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May 5, 2010
Who knows when exactly my father was studying at L'Ecole des Beaux-Arts? Some say it was in the thirties, some say forties (but that's not really possible) or even fifties. He was looking for a room. A cheap one around Montmartre. In one of those ubiquitous five story buildings. The landlady said this is for you. The place was shabby and expensive. Gesturing to the room in front, she said wait until la Demoiselle comes back. Every day at breakfast, she would say she'll be here soon. A violinist, no less, my father told us with a faint smile.