Five hundred meters, one hundred meters, and then I’m there. The house must be located behind a dense grove right beside the bank of the canal.

But there’s no place to dock here, not a single mooring point along the canal—and besides, I will obstruct boat traffic if I dock here.

I have to start up again and keep going.

It is hot and quiet, the sweat is pouring off me, my hair is greasy. I probably look a fright, for sure I smell of boat—a mixture of old seawater, wet clothes, plastic, septic sludge, and diesel—but it doesn’t matter. Now I just have to do what I’ve come here to do.

Finally a guest harbor, in the center of Timbaut. I moor the boat quickly, but when I jump to shore, my heart is pounding because I understand that I can’t take the ice with me. I will have to leave it behind here, while I find my way to his house empty-handed, alone.

I rent a bike, a modern man’s bicycle with off-road tires. My feet barely reach the pedals and the screw connecting the seat to the pole is loose, so the seat keeps tipping backward. I have to straighten it out by force, using my own balance, and this produces an odd, awkward bike-riding technique.

The city is exactly as I expected: sweet, charming, with well-tended gardens, small tilting houses in mismatching colors, a boulangerie, a butcher, a bountiful florist shop. I cross the historic city center, where trelliswork frames a cobblestone square, I have trouble breathing due to the overwhelming scent of hollyhock, lavender, and freshly painted wrought-iron gates.

I slip forward on the bike seat, struggle to adjust my position, wobble a bit on a dip in the road, the front tire hits a cobblestone a little more crooked than the others. I almost fall, but pull the bicycle upright just in time and keep going, away from the square. I put the city center behind me, come out on the other side, pass an awning factory, turn a corner, keep riding, searching for a road sign but not finding any.

Then, on the next corner, a sign finally appears, but it’s wrong. I can see that as I come closer. I’m on the wrong street, I missed my turnoff.

I have to turn around and ride back, sweating heavily. Finally I stop at an intersection where one of the signs has the right name. Here it is, his street. It is lined with trees, the sun breaking through the treetops in patches, the leaves creating shadows in constant movement, even though today there is no wind.

I’m shaking as I concentrate on keeping the bike upright. I must not fall, must not lose my balance. I want to ride slowly, but I can’t; due to the instability of the bicycle I have to maintain a certain speed.