Robert Archambeau possesses the world’s least interesting international identity. He was born in Rhode Island, raised in Canada, and spent summers in Maine or at his father’s art studio on a lake in the Canadian wilderness. An art school brat, he always felt it was inevitable that he would end up making art, or at least movies, but his fate was grimmer still. After a brief stint as a deck hand and grotesquely underqualified ship’s engineer, he fell in with a group of poets. He has written a half dozen books of poetry and poetry criticism. Lately, though, he has turned to fiction. His most recent book, Alice B. Toklas is Missing, is a novel about jazz-age Paris.