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"It's not what I said, it's what he heard. Without the magic, I can only guess." "Magic?" I echoed. As laughable as it sounded, I almost believed her. She repeated her dramatic sigh. "Look," she said, "you've hit your head pretty hard. Why don't I walk you home, and I'll tell you about it along the way. I'm going to warn you now, though, that tomorrow you'll only remember all of this as a hazy dream, and you probably won't remember at all the day after that." "You don't have a car?" I asked smartly. The look she gave me made me wonder if we were both hearing the same words. "No," she answered succinctly. "But, how did you get here?" I asked. "How did you plan to get home?" "Let's walk, and I'll explain. Hopefully my friends will help get me home." I nodded, and she turned and headed toward the door. I couldn't help but notice how shapely her backside was, and how nicely her jeans showed off her hips as she walked. The drummer and the bass player both saluted me with big grins on. There was no sign that it had been opened since the Germans had arrived. He thought maybe he could make use of the cellar if things didn't work out with Sandy's operation but it would be a whole lot easier with her help and she seemed willing enough so far at least.He headed back towards the Seine. He was lucky. Passing the Trocadero he saw a poster. The Orchestre de la Société des Concerts du Conservatoire were performing that night. Clegg decided to treat himself to an evening's culture.Wagner, Beethoven, Bruckner. The programme was predictable, Clegg guessed, given the sea of grey uniforms in the audience and certainly better than Hindemith. The Beethoven and the Bruckner were fine, thought Clegg but when it came to the Wagner he agreed with Mark Twain. When he'd said that Wagner's music was better than it sounded he'd hit the nail on the head.The concert gave Clegg the chance to study Tereza Aucune. From his seat in the circle, peering through his opera glasses, he could clearly.
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