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Summary
When he first came to America, he thought maybe that Americans did things differently somehow, that it was a matter of etiquette that he hadn’t quite grasped yet. But he found out soon enough that the difference lay with him, and not with Americans. All the world over, it seems, people introduce themselves with their full names, quick as anything, in hopes of finding the one person with it printed on their skin. White folk look at him, and it’s not a matter of that hope dying as much as it is an incomprehension that it could even be found there in the first place. No one gives their name to him because he doesn’t matter.
So the man gives him his full name, a proper introduction of the sort that Billy never gets anymore, and Billy lets the words sink in.
Goodnight Robicheaux.
He knows that name.