The soloists’ dressing-room door was shut. I knocked and entered. Two women were there. One of them told me Paige was taking a shower and asked me to wait in the hall—there wasn’t an inch of extra room in the place.

Presently Paige herself came down the hall from the shower, muffled in a white terry-cloth robe with a large white towel wrapped around her head.

“Vic! What are you doing here?”

“Hi, Paige. I came to talk to you. When you’re dressed I’ll take you out for coffee or gin or whatever you drink this time of day.”

The honey-colored eyes widened slightly: she wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of orders, even when given in a subtle way. “I’m not sure I have time.”

“Then I’ll talk to you while you get dressed.”

“Is it that important?”

“It’s extremely important.”

She shrugged. “Wait for me here. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

The few minutes stretched into forty before she reappeared. The other two women came out together, carrying on a vigorous conversation about someone named Larry. They glanced at me and one of them broke off to say, “She’s about halfway through her makeup” as they passed.

Paige presently emerged in a gold silk shirt and white full skirt. She wore a couple of thin gold chains at her throat with little diamond chips in them. Her makeup was perfect—rusty tones that looked like the delicate flush of Mother Nature—and her hair framed her face in a smooth pageboy.

“Sorry to keep you waiting—it always takes longer than I think it will—and the more I try to hurry the longer it seems to take.”

“You people work up a good sweat. What was that you were rehearsing this afternoon? It looked pretty grim.”

“It’s one of Ann’s flights—Ann Bidermyer, the director, you know. Pavane for a Dope Dealer. Not in the best taste but it’s a good role. For Karl too. Gives us both a great chance to show off. We open with it tomorrow. Want to see it? I’ll get them to leave a ticket for you at the box office.”

“Thanks … Anyplace around here to talk, or do we need to head farther south?”

She considered. “There’s a little coffee shop around the corner on Victoria. It’s a hole in the wall but they have good cappuccino.”

We went out into the brisk spring evening. The coffee shop seated only six people at tiny round tables on spindly cast-iron chairs. They sold fresh coffee beans, a vast assortment of tea, and a few homemade pastries. I ordered espresso and Paige had English Breakfast tea. Both came in heavy porcelain mugs.

“What were you looking for in my cousin’s apartment?”

Paige drew herself up in her chair. “My letters, Vic. I told you that.”