The man and the girl didn’t know where to go. As they drove off the bridge they took a street that ran along the wharves; the street, which was called the Embarcadero, led them to various tourist attractions: Fisherman’s Wharf, the Cannery (an old brick building that had been turned into boutiques and stores), a small beach, an old fort, a maritime museum, a yacht club, a park called Victoria Square and finally the Palace of Fine Arts, vestige of the 1915 World’s Fair.

They strolled along the wharves and in the shops, but there were really too many tourists . . . and people trying to sell things to tourists; they quickly found both groups unbearable and took refuge on the little beach.

They sat in the sand.

The island of Alcatraz was across from them. And when they turned around to look at the city they could see cable cars clattering down the steep slope of Hyde Street with their load of tourists, the strange clang-clang of their bells sounding at every intersection. On the hillside, the pastel tones of the houses softened the landscape.

The girl took off her running shoes and went to the shore of the bay. She stood motionless for a moment, her feet in the water, eyes fixed on the beige walls of the old Alcatraz prison. Then she turned toward the man, who was sitting in the sand with the cat on his knees, and saw that he, too, was looking toward the island.

“It’s late summer but the water’s as cold as on the North Shore!” she said. “What are you thinking about?”

“Burt Lancaster,” he said.

“Because of Birdman of Alcatraz?”

“Of course. And because he’s one of the actors my brother Théo liked a lot, too. My brother also liked John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Alan Ladd, Randolph Scott, Kirk Douglas . . . And what about you — what were you thinking about?”

“Indians. They took over the prison in 1969 and declared the island Indian territory.”

She was smiling.

“And what happened?” asked the man.

“The police set up a blockade around the island,” she said, “and then . . .”

She spread her arms in a sign of impotence and, swivelling on her bare feet, turned toward the city and bowed deeply. Her gesture seemed to say that the Indians always lost, that they had lost here yet again and there was nothing to be done about it. It was fate or something of the sort.

“All the same,” she said, “It’s a beautiful city!”

“Yes, but it’s cold!” said the man. “Shall we go?”

The sun couldn’t break through the fog, and they were shivering because of the dampness that sliced through to their bones.