“Vile, right? Yet strangely addictive.” She pops a second piece. “So how in the world did a Dutchman wind up doing Shakespeare in French?”

“I was traveling. I was broke. I was in Lyon. I met this Shakespeare troupe called Guerrilla Will. They mostly performed in English but the director is a little . . . eccentric and she thought the way to one-up the other street performers was to do Shakespeare in the native language. She’d cobbled together a cast of French speakers to do Much Ado About Nothing in France, in French. But the guy who’d been playing Claudio ran off to be with some Norwegian guy he’d met; everyone was already doubling up parts so they just needed someone who could get by in French. And I could.”

“You’d never done Shakespeare before?”

“I’d never acted before. I’d been traveling with an acrobatic troupe. So when I tell you it was all by accident, I’m not kidding.”

“But you did other plays?”

“Yeah, Much Ado was a disaster but we ran it for four nights before Tor realized it. Then Guerrilla Will switched back to English and I stayed on. It was decent money.”

“Oh, you’re one of those. Doing Shakespeare just for the money,” she jokes. “You whore.”

I laugh.

“So what other plays did you do?”

“Romeo and Juliet, of course. A Midsummer’s Night Dream. All’s Well That Ends Well. Twelfth Night. All the crowd-pleasers.”

“I love Twelfth Night; we’re talking about doing that next year when we have time. We just closed a two-year off-Broadway run of Cymbeline and we’ve been touring it. Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s a lovely, funny, romantic play and there’s lots of music in it. At least the way we do it.”

“Us, too. We had a drum circle in our Twelfth Night.”

She glimpses at me sidelong as she keeps her eyes on the road. “Our Twelfth Night?”

“Theirs. Guerrilla Will’s.”

“Sounds like the whore fell in love with the john.”

“No. No falling in love,” I say.

“But you miss it?”

I shake my head. “I’ve moved on.”

“I see.” We’re quiet for a while. Then she says, “Do you do that a lot? Move on?”

“Maybe. But only because I travel a lot.”

She taps out a beat on the steering wheel, audible only to herself. “Or maybe you travel a lot because it lets you move on.”

“Perhaps.”

She’s quiet again. Then: “So are you moving on now? Is that what brought you to the grand metropolis of Valladolid?”

“No. The wind just blew me there.”

“What? Like a plastic bag?”

“I prefer to think of myself as a ship. Like a sailboat.”

“But sailboats aren’t steered by the wind; they’re powered by it. There’s a difference.”

I look out the window. The jungle is everywhere. I look back at her. “Can you move on from something when you’re not sure what it is you’re moving on from?”

“You can move on from absolutely anything,” she replies. “But that does sound a little complicated.”

“It is,” I say. “Complicated.”

Kate doesn’t answer, and the silence stretches out, shimmery, like the road ahead of us.

“And a long story,” I add.

“It’s a long drive,” she replies.

There’s something about Kate that reminds me of Lulu. Maybe it’s just that they’re both American or how we met: during journeys, talking food.

Or maybe it’s because in a few hours, I’ll never see her again. There’s nothing to lose. So as we drive, I tell Kate the story of that day, but it’s a different version from the one I told Broodje and the boys. You play to your audience, Tor always said. Which is maybe why I can tell Kate the parts of the story that I didn’t—couldn’t—tell Broodje and the boys. “It was like she knew me,” I tell her. “Straightaway, she knew me.”

“How?”

I tell Kate about Lulu thinking I’d deserted her on the train when I’d spent too long in the café. Hysterically laughing, and then out of the blue—my glimmer of her strange honesty—telling me she’d thought I’d got off the train.

“Were you going to?” Kate asks, her eyes wide.

“No, of course not,” I answer. And I wasn’t, but the memory of it still shames me because of what I was going to do later.

“So how did she see you, exactly?”

“She said she couldn’t understand why I invited her without an ulterior motive.”

Kate laughs. “I hardly think you wanting to sleep with a pretty girl qualifies as an ulterior motive.”

I wanted to sleep with her, of course. “But that wasn’t the ulterior motive. I invited her to Paris because I didn’t want to go back to Holland that day.”

“Why not?”

My stomach lurches again. Bram, gone. Yael, all but gone. The houseboat, a signature away from gone. I force a smile. “That is a much longer story and I’m not done with this one.”

I tell Kate the double happiness story Lulu told me. About the Chinese boy traveling to take some important exam, and along the way, falling sick. About the mountain doctor taking care of him. About the doctor’s daughter telling him this strange line of verse. About the emperor who, after the boy does well on the exam, recites a mysterious line to him. About the boy immediately recognizing the line as the other half of what the girl told him, and repeating the line the girl had told him, pleasing the emperor, getting the job, going back, and marrying the girl. About double happiness.

“Green trees against the sky in the spring rain while the sky set off the spring trees in the obscuration. Red flowers dot the land in the breeze’s chase while the land colored up in red after the kiss.” That had been the couplet. As soon as Lulu told it to me, there had been something instantly familiar about it, even though I’d never heard it before, never heard the story before. Unknown and familiar. Which, by that point, was how Lulu was seeming.

I tell Kate about Lulu asking who took care of me—as if she knew the answer—and then doing it herself. Stepping between me and the skinheads. Throwing that book. Distracting them so we could get away before we got hurt. Only she got hurt. Even now, the memory of the blood on her neck from when one of the skinheads threw the bottle at her, after all these months, it makes me sick. And ashamed. I don’t tell Kate that.

“That was very brave of her,” Kate says when I tell her what Lulu did.

Saba used to say there was a difference between bravery and courage. Bravery was doing something dangerous without thinking. Courage was walking into danger, knowing full well the risks.

“No,” I tell Kate. “It was courageous.”

“You both were courageous.”

But I wasn’t. Because I tried to send Lulu back. Cowardly. And then I didn’t manage to. Cowardly. I don’t tell Kate this part either.

“So you’re here in Mexico to do what?” she asks.

I think of the boys. They think I’m here to inoculate myself. To find Lulu, sleep with her a few more times, and get on with things.

“I don’t know . . . find her. At the very least, set the record straight.”

“What record? You left a note.”

“Yes, but . . .” I almost say it. Then I stop myself.

“But what?” Kate asks.

“But . . . I didn’t come back,” I finish.

Kate looks at me for a long moment. The car starts to drift off the road before she returns her attention to driving.

“Willem, in case you haven’t noticed, Cancún is back that way?” She points in the reverse direction. I nod. “The chances of you finding this girl seem unfavorable enough without you going to an entirely different city.”

“It wasn’t going to happen. I could tell.”

“How could you tell?”

“Because you don’t ever find things when you’re looking for them. You find them when you’re not.”

“If that were true, nobody would ever find their keys.”

“Not keys. The bigger things.”

She sighs. “I don’t get it. On one hand, you put all this faith into these accidents of yours, and on the other hand, you write off the chance of one even happening.”