It’s only a short journey from Pigalle to Montmartre and soon we are back pounding the cobblestones.
“This is the place,” he tells me. “You can find anything you want here.”
I don’t exactly know what he means, but the street is alive with the sound of music and laughter. People are spilling out of cafes and clubs, singing and talking in loud voices. We walk along the footpath and I wonder which of these wonderful places he’s taking me. We turn down a small side street, a petite rue latérale. It’s not as well lit here. There are street lamps, but none of the café lights and such.
He approaches a non-descript door, indistinguishable from any other door, and knocks three times quickly and then a fourth time. A small window opens and a pair of dark eyes appears. They look us up and down the
