“Sure,” he interrupted her, “only at this point the bars are all run by Italians who hire Negro step dancers to pander to a white audience.”

“Oh really?”

He was happy to know something for once.

Lauren stopped for a moment, pulled a map out of her pocket, all marked up. Carl had had a map once too. He would spread it out on the kitchen table again and again, tracing routes all across New York City. It had been folded and unfolded so many times that the fold in the middle was torn. And then at some point it was gone. Josef had left it somewhere by mistake.

“The New York Historical Society on 77th is open till five. We could go look at old photographs of the city.”

He had never been in a museum before. He didn’t know how you were supposed to act.

“I’m happy to walk with you there, Lauren. But then I have to go. I’ve got work.”

“What about coffee?”

He was surprised. What did she see in him? Nevertheless he started looking up and down the street. There was a bar, more of a place for men who were built like dockworkers, and an Automat.

“I like Automats,” she said.

The restaurant hadn’t been reset yet after the midday rush. The chairs stood carelessly pulled back from the tables. He could picture the haste with which the white- and blue-collar workers had scarfed down their food and then gotten right back up again. Lauren wiped a few crumbs away with her fist; he went to hang up her coat.

He came back carrying a tray with two cups of coffee that clattered against each other and a slice of cheesecake to show how thoughtful he was. He was determined to steer the conversation more himself from now on.

“Automats were a big help to me in the beginning. I was afraid to speak.”

“Really, Joe?” she asked, smiling and shaking her head.

“I knew maybe fifty words of English. Thick accent. Immigrants weren’t exactly well-liked back then either, and as soon as you opened your mouth your cover was blown. You understand?”

He saw the sympathy in her look.

“And then the Automats, these links in a chain across New York. They made me feel taken care of. The world would put food out for me in little glass windows. Sandwiches, scones, bagels, all waiting for me to decide. Just drop a coin in the slot, that was it.”

She seemed to want to say something, but then after taking a breath she reached for her coffee and took a sip.

Bing Crosby sang airily,

I’m no millionaire,

but I’m not the type to care.

“Do you like Bing Crosby? We were born the same year, 1903. I know because people have told me I look a bit like him. What do you think?”