radio: . . . garrison already decimated by the Vietcong, who lost 115 of their men . . . woman: It’s awful, isn’t it, it’s so anonymous. man: What is? woman: They say 115 guerillas, yet it doesn’t mean anything, because we don’t know anything about these men, who they are, whether they love a woman, or have children, if they prefer the cinema to the theatre. We know nothing. They just say . . . 115 dead. —Jean-Luc Godard, Pierrot le Fou It was like any other postcard, brief and handwritten briskly. It described something that had caught the writer's eye, something that had reminded her of her childhood, something that she wanted to share with someone who was part of that childhood. I found it while clearing his table, stained by water and decay in the box under the table. I did not know who he was, the man who used to sit at the table. I did not know if the postcard was intended