Georges Piquart, who had recently turned ninety years old, sat on the terrace of Barry Silvers’s mansion, which was on a bluff several hundred yards back from Long Island Sound. The October day was clear and the afternoon sun made the water sparkle. He was perturbed nonetheless, because it was America and not Chateau Bernard, which was in the foothills of the Pyrenees near Argeles-sur-Mer.
He saw Sandrine appear as if by magic from a pair of hedges, behind which was a door to the house, and walk toward him. She wore a short skirt with frills that swirled around her thighs. He liked her boyish look. She had shaggy brown hair that just covered the tops of her ears, and sharp features. When she leaned over him to straighten the blanket over his legs, the jabot along the button line of her bl
