America, she had said. Chéri tried to imaged it. What was shared of America back home was rivers of milk and honey, land so fertile it would feed you with no effort at all and wide open spaces that could be claimed ad infinitum, as if nobody had ever lived there. When confronted with something like that, Chéri could only ask “Why did you ever leave?” the idea sounded absurd. They checked her belly. Maybe that was why. Their eyes spoke for them. Chéri puffed “Whatfor?” People never wanted Paris for Paris, or so they had learnt.