The orchestra was a whirlwind now, the grandeur of the horns sharpened by the hammering timpani, counterpoint provided by violins and violas spinning so vividly that the players were beginning to perspire, a glitter of church bells behind them as, for the last time, “La Marseillaise” was smashed flat by the Russian anthem played on brass that stomped forward, Cossacks waving scimitars, fires bursting out from every doorway in Moscow, and bang went the cannon, slightly off time, but that could never be helped, and then bang again, and arms reached into the back of the limousine to help a small, stout figure.

The music finished out like a series of sneezes, and then came a silence like an afterglow. The woman wore a cotton dress with a white lace collar, and as she stood, she smoothed her skirt over her stockings. Her face had thickened, but it was still beautiful, with pleased and confused intelligence.

Chaplin, who had been engaged by the orchestra, was aware that the overture was over, and the entirety of his studio was regarding him, awaiting instruction. But there was another kind of anticipation in the air as word had started to circulate.

The lead violin was approaching him, damp stains from perspiration on his bib. “We also know the ‘Slavonic March,’” he said. “Very pathetic song, if you want.”

But Chaplin shook his hand limply. He now saw the woman standing by the limousine, and he felt as if the flowers in the flower bed beside him had begun to strangle him by the ankles.

One foot, then the other, walked forward. He had in the last four years known how to walk in the enormous boots perfectly, and how to force a stumble. Now, however, it was as if he were being dragged forward by the terrifying pull of gravity.

As word traveled, a crowd formed, statues, angels, laboratory technicians, doors slamming open, and secretaries striding down the stairs and into the courtyard, to see with their own eyes, and everyone was smiling.

Chaplin now stood ringed by his people, and before him she stood with her two attendants. She was fifty-four years old. Her white hair was dyed blond in patches, in the way of a woman who has not had a mirror handy. There was a burst of wilted sweet pea pinned to her dress.

“Hannah,” one of the men holding her hands said. He enunciated as one would for a foreigner. “This is Charlie.”

Chaplin couldn’t breathe. Say hello, he thought. People say hello, he thought. But the wind had been knocked out of him. His jaw ached from clenching it.

“Really,” the man said, “it’s Charlie. Your son.”

He felt her sizing him up. Her eyes were merry and then doubtful, and then she disregarded what they saw. She looked to her attendant. “And you’re Jesus Christ.”

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