When the man looked up, he saw that the fog had lifted and the Baie de Gaspé was flooded with light. He washed his dishes, then replaced everything in the minibus and slid back the roof.

Before he left, he made his customary three checks: the ice in the fridge, the motor oil, the fan belt. Everything was normal. Mechanically he gave the front tire on the driver’s side a kick, then got behind the wheel. He drove out of the campground and turned left: the town of Gaspé was about five kilometres away.

The hill was fairly steep so he had to gear down to third, then to second, and when he reached the top he spotted the tall thin girl walking along the side of the road. She was partly concealed by a huge knapsack with a tubular frame, but he recognized her at once by her very black hair and her bare feet. He deliberately stayed in second longer than necessary, and when she heard the rumbling of the motor, the girl stuck out her left thumb without turning around. He drove past her, stopped the Volks on the shoulder and flashed his emergency lights.

The girl opened the door.

She had a bony face, a dark complexion and very black, slightly slanted eyes. She wore a white cotton dress.

“Bonjour!” she said.

“I’m going to Gaspé,” said the man. “It’s not very far, but . . .”

He waved her inside.

She shrugged off her knapsack and hoisted it onto the passenger seat. The black kitten emerged from one of the pockets and climbed up on the back of the seat. He was all black with short hair and blue eyes. He started to explore the van. The man wedged the knapsack between the two seats. The girl got inside, but she left the door of the Volks open. She watched the kitten and waited until he had finished his exploration. Eventually he came and lay in her lap.

“It’s all right,” she said, and shut the door.

The man glanced in the rearview mirror, then started up.

The Volks was very old and covered with rust, but the motor ran well. It was a rebuilt motor. The girl was young. The man adjusted the heat so she would get some warm air on her feet. It was early May.

“Are you going far?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea,” she said. “First I have to go to the Gaspé museum. I know someone there I want to say hello to.”

“I’m going to Gaspé myself, but I don’t know where exactly . . .”

He gestured broadly with his right hand.

“I’m looking for my brother,” he said at last.

He had not seen his brother for a very long time: fifteen years, maybe twenty — he couldn’t remember exactly. The last time he’d seen him was at Mont-Tremblant, where they had watched a car race. Formula Ones. Then his brother had gone on a trip. At first he had sent postcards. He must have been moving around a lot because the cards had come from all sorts of places; one was from Key West, another from James Bay. Then, some years later, he had stopped writing. There had been no word from him. The last postcard was very peculiar and the stamp had been canceled at Gaspé.