That call came on the morning of November 14 as I was in bed massaging my head, a pounding miserableness that smacked of dirty chacha. My five-year old daughter was doing her fart in daddy’s face trick to rouse him while a voice on the phone told me there had been terrorist attacks in Paris and that the writer had to return home immediately before they could shoot. “Can you meet us at Gabriadze’s in an hour?” Then I understood. I was going to have lunch with Anthony Bourda
