I had secretly taken an earlier flight to elude the media and (I later learned) several dozen readers who, by the standards of literary greetings at airports, constituted a throng. I wasn’t being rude. I was terrified. I couldn’t allow them to see me stagger out after one of those hemmed-in, gut-busting, ear-popping, time-altering twelve-hour flights. You know they would have taken my picture, and I hate that even when rested, and resent photogenic people barking the camera only takes what’s there. That’s often not true. The camera is a professional liar. In fact, it is the mirror that more accurately reflects what is really there. I wasn’t there. I was in my hotel at a location only I knew. From my room I called my French publisher and told him I had entered Paris peacefully and would be resting all afternoon and evening.