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Anjali walked across the Seine to Île de la Cité, using the Pont au Change. Then she crossed the Seine again to the Left Bank, noting the river’s turbulent waters, and turned right on Quai des Grands Augustins.
Motorcycles blasted by at high speed. Girls on the back wearing high heels, fluttering scarves, and helmets, clung to the men who raced their machines against the taxis. The booksellers’ stalls, that perched so precariously on the stone wall high above the Seine, were locked for the night.
Anjali strode out. The hard heels of her flats rang on the pavement, expressing her confidence that she could adjust successfully to her new home.
She climbed the six flights to her chambre de bonne nimbly. Sitting on the bed, she wrote down what John had said about her work, “interested in these characters” and “you had me gasping with that twist,” on two small squares of yellow construction paper. She wrote what Carol had said about the characters having to sound different from each other, and to say less, on two more squares. She taped them to the doors of her closet, the two compliments on the left door, the two criticisms on the right, and got ready for bed.
