At the time I was writing “Battle of Angels” and—the crowded avenue of umbrellas and passersby hailing cabs in the rain makes it difficult to hear. What did you say? I ask. I said it was a period of loneliness, you shout.The subject is promiscuity. Men in gray suits and hats leap gracefully over a water-swollen grate. Through a fine curtain of rain, streets sing with gray light. What I love about this city is the pigeons, you say. The way things can be so fucking rotten, yet they sleep together under the eaves of cathedrals and brothels. They keep warm that way.

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