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fluent Russian (on top of French and Spanish, which she had learned while living for a year in Mexico City with a boyfriend). She had covered wars in Sudan, Sierra Leone, Kosovo; she practiced Tibetan meditation and adored soccer.
    “I’m in love with Francesco Totti,” she declared. “He’s my number one favorite, along with Ronaldinho.”
    I wasn’t prepared for so much personality, charm, or for that overflowing effusiveness that she kept expressing with such ease (she grabbed my hand again twice during our conversation and then on the street she casually put her arm around my shoulders). I was flattered by so much attention, and the prospect of spending a week in Hampshire with those marines together with her made it all more acceptable. I had actually envisioned myself in a flak jacket running through the English countryside with Imo, together escaping a terrorist attack. Suddenly the idea of doing the course with her seemed an opportunity for a great adventure that would consolidate our friendship. Essentially, I realized in a flash that anything done in Imo’s company would take on a whole new light.
    I was gratified by the respect she seemed to grant me for no reason I could discern, and I decided it wasn’t necessary to remind her I hadn’t been out there on the streets in years and never once in a war zone. The Barbie doll picture seemed to have had enough power to make her trust me completely. Whatever the reason, I didn’t want to deter her faith in me.
    “We could take the train together tomorrow,” I suggested, as we were saying good-bye in front of the cab she was about to climb into. “Unless you were planning to drive.”
    “Where?”
    “To the country. Wherever this place is. For the course, I mean.”
    “Oh, right. The Defenders,” she said, letting the name dangle for a second in the air. “Oh, no, darling, I’m not going to come. I did that course already
years
ago, when I went to Sudan. The insurance only needs you to do it once. But don’t worry, I’ll see you next Monday at the Emirates check-in at Heathrow.”
    She hugged me tight and kissed me on both cheeks. The disappointment must have redrawn my face, as I felt my cheeks sag, my nose lengthen. What an idiot. Someone who hops from one war zone to another, what was I thinking? She didn’t need the Defenders to defend her.
    “They’ll do all sorts of things to you, just wait and see,” she said, wrapping her black cashmere coat around her. “You might just love it!”
    And with a devilish grin she disappeared into the darkness of the large cab, leaving behind a sweetish, spicy scent.
             
    I walked back to the hotel in order to digest the meeting, constantly checking my “London from A to Z” map for fear of getting lost again. I felt Imo Glass was a person whose definition eluded me. Perhaps because a little girl born as Lupita Jaramillo in the slums of a South American city ruled by drug traffickers, and who subsequently mutated into a woman by the name of Imogen who grew up in Notting Hill with an art historian (father) and a psychotherapist (mother) as adoptive parents, was a unique creature whose DNA had flourished in total anarchy. That’s probably why she seemed able to effortlessly shift from one language to another, from one country to another, as if she were always swimming in the same water and consequently managed to feel at home just about everywhere. But what struck me the most about her was her total lack of fear in the way she approached complete strangers—the waitress at the club, the taxi driver, me—enveloping everyone with festive familiarity, a secret weapon that tamed them on the spot, neutralizing any aggressive potential.
             
    The following morning at seven, I had an appointment at Paddington station at the platform with my course companions. Pierre had told me over the phone that it was going to be a short trip and that one of the instructors was supposed to meet