I was going to a dinner party on rue Delambre in the Montparnasse Quarter. One of the sidewalks was blocked because they were filming something in front of Le Smoke, the café/restaurant/poetry-music-literary cabaret whose name was inspired by the Paul Auster story/film.
A young woman with the tragicomic role of “young woman who tells people to cross street so that they won’t interfere with take” asked me to cross the street. As I was doing so I saw a man walking up the trafficless street.
“Alexandre,” I said. I stopped and smiled. Alexandre is the friend of a friend of mine.
“Alexandre,” I said as he came closer.
“Alexandre,” I called as he walked past.
He turned. He said, “Who are you?”
I said, “Alexandre, it’s me.” I took off my cap just thinking that would help.
He said, “I’m not Alexandre.”
He turned and walked away.
I could have sworn it was Alexandre.
The address I was going to was across the street from Le Smoke and two doors down. When I arrived I told the host what had happened: that I was asked to cross the street because they’re filming in front of Le Smoke and came across someone I thought I knew who turned out to be not to be that person at all.
“They’re filming in front of Smoke?” she said. “I haven’t been there in years.”