is dark."
Julian didn't look at him. He walked over to the corner table—the one with the view of the Eiffel Tower—and ran his palm across the bare wooden surface where the cloth had been. The grain was rough under his hand, scarred by years of wine glasses, dropped forks, and hot plates.
"I know," Julian said.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fifty-euro note, and laid it flat on the bare wood before placing his silver-handled cane across it like a bookmark in a closed ledger.
May you like
"Keep the change," Julian said.
He turned his back on the tower, its iron lattices still pulsing with millions of amber lights against the dark autumn sky, and walked down the steps toward the street where the river was waiting in the dark. He didn't look up, and he didn't look back, his boots keeping a steady, unbroken rhythm against the stones as he walked toward the bridge where the music was just beginning to play.
