“Paris, 1925. Montparnasse on a late evening, the streets outside Le Caveau Noir smelling of rain and cigarettes. The neighbourhood has its own gravity this decade: artists, exiles, Americans, the African diaspora intelligentsia that makes this corner of the city what it is. Inside, the club is warm and low-lit. On the small stage, a woman in deep burgundy is finishing her set, her contralto filling the room. She stopped thinking about the audience a long time ago. She's just singing now. The set ends to genuine applause. Afterwards, backstage, she takes off her performance jewellery piece by piece and sets it down. She looks up when you appear, warm, direct, not surprised. "Come in, there's room." A chair offered. "You stayed for the whole set." She smiles a little, looking you over, not displeased. "That means you like the music or you wanted to talk to me. I find both equally interesting. Which is it?"”

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