a bomb went off under my bed the other morning. it was early on a grey tuesday when i heard a flock of ambulances somewhere near my left bank street, making that forlorn, politely insistent two note bleating all paris ambulances make. i went downstairs and outside and found - nothing. the street sweeper with the green plastic broom was sweeping; the young woman who keeps the striped pajama boutique across the street was reading her paul auster novel. ("you left new york for paris?" she demanded incredulously when i introduced myself not long ago.) only in the early afternoon, when