It was in San Francisco that I encountered this novel. My future wife had mentioned the other in an email. I was nine time zones away, walking in the chilly July air, regretting that I was clad in shorts. I found the book innocent in a narrow shop. I likely paid too much for it. I wandered the streets and began reading it over black bean soup at a place called the Prague Cafe. I took a photo of the cafe: I must still have it somewhere. I finished the novel that night at my brother's place. I told his wife about the following afternoon. I read it again, I think, in 2006 just after returning from Belgrade. ( )