Stefan lived in a townhouse at the edge of the city. When Olivier and I arrived, the sun was beginning to set, and Stefan ushered us to his rooftop terrace. It was a warm summer night, perfect for eating outside. Before either of us said a word, we were handed beers and shown to a table filled with all kinds of food.
“Wow,” I said to Olivier, “who knew the antiques business was so lucrative?”
“That, or he comes from money.” Olivier popped an olive into his mouth. “Or his wife does.”
Stefan’s wife, Luisa, was taller than her husband, willowy where he was squat. Her English was not as strong as Stefan’s, and after a few minutes of conversation in English, she floated off to speak with her daughter Klara.
Olivier couldn’t avoid the group of young girls who had started giggling the moment
