“Did I say that? Mary makes people laugh but also cry and feel frightened and feel triumphant, and no one will ever ask why or how. That’s because she’s just a person. The people that write about her ignore the parts which can be ignored, like the mystery of it, and instead they see the curls and the spunk and the parts that can be dismissed. And she’s not the only one—Fairbanks and Mary Miles Minter and Theda Bara and—”

“Yes, I get the—”

“No, you don’t,” she said, as righteous as the smartest girl in class. “Look at me and listen for just one moment. You haven’t made a film as good as you are.”

“Is this the part of you that’s mean or smart?”

“I’ve been thinking about it longer than just today. Your films are good. They’re funny. You have little flashes of something else, moments of greatness, but you haven’t managed to tap into it.”

“The New Republic doesn’t agree with you.”

“It’s only going to get harder.” She was just warming up, and the more she articulated, the better she seemed to feel. “You’re a genius, which means you’re going to be put under glass. People will still go to your pictures, and because you’re good, they’ll still laugh, but there will always be a windowpane between you and them, because even the most ignorant foreigner will know you’re supposed to be a genius. And even if you stop making movies that are funny, but engage all the known emotions from A to Z, even if you create new emotions that people have never felt, and play them like a harpsichord, you’ll be playing on the other side of a wall that no one will ever climb.” She sounded pleased with herself as she theatrically examined some blemish on her wrist. “You’re twenty-eight years old—I know because Mary talks about her age nonstop. You’re only twenty-eight, but—”

“I know, I know, all my work is awful.”

“—maybe your chance is over.”

“Of course.” He frowned. “What chance?”

She nodded, dreamily. She had put on all of her clothes, and was sitting on the edge of her chair, bright-eyed, as spent as if they’d tangled up the sheets successfully.

Chaplin had nothing to say. After such a vigorous crucifixion, he should be the one sitting down, and yet he felt nothing whatsoever. He regarded himself in the mirror, snapped his cuffs just so, pulled his vest and shirt into place. Finally, he threw open the curtains, which faced the beach. He hadn’t particularly used force, but nonetheless they had come off their rack, with a clatter, and he held them in his hands.

He tossed them to the bed, and left the room.

6