I do like a nice enigma, don’t you?

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Autumn turns to winter. 1986. Paris, Rue Daguerre to be more precise, and at dusk towards the end of a cold November day. Chestnuts roasting on a brazier at the street corner, currents of warm air swirling from the doors of bakeries, bars and the stairwell down to the metro, all with their attendant smells, scents or aromas. Carcasses of deer, boar and rabbits skinned and waiting, hanging on hooks outside the butcher’s in the cold. No flies. Mitterrand trundles along the pavement in tell-tale coat, scarf, hat, staring into the middle distance while looking aloof and making eye contact with only his reflection in cafe windows. Cold nose, cold cheeks. Presidential men in black trying to be discreet. A foreign acquaintance of not much significance waits in Brasserie Péret at a table in the back, away from the window. A curious friendship that neither will allow to last.