I fell in love with Paris — or the idea of Paris, anyway — because of my father, whose slender Inspector Maigret novels always intrigued me. It was a love affair in overdrive.
Blame it on Inspector Maigret. From time immemorial, officers have hung bloody clothing from crime scenes to dry under the rafters in the attic.
Nor has the rooftop view, courteously shown to me by a member of the Brigade Criminelle, a vista with the Seine and all of Paris before us. The juxtaposition of light and dark is a vital part of the noir ambiance that drives me to explore the dark corners of Paris, where no one else is looking. For me, this means there are new enclaves and hidden worlds to encounter, no matter how well I think I know these cobbled streets.
One must take the pulse of a quartier , assessing its rhythm; know it by heart, from the lime trees flanking its boulevards to its 19th-century passages couverts. Only when I can feel that pulse can I start the rest of my research for a novel. How I long to get it right, to reflect the Paris of the novels with its hidden courtyards and criminal underbelly — the Paris Inspector Maigret haunted.
An intoxicated young man looking for a fight entered the bar and approached us at our table — a table of off-duty police officers.
