He tried to look at her. But now he could not even move his eyes. He could only look straight forward. His breathing was shallow.

"Jonathan?"

I need a doctor.

"Jonathan, can you look at me? Can you? No? You cannot turn your head?"

Somehow, her voice did not sound concerned. She sounded detached, clinical. Perhaps his hearing was affected. There was a rushing sound in his ears. It was harder and harder to breathe.

"All right, Jonathan, let's get you away from here."

She ducked her head under his arm and with surprising strength got him to his feet. His body was loose and floppy, sagging around her. He could not control where he looked. He heard the clicking of footsteps approaching and thought, Thank God. He heard a man's voice say in French, "Mademoiselle, do you need help?"

"Thank you, but no," she said. "Just too much to drink."

"Are you sure?"

"He does this all the time."

"Yes?"

"I can manage."

"Ah. Then I wish you bonne nuit."

"Bonne nuit," she said.

She continued on her way, carrying him. The footsteps became fainter. Then she paused, turned to look in all directions. And now amp;she was moving him toward the river.

"You are heavier than I thought," she said, in a conversational tone.

He felt a deep and profound terror. He was completely paralyzed. He could do nothing. His own feet were scraping over the stone.

Toward the river.

"I am sorry," she said, and she dropped him into the water.

It was a short fall, and a stunning sense of cold. He plunged beneath the surface, surrounded by bubbles and green, then black. He could not move, even in the water. He could not believe this was happening to him, he could not believe that he was dying this way.

Then slowly, he felt his body rise. Green water again, and then he broke the surface, on his back, turning slowly.

He could see the bridge, and the black sky, and Marisa, standing on the embankment. She lit a cigarette and stared at him. She had one hand on her hip, one leg thrust forward, a model's pose. She exhaled, smoke rising in the night.