“I wouldn’t dare,” he said. “I haven’t read any of his books.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I can’t even remember any titles . . .”

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Just call a bookstore and they’ll tell you.”

He gave her a pleading look that she understood. She went to the telephone. When she came back she handed him a piece of paper on which she had noted two titles: The Adventures Of Augie March, 1953, and Humboldt’s Gift, 1975.

“That’s right, I remember!” said Jack.

“Now’s your chance . . .” she said.

Saul Bellow had just said, “I’ve got a plane to catch,” and the reporters were moving away. The girl elbowed her way to the front row. Jack hid behind her. A reporter with a tape recorder slung over his shoulder was asking one last question. Sitting in his easy chair, the Nobel laureate formulated a reply, but at the same time, with a sidelong glance, he was peering at the girl’s running shoes, jeans and military shirt, and when he got to the tennis cap covering her head he smiled and winked at her. Finally he rose and took his leave of the press.

He had short grey hair and a rather gentle manner.

“I don’t think you’re a journalist, young lady?” he said in a questioning tone.

“No. But you’re supposed to think I’m a boy!” said La Grande Sauterelle with her very pronounced accent.

“Sorry about that!”

“I forgive you because you won the Nobel Prize. I’m a mechanic and my friend here is a writer.”

She moved aside and Jack nervously shook Saul Bellow’s hand.

“How do you do?” said Jack.

“Nice to meet you,” said the winner of the Nobel Prize. “Are you from Quebec?”

“Yes.”

“You can speak French if you want: I was born in Montreal.”

“What are you doing in Chicago?” asked the girl.

“I happen to live here!” he laughed. “What about you?”

“We’re travelling,” said Jack.

“Just passing through?”

“Yes. Oui.”

“Like your ancestors, Louis Jolliet and Père Jacques Marquette!”

“And Robert Cavelier de La Salle,” said the girl.

Everyone started to laugh. Saul Bellow glanced at his watch. “What do you think of Chicago?” he asked. “She’s been a wicked city in her time, but . . .”

“Wicked?” asked La Grande Sauterelle. “I mean rough. Now the violence is still here but it’s mixed with business and culture. This is the city that gave birth to the Encyclopaedia Britannica, Zenith TVs, Wrigley’s gum, Quaker Oats and McDonald’s hamburgers. But take a walk downtown and there are sculptures and paintings by Picasso and Calder and Chagall . . . Strange city . . . I don’t know if I like her or not. But I think she’s in my blood.”

There was a moment’s silence, then the girl said, “We like Chicago very much. She’s a beautiful city.”

“Where are you going from here?” he asked.

“St. Louis,” she said.

“Je cherche mon frère,” stammered Jack.