Mr. Ferlinghetti was behind the counter, talking with the young man. Jack took a copy of Beat Angels from the shelf, opened it to the page with the photograph, but couldn’t make up his mind whether to question the owner. The girl asked him what was going on.

“This feels too much like playing detective,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I feel like a character in a B-movie. An old one with Jean Gabin or Humphrey Bogart. You know the type: there’s a sleazy smoke-filled bar with ceiling fans, and the detective comes up to the counter and shows the bartender a photo. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’ The bartender says he’s never seen him in his life, so then the detective puts a twenty-dollar bill on the counter: ‘Maybe this’ll refresh your memory.’ And the other man says, ‘Right, now I remember . . .’ See what I mean?”

“Of course,” said the girl, smiling.

Just then the owner approached them.

“Soyez les benvenus,” he said. “Are you French?”

“Not exactly. We’re Québécois,” said Jack, who was glad to see that Mr. Ferlinghetti spoke French.

“Been in San Francisco long?” asked the owner.

“Just two days,” said Jack. “We’re looking for someone . . .”

He thrust the photograph under Mr. Ferlinghetti’s eyes.

“Do you know this man?” he asked.

“Sorry?” said the owner.

“This one here,” said Jack, putting his finger on the picture of his brother.

Mr. Ferlinghetti peered attentively at the picture.

“I remember the occasion,” he said a few moments later. “It was at the Café Trieste in . . . that’s right, it’s written there . . . in 1977. I remember very well, but this man . . .”

“He’s my brother,” said Jack.

“What’s his name?”

“Théo. I’ve been looking everywhere for him. I haven’t seen him for a long time and . . . he’s my brother,” he said again.

The owner of the bookstore looked pensively at Jack, then studied the picture again. He was rummaging in his memories. Searching.

“I remember him,” he said at length.

La Grande Sauterelle’s face lit up with a smile so broad and luminous that for a moment Mr. Ferlinghetti was distracted from what he was about to say; he turned his head toward her and looked at her in silence.

“Yes, I remember,” he resumed. “He had a very . . . pronounced Québécois accent. He came to the poetry readings and he was often at the Café Trieste and the Vesuvio. I think he was staying in North Beach . . . or he had a girlfriend in the neighbourhood. I don’t remember which exactly. It’s been a few years now . . . A lot of people have gone or disappeared, you know.”

He stopped to reflect.

“I haven’t seen him in . . . five, six years.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Jack. “Thanks a lot.”

“I’m sure we’ll find him,” said La Grande Sauterelle.