Paris lies prostrate in front of me, like a mortally wounded warrior, as I walk down ave de Saint-Ouen from the city gate into Montmartre. Pulling my mantle tighter around me to fight the chill in the air, I look out at the cemetery, bare and bleak. The streets of the city far below seem lifeless, stone buildings in the distance stand like tombstones. The frozen river is a thread woven in a death shroud. Closer by, the few men and women on the avenue move along like zombies. Putting one reluctant foot in front of the other, they drag their emaciated bodies over the cobblestones. Heads down, eyes glazed, ribs protruding beneath tattered clothes. I pass a chiffonnier in front of an apartment building sifting through the garbage searching for anything salvageable, anything that might fetch a sou or a morsel of food. The stench of starvation is in the air. At the corner of ave de Clichy I come upon a middle age-looking woman sitting on the curb with a baby pressed against her sagging breast. Her long skirt is hiked up above her knees as she stares down at the cobblestones, her upturned palm extended. I stop for a moment and look down on her, shuddering in disbelief at her hopelessness. Hopelessness that seems to have infected the city in the time I’ve been away. Dropping a single centime in the woman’s hand without looking at her, I continue on toward the Durands’ apartment