I should have seen it coming, and in fact had seen it coming, but had denied the evidence to myself, so was that much more angered and dejected. But as I began typing a tensely worded two-page letter, it occurred to me I might have deserved it for allowing things with Devi to go so long in an unresolved state.

It was only after I had saved the letter to my drafts folder that I read the rest of Davidson’s note, and saw the pages in the envelope were not the last version of our script, but a play he had seen in Paris. He wanted to make an adaptation, and asked if I would be interested.

It was an interracial love affair set in the banlieues outside Paris, but, as I flipped through it, I thought it was only Davidson being fickle, and the project would eventually evaporate, just as the last one had. The play was translated as When You Are Weary, and he had scrawled a list of famous rappers he wanted to consider for the lead.

“On film it should be Breathless meets The Wire, with a hot soundtrack,” he’d written. I could not tell whether he was serious or not — he was pitching — and tried to suppress my sense of outrage at the wasted work I had put into the other project while he flitted around the world like a dilettante.

Inside the package were also several black-and-white stills from the original play to help me visualize what he had seen, but, as I rifled through the photos, I could not imagine what Davidson had in his head, which only increased my pique at him for dropping the other project. I was also having trouble moving beyond the neurotic meanings that would shade everything when it was put on film, and added to my mental notes that in the raced version the betrayal would seem to be because they were an interracial couple.

I was keeping a pretty good list of other things to be pissed about as well, when my computer chimed and I looked up to see an instant message on the screen.

“Sorry,” I wrote, mortified when I realized instead of saving the draft I had sent him my unedited thoughts. The damage was done, in any case, but I at least had the satisfaction of speaking my mind, even if it sabotaged me. I could live with that, taking my slip to mean I should just have done with the whole enterprise.

Davidson was all business, though, and ignored the apology, which was clearly insincere. “Thank you for sharing your feelings, my friend. The entire point of the original was how existentially cool Belmondo was — as a crook, a lover, un type—right down to the bullet in his back. Other than that it’s just a love story, baby. Simple, sweet, tragic. Write it like that.

“He knows about death, in a country that has just lost a generation of its men. She does not. Any other politics are outside, in the tabloids, not inside, where these things, if they are true, tell us about our own world. If it is a shallow desire for the forbidden, it is vulgar if they know it, a petty infatuation if they do not. If it is the signal that goes off inside you it is poetic. If it is profound and real despite great barriers it is ill starred. If they surmount them, heroic. If it is love of the spirit and they cannot achieve it in the world, it is tragedy. Just tell the truth. What could be simpler, and what could be harder?”

He had the upper hand, and not only because he was right, leaving me dangling above the abyss of my own chagrin. Before he signed off, he told me to think about whether I wanted to be part of the project. I was chastened and told him I would read it again, and reply the next week.

“Let’s meet for lunch in person, once you’ve finished,” he wrote.

“When will you be back?” I asked.

“Here in Paris,” he replied.

I did not want to go to Paris, but felt obliged, and said I would get in touch. My gut told me I was going to get fired in person.

When our instant chat ended I continued to rifle through the material, realizing all of a sudden why Davidson had been drawn to the play. It had been an all-female cast, and as I pored over the photos, I was not sure which of them he was sleeping with, but was positive he was dating at least one of them. He was that way.

I had planned to go to a party that night with my friend Nell, who produced a popular television show, but as I headed home, I no longer felt like going out. The day was jinxed. I called to tell her, mentioning in passing I had broken up with Devi that morning.

When Nell heard this she was even more adamant that I come out. “You were still dating Doctor Perfect? You know there was no connection there. Now let it go. Stop worrying, and come to the party.” She promised an interesting, beautiful crowd. I was too anxious about work and my conversation with Davidson, however, and bowed out. Instead I spent the evening alone in my empty apartment, making reservations for Paris, to get fired.

Despite my misgivings I flew to France two weeks later to meet Davidson, whom I had not heard from again since our chat, and was anxious of what to expect. When I arrived at my hotel there was a message from him at reception, asking that I call as soon as I arrived.

It was still midmorning, and after showering and an hour-long nap, I telephoned the number he had left. When he answered I was relieved to find he was in as good a mood as I had ever witnessed, and invited me to a dinner that evening with a group of actors he had befriended.

It was still light out when I joined them at nine o’clock around a long sidewalk table, not far from the Barbès station. There was a great communal feeling around the table, a mood of perfect naturalness woven through with joy and laughter. An hour later the summer sun was just starting to set, backlighting the gritty streets, and our meal had barely begun.

By the time the dishes were finally cleared it was long after midnight, but our gathering showed no signs of ending, as Davidson ordered Champagne. Several people drifted off after the bottle, but the five of us who remained continued debating, gossiping, laughing around the candles under the streetlights.

When the fifth man left, Davidson was chatting up a dark-haired beauty named Genevieve with quick, hazelnut eyes. Her friend, a bourgeoise girl called Florin, had mesmerizing, Athena-gray irises and was fashionably dressed in designer clothes. She was full of whatever she read on the Internet, though, repeating headlines and opinions almost verbatim, which were never as witty or informed as she thought. I did my best to be companionable, even if I was irked by her received opinions; and not because I found those who expressed received opinions and tastes thin-souled, but because they set me on edge as being capable of believing anything that had sufficient followers, and frightened me in the same way crowds at sporting events did, as the peacetime expression of the same latent impulse that caused political mobs.

I also happened to be jealous of Davidson, whose companion seemed fascinating and sparkling with life. I thought to leave, but he seemed transfixed by her, and if I left it would ruin the balance. I tried to be a good sport, making a diminishing effort to engage Florin, as Genevieve leaned attentively toward Davidson while he regaled her with his adventures, and neither of them paid much mind when I tried to interject in the conversation.

I fingered my glass, and humored Florin, masking my boredom, as my attention began visibly wandering when she started talking at length about her problems, and then how great she was, and name-dropping the important people she allegedly knew, and besides that whatever the newspapers said. Her eyes were captivating, though, and I focused on them until their gray mystery turned to ash.

Davidson ordered more Champagne, and I scanned the street, longing to leave, until I had grown sullen. As the darkness deepened I checked my watch, and began motioning to begin my escape, before I became too irritated and unsociable. It was then Genevieve suddenly put her hand on top of mine.