Jerrold put his finger to his lips in a conspiratorial fashion. He held out his hand to Terrence, and I introduced them. Then I went and stood beside Terrence, and he put his arm around my shoulders. Jerrold understood everything. “Bon.”

We took his wet coat and hat and brought him to the fireplace and gave him a drink. “My mother was dying. Has died,” he said. “My father died in fifty-two, and I had to stay in France. I did not say goodbye to my own father. This time? No.”

Terrence and I both said how sorry we were about his mother’s death. Terrence refreshed his glass. “But didn’t the government revoke your passport?” I asked.

“I am someone else now. Someone French. Please do not ask who, or how I got this passport.” He spoke with a slight lilt, not a French accent, but a way of ordering his words that was no longer wholly American. “I could not let my mother leave this world without saying goodbye. But have no fear; I was careful. I came in through Canada and took the train across to Vancouver. My brother drove up to get me. The border crossing in Washington is easy. We drove down to Portland, and I spent time with my mother. She was happy at the end. I did not go to the funeral, you can understand why, but I said my farewells. That’s all that mattered to me. To her. Is that Nelson’s old upright piano!”

“Yes,” I said, not caring if it actually was or not.

“How happy he would be to know that you play it. Max writes to me often, how successful you are! Until he gave me this address, I thought you must be living in Beverly Hills.”

“If she lived in Beverly Hills,” said Terrence, “I’d have to drive a milk truck, wear a white uniform, and come to the back door.”

Jerrold laughed. “Oui, that is certainly true. Your life here, I assume, is a secret you must keep from the world. You should come to Paris, both of you. There, it would not be so. The French are many things—arrogant, of course, utterly unsentimental, with long, unsparing memories—but they are always on the side of love. You would be happy there. I am happy there. I have an African wife, chérie, did you know that? My Annette.”

“No. What happened to . . .” I struggled to remember his American wife’s name.