In the afternoon of that Parisian day I had seen, at the Pompidou Center, a great exhibition of André Breton, a pretext, in fact, for a display of surrealistic imagery as you can rarely see in a single place. My friends, who put me up, accompanied me, a young couple, mixed in several ways, as it brought together two races, two religions and two arts, but above all two extremely opposite physiognomies. I looked at her face as it reflected in the glass of a Delvaux and it seemed to belong there, naturally surrounded by blonde female nudes waiting (for whom?) in a deserted train station. She was their living image, except for the hair, brutally cut at the nape of her head. And, of course, for the clothes, among which the famous black men’s shirt, that I saw her in most of the time in the week I had stayed with them. How that Romanian girl from Sibiu had managed to find the Algerian she lived with, I didn’t have the slightest idea. My connection was, of course, her, through a mutual friend, a musician as well. He was a Berber proud of his descent, showing it by the velvet cap with cherry shades and blue satin bottom that I believe he never separated from. Thus he was, just like her, funny, nonchalant, a little lazy... It was impossible to tell what he lived of. For I doubt it was acting, as he (hardly) claimed: I didn’t believe Othello – the only part I could have imagined him playing – was staged very often these days in Paris... Out of the entire exhibition there was one painting that stayed in my mind. I must be crazy: sometimes I love a painting so much that I literally want to break into the museum and take it away. It was Magritte’s „Le soir qui tombe”: a broken window, long shards of glass standing underneath and the setting sun reflected in them under different angles...