“How are the guns, Corporal?”

“They’re perfect, sir. Loaded and ready.”

“And the hydraulics?”

“Mysterious,” he said.

“So we’re taking our chances. As always.”

Leland had imagined his life in Hollywood would be filled with friends. They would have dinners together, play jokes on one another, buy each other expensive automobiles, and have early-morning cookouts in the hills, and while the sun rose, they would bare their hearts’ desires. He had never thought how he would get from where he was now (no friends) to there (many friends).

“Thank you for taking me up, sir,” he said.

“You’re welcome. Did I mention it would be fun?”

Lee thought, like realizing he was walking on a tightrope, that Lieutenant Ripley liked him. “I liked your décor. Very smart.” Men, he decided, probably did not compliment each other’s décor. “I haven’t told anyone the story of these,” he said, touching Nanette and her companion.

“That’s been a spot of mystery, to tell the truth,” Ripley replied.

“It has?”

“A pilot or two feels quite jealous of you, you know?”

“They do? Well, I’d just gotten off the train—”

“Near Montmartre?”

“Gare du …” He thought about it. “Nord? It’s the one with the café across the street, the one with the black pillars.”

“Onyx Noir.” Ripley chuckled. “So black they named it twice. A little crammed with doughboys. And you went to Pigalle?”

“I didn’t. I went on the Métro—Botzaris, not that far. My pack was heavy, and I’d just gotten off a car that smelled so much like horses I was embarrassed, so I went into one of those washrooms and scrubbed down a bit. When I came out, I walked another block and noticed a woman by that park.” He paused.

“Parc des Buttes-Chaumont.”

“That’s it.”

“The women there are of a higher class, I’ve heard. Not at all professionals at work. Very good of you.”

“She asked if she could paint my portrait.”

“My goodness,” Ripley said. Parc des Buttes-Chaumont was the place for amateur lady painters. Many of them were beautiful, and most were Frenchwomen, married, who had money. He folded his arms, in admiration. “She had other talents.”

“Yes, sir.” Lee laughed.

“French talents?” Ripley asked.

“She had picked up more than the basics, even though she was American,” Lee replied.

“And she had— American? Really.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ripley kicked at the ground a bit. “Those women who sketch, they don’t usually take after soldiers. I’ve seen them doing flowers and whatnot.”

“Well …” Lee shrugged.

“So she did a charcoal sketch of you, and the rest was history, I suppose.”

“No, sir.”

“No?”

“No, she used egg tempera.”

Two of the ground crew signaled—the engine was plenty warm. Ripley looked from Lee to the plane and back again. “Egg tempera?”

“I hadn’t heard of it, either.”