Then he turned the page. What he saw made no sense, and then it made all the sense in the world. It was a two-page spread of a woman named Alice Joyce, nine photographs, nine different outfits. She was of Vitagraph Studios, a designation that likely meant something to American readers, as if saying she were schwäbisch or from the court of Ludwig.

A light, inquiring knock at the door, from Dona.

“Yes!” he exploded. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. One sacred moment of peace, please.”

Below each of Alice Joyce’s outfits was a speculation about what it might mean. “This navy-blue gabardine suggests she is combining business with pleasure.” And “‘Our initial appearance will score a success at the club,’ whispers this black charmeuse afternoon frock.” A velvet frock said: “No Ingénue Parts, for my temperament is modest and I am taken.” At the bottom of all this text was a list of department stores where the frocks in question could be purchased.

His head was swimming. Once, a million years ago, 1914, his subjects had watched him take off his cloak to interpret what his mode of dress might mean: war or peace or something in between. Viktoria Luise had been studied for her hairstyles but never equaled, always one step ahead of her admirers. For the meaning behind the gaze was the unbreachable gap, that’s what made civilization. But here, in this twenty-cent magazine, logistical analysis worthy of Ludendorff aimed at an actress, an actress rather than royalty. With the promise that you, too, could dress as she did with the proper outlay of capital.

He felt ill. The knocking at the door continued, and with another response of “Yes, yes, yes,” more defeated and sallow, he washed his hands and dried them four times and returned to the main room, disturbed. The next film awaited him.

This was a newsreel that was unadorned and unshaped. It did not bear the stamp of the United States government, and claimed in its titles that it presented the latest, truest footage yet shot, at the Battle of Saint-Mihiel.

“Stop!” The Kaiser stood. The images were projected across his back. “Rewind this. Immediately.”

And the images, ghostlike, silver, moved backward. Horses galloped in reverse, and their riders receded with them.

“Again. Show me.”