They walked into the Trieste. The café was crammed, but they found a little table in a corner. There was no table service. Jack went to order sandwiches and coffee at the counter: it was a good opportunity to talk to the owner, but he didn’t dare.

“What did you say to him?” asked the girl when he came back with their lunch.

“I said, ‘Two sandwiches and two cappuccini.’”

“And then?”

“Then he said, ‘Small or big, the cappuccini?’”

“And then?”

“Then I said, ‘Small,’ and that’s all.”

“Can you imagine!” she said, laughing. “He travels all the way across America and he can’t ask, ‘Do you know a guy named Théo?’”

“I should have brought a picture,” said Jack. “I don’t understand how I could forget such a thing.”

“I’ll go and talk to him,” said the girl, taking a sip of her coffee.

She handed him the cat and headed for the counter.

Jack was expecting to see the owner shake his head, but instead he smiled. He seemed to be explaining something. Near the door, across from the counter, some people sitting on the windowsill were having an animated conversation. Other people were alone. A girl was reading the classified ads in the Bay Guardian. A thin man with Spanish features, very black hair and a dark complexion held a guitar on his knees, but he wasn’t playing. The wall on Jack’s left was covered with pictures, some of which had been taken at the Trieste.

La Grande Sauterelle came back with the owner. He took her to the wall and showed her a photograph of a group of people sitting around a table; he put his finger on one of the figures in the picture.

“That’s him,” he said.

“Thank you,” said the girl, and the owner went back to his counter.

XXX. Mr. Ferlinghetti

XXX

Mr. Ferlinghetti

They crossed Columbus Avenue, and Jack was still in an emotional state when they entered the City Lights Bookstore. He repeated, “When he said: ‘That’s him . . .’”

“I know,” said the girl.

“I thought that . . . It gave me a shock!”

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

The man whom the owner of the Trieste had pointed out in the picture was not Jack’s brother. It was Mr. Ferlinghetti. Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the poet.