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
Give or take a few hundred yardsIt had gone off beneath the second-floor refuge on the Left Bank that