And there’s the bridge itself. She could be on the bridge. A stolen moment standing against the stone wall, watching the boats as they pass beneath her.

I decide to start there. I take Didi and Desi by the hand, and we walk the length of the bridge. The tourists are still in numbers, and there’s the chance that we might have missed her on the first pass, so we do it again.

As we search for Mimi, I’m reminded of those comic situations in movies where the heroine goes missing, and the hero hurries off to find her. In the meantime, the heroine returns, finds the hero missing, and goes out to find him. Back and forth they go, each time missing each other by the smallest of margins.

With musical cues, so you know when to laugh.

If we were home, there would be all sorts of possibilities. She could have gone to the library. She could have had a doctor’s appointment that she had forgotten to mention. She could have met friends for coffee.

But when you travel, when you’re on the road, these possibilities vanish. No library, no doctor, no friends. No routines to fill your day. There’s just the two of you, alone in a strange city.

I stand at the window. Every so often, I see someone who could be Mimi, but isn’t. Where would she go without me? Why would she leave without telling me? It’s been a couple of hours now. How long do I wait before I do something? And then the question will be, do what? Go to the police? Check the hospitals? Not so easy to do in a country where you don’t speak the language. It’s true that English is understood, to some degree, throughout the world, but finding a missing person is more complicated than ordering a coffee, asking directions, or buying a souvenir.

Eugene and the Other Demons sit quietly on the bed. They know when to keep their mouths shut.

MIMI AND I MET in San Francisco. She had come to town for an art exhibition. I had just started working for the Examiner and had been sent to cover the show, to write a piece for the Sunday edition.

I had been able to make a hit-and-run meal out of a table awash with vegetable spears, squares of cheese, and crackers, and was standing in front of a canvas that was painted black when Mimi found me.

“You look lost.”

“Baffled.”

“You an artist?” she had asked.

“Journalist.”

“So, you’re thinking, why would anyone paint a canvas black?”

On the far wall were three paintings that had succeeded in capturing the surface of water. “I like those a lot better.”

“Those are mine.”

At first, I thought she was kidding. “Mimi Bull Shield,” she said.

“Bull Shield?”

“Blackfoot. You know anything about art?”

“Nope.”

“But they sent you to do the story.”