He felt completely sober now, and a horrible anxiousness took hold of him. When, after walking a few hundred feet, he saw the flickering green light of a bar, he went inside, joined the few patrons sitting at the bar, and ordered an Old Musket, which shone golden and soothing in his glass. Let it all be blotted out, the whole day and, if possible, the days to come—but the drink had hardly any effect, as if his state of wakefulness were now permanent. The bartender read the newspaper. When Josef asked, he shared a few pages with him, and Josef looked, as he often had of late, for furnished rooms outside the city, where nobody wanted to live. ASBURY, LIGHT, SUNNY, WELL-HEATED ROOM, $5 WEEKLY, GENTLEMEN 0244. He just had to call, go out there, put down money—but what was he supposed to live off of in these backwaters? Was he supposed to tend cows like he did back when he was a boy?

Only now did Josef notice him. He might have been there the whole time. He’d kept his hat on and pulled it low over his forehead. But Josef recognized him. It was Duquesne. No doubt about it. He had a face that had seen everything: wars, prisons, presidents, African steppe. And something else too: a stately, dignified quality. Josef tried to make eye contact; the man seemed to turn away a little. Carefully, very gingerly, Josef reached for his glass, lifted it up, and drank.

Then he went off toward the bathroom, but took a few steps back into the room.

“Mr. Duquesne?” he spoke to the man’s back. “I’m Josef Klein, Joe. We met at the Old Heidelberg a few months ago. Do you mind?”

“You must be mistaken.” The man didn’t even turn around. But Josef had recognized the peculiar accent. When he came back from the bathroom, he saw that the man was already on the other side of the street. He threw a dollar on the bar, grabbed his hat, and followed him at a distance of about a hundred feet. The street was empty, his pursuit was obvious, and the thought occurred to him that it might make more sense to just run and catch up with him. But something held him back. He watched with interest as Duquesne varied his speed, one minute strolling along and staring into the windows of parked cars, the next walking with great haste. Sometimes the street was so dark that Duquesne was swallowed up completely until he resurfaced in the light of the next streetlamp. But then he vanished for good. In the doorway where he’d lost Duquesne a few bodies lay sleeping, buried under a pile of blankets, a few bare feet poking out. It was one o’clock in the morning. Too late for the subway. He would have to make it back to Manhattan on foot and then look for a taxi.