.. no, it couldn’t be.It was her son, certainly. But he looked like me in a few ways, not absolutely distinctly. He also looked to be about 30 years...old, which ... no. It couldn’t be. It could not be.“Hello,” he said, only the faintest of New Orleans accent, “I’m Jean-Louis, Ambrosine was my mother. Are you the Johnny she met on the train in 1985?”Jean-Louis? I knew her father’s name was Lew, because that’s what a friend in the kitchen called him when he was mentioned. Jean-Louis. Zhon-Looey.. She was Indian, as my Annie was, but bore no resemblance that I could see, a bit older than I had thought, and rather plump, wearing a voluminous sari edged with golden threads, and I realised that she had been there for some time. She smiled sadly as I passed her chair on my way out of the cafe, so I asked her if she had been stood up as well. She replied that no, it wasn’t like that, but thanks for asking anyway, and that she was sorry that I had not met whoever I had been waiting for. We. More

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