That night they had trouble sleeping.

They woke up several times because they thought they’d heard meowing.

In the morning, the cat wasn’t there.

While they were preparing breakfast in the minibus, they discussed what they would do. First, they would go to the SPCA; they’d look up the address in the phone book and walk there, if it wasn’t too far, or take the bus; obviously they’d have to leave the Volks where it was, because the cat might come back at any time. After that, they’d revisit all the neighbouring streets, but this time they would ask the children if they’d seen a little black cat. And perhaps they’d put a notice on the neighbourhood telephone poles.

Jack had taken a shower and was in the washroom shaving when he heard a loud exclamation.

He ran out of the washroom, half of his face covered with white lather.

The cat was home!

La Grande Sauterelle was holding him in her arms and dancing on the asphalt. She was laughing like a loony. A number of people had come out of their trailers and were watching the scene.

“He must be starving!” said Jack.

“You’re right,” said the girl. “What am I thinking about?”

She brought the cat to the Volks, set him on the table and poured him a big bowl of milk.

The cat sniffed it, but refused to drink.

“That’s funny. He doesn’t want the milk,” she said.

“Hold on,” said the man. “I’ll give him some ground beef. There isn’t a cat in the world that can resist a nice raw hamburger.”

He took some meat from the fridge and set it on the table.

The cat refused to eat it. He was purring, but he wasn’t eating.

“The meat looks fine to me,” said the man. “I don’t understand. Maybe he’s been hurt . . .”

He examined the cat, but saw no wounds.

The girl said, “Maybe he’s sick . . .”

She touched the cat’s muzzle: it was cool and damp as usual. The cat was in fine fettle.

“It’s simple,” she concluded. “He isn’t hungry and that’s all there is to it.”

“You’re right,” said Jack. “He managed perfectly well on his own. He found something to eat.”

“Maybe a mouse,” said the girl.

“Or a bird,” said the man.

“A drumstick!”

“Shepherd’s pie!”

“Chop suey!”

XVII. The Middle of America

XVII

The Middle of America

It was very hot in Kansas City, and after they had walked in the sun for just two minutes they were soaked in sweat. Rather than go to Independence Square and do research in the old newspapers at the Jackson County Historical Society, the man stayed in the minibus, leafing through books.

He didn’t really feel like reading; he would put a book on his lap and turn the pages or simply stroke it with his fingertips.