Henri Chopin has been utterly decisive for at least one person: if Tris Vonna-Michell is who he is and does what he does, it’s all because of Chopin, as his father once cryptically suggested. And the ongoing story, the mise-en-scène of his ceaseless quest to track down Chopin has led in the end to Paris, and to the pages of this precious little book: a register of findings that — characteristically — are inconclusive clues, particles of a formal, material, yet ephemeral construct, mechanisms triggered by the storyteller’s words and actions, necessary to depict and convey experience, but not meaningful in and of themselves. In short, crumpled pieces of a rebus that only Tris can solve, because he himself, in narrating it, is the solution. And in this rebus, Chopin is a clue, a pretext, and a motive, all at once.