On the afternoon of that Parisian day I had seen a big André Breton exhibition at the Pompidou Centre. This was actually a pretext for a presentation of surrealistic imagery you can rarely see in a single place. I was accompanied by the friends who were hosting me, a young couple, a mixture from various points of view, as they represented two races, two religions and two arts, but especially two highly contrasting physiognomies. I looked at her face, reflected in the glass of some Delvaux and it seemed that she was from the place, naturally surrounded by naked blond women, waiting (for whom?) in a desert station. She was just like them, except for her hair that was violently cut at her nape. And of course, the clothes, among which the famous black male shirt I had seen her wearing most of the times during the week I had been spending with them. How had this Romanian woman from Sibiu found the Algerian she lived with? I have no idea. My connection was her, of course, through a common friend, a musician as well. He was a Berber and he was so proud of his origin, marked by the velvet cap with dark red touches and a bottom of blue atlas. I guess he always wore that cap. Thus, he was funny, indifferent, quite lazy, just like her… I can’t say what he made a living out of. I doubt it was acting, as (he hadn’t even) pretended: I don’t think Othello – the only part I could see him in more or less – was very acted in Paris those days… Of all the exhibition, one single painting has remained in my mind. I think I must be nuts: sometimes I love a painting so much, that I literally feel like breaking into the museum and go away with it. It was Magritte’s “Le soir qui tombe”: a broken window, long pieces of broken glass standing under it and the setting sun reflecting in them under different angles.