“All right,” he said. “But after that we’ll get back on the road and make some progress before dark, okay?”

“Okay. Shall we start with the museum?”

“Yes. And we won’t look for my brother’s trail.”

“I promise,” she said.

The museum was the Detroit Institute of Arts, and La Grande Sauterelle knew exactly how to get there. They went north on route 75, then west on 94, and they drove along Woodward Avenue to the museum. They bought their tickets, then climbed up to the second floor, racing through a number of galleries on the way, and it was five-fifteen when they arrived, out of breath, in the large gallery that contained the Rivera mural.

The room was nearly ten metres high, and it was lit by the natural light that came in through the glass roof. Rivera’s work covered all four walls. In tones dominated by pale green, pale yellow and, above all, grey, it depicted huge industrial machinery with blank-faced workers bustling around it.

The machines, they realized as they studied the different parts of the mural, were those used in the automobile industry. On the north wall, workers were manufacturing motors: they were casting the metal, moulding the cylinder blocks and operating two huge pieces of equipment used to drill the openings for pistons and valves. On the south wall, the workers formed an assembly line, at the left of which was a conveyor belt and, on the right, a giant press that moulded the parts for the body.

All the faces were immutably serious, solemn almost, and their gravity added to the impression of austerity emanating from the drab colours. The overall effect was one of heaviness, sadness and exhaustion.

Just as a guard announced closing time, they spotted, in the very middle of the mural, on the south wall, a small stain of bright red. As they drew nearer they saw it was an automobile coming off the assembly line. The line was set out in such a way that it moved away from the viewer, and the automobile at the other end seemed very small. The tiny red car was the only spot of bright colour in Rivera’s immense mural.

Not far from the museum they found a post office where La Grande Sauterelle mailed her parcel. They left the Volks in the parking lot. They were tired and depressed and hungry. They wanted to have a bite to eat and a little walk before they got back on the road.

They bolted some soup and a sandwich in a snack bar. Then they started walking through the neighbourhood.

They crossed a park.

There was nothing special about the park: trees, flowers, benches, a path; some blacks were sitting and drinking beer. It was a quiet spot.

The sun was about to set.

They walked aimlessly. It was only half-past seven, yet the streets were almost deserted.

Jack had no sense of direction. He turned two corners and was totally lost. The girl, on the other hand, could walk for an hour, turning left and right depending on her whim of the moment and always knew exactly where she was.