The sliding door opened only from the outside. Jack turned off the ignition and handed the keys to the girl. She stepped down, unlocked the door and opened it. The old man placed his canvas roll inside and gave the girl a rather comical salute before taking his place on the seat; he bowed, and bringing one leg back, he bent his knees slightly. She returned his bow in the same fashion.

“There’s a cat in the sink,” she warned him. “His name is Chop Suey.”

“Cats are my friends,” said the old man. “Mes copains, as you say in Quebec.”

“Where did you learn French?” asked Jack.

“I lived in Paris. Between the wars, in 1921. Back then you could live in France fairly cheaply. Today, though . . .”

He didn’t complete his sentence.

“And besides, on the road, I’ve met folks from Quebec . . . and often we’d travel sur le pouce together, as you folks say.”

His French was accurate, but sometimes he hesitated in mid-sentence, as if he were mentally preparing the words he was going to use.

“Where did you live in Paris?” asked Jack.

“Quartier Latin,” said the old man.

“What street, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Rue du Cardinal-Lemoine. If you want the number, I can tell you: I’ve got a very good memory!”

“Excuse me,” said Jack.

The old man started to laugh.

Jack glanced in the rearview mirror: the old man was laughing openly; he had a fine face, plump and round, with deep wrinkles around his eyes, but the eyes were those of a crafty man.

La Grande Sauterelle turned toward the old man.

“Do you always hitchhike?” she asked.

He’d been doing so for a long time . . . But in his youth (an eternity ago), he hopped freight trains like many people at that time, because it was the Depression and there wasn’t much money.

One way or another he’d been travelling all his life. He liked the road. It was his way of living. When he was tired he would lie down by the side of the road or in a field or park and cover himself with his canvas. Then next day he was back on the road again. There was an English word for that: the verb to ramble.

“In French, you can say vagabonder,” said Jack.

“That’s right,” said the old man, without much conviction.

“Or se promener, errer à l’aventure, aller de-ci de-là . . .”

“Mmm-hmmm!” said the old man, and Jack didn’t pursue the matter.

There was a moment’s silence, then the girl started the conversation again.

“So you’re going to Oregon?”