“What do you do with the old books, from past years?” she asked him next.
“We keep them,” he said. “We put them in a filing cabinet.”
“Of course. A museum’s intended for keeping old things . . .”
She had leaned her elbows on the counter, right across from him, and now she gave him a radiant smile. “Could we have a look at the old books, if it’s not too much trouble?”
He seemed to be wondering if she’d lost her mind.
II
The Legend of Eldorado
They were driving along Highway 132.
It was midafternoon. The May sun warmed the inside of the Volkswagen. The cat was lying in the glove compartment, asleep. The road followed the coastline of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. They scaled promontories and descended sharply to the tips of coves. They took turns at the wheel, intending to drive as far as Quebec, where the man lived, that day if possible.
They had left several villages behind them: Cap-des-Rosiers, Rivière-aux-Renards, l’Anse-à-Valleau. Jack was driving. He didn’t say much because the countryside was beautiful, but at each village he couldn’t help repeating how surprised he had been to see Théo’s address in the visitors’ book.
“I mean, really — St. Louis, Missouri!” And he added, “It’s not even a complete address!”
He didn’t understand. St. Louis, Missouri. No, really . . . Why that city rather than another? Why not New York? Why not Miami or Vancouver or even Los Angeles? He didn’t even know exactly where St. Louis was. In fact, he knew nothing about the city, aside from the names of a few sports teams: the Cardinals in baseball, the Blues in hockey . . .
La Grande Sauterelle rummaged in the pocket behind the driver’s seat. Amid an amazing assortment of road maps that had belonged to the previous owner of the van, she found a map of the United States. With a felt pen she traced what appeared to be the most usual route between Gaspé and St. Louis.
“Look at that,” she said. “Does it suggest anything special?”
She folded the map in half and laid it on the steering wheel while the man was driving, and he could see that the route followed the St. Lawrence, passed through Quebec City and Montreal, made its way through the Great Lakes, then headed due south, going down the Mississippi to St. Louis.
“It reminds me of something,” he said, “but it’s rather vague . . .”
He hesitated.
“Something you’ve seen in old Canadian history books?” she insisted.
“That’s it. A picture that showed the first French explorations in America. Was that . . . ?”
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking of.”
They arrived at Anse-Pleureuse.
In the village Jack parked the Volks by the side of the road, and they got out to stretch their legs and give the cat a chance to do what he hadn’t done since morning.
They walked along the shore. They talked about Théo and the man recalled some stories from the childhood he and his brother had spent in a large frame house by a river, not far from the American border; then he touched on some of the exploits of the discoverers and explorers of the New World: Champlain, Etienne Brûlé, Jean Nicolet, Radisson, Louis Jolliet and Père Marquette, Cavelier de La Salle, d’Iberville and La Vérendrye.