“Est-ce tu connais Monsieur Buffalo Bill? Il avait massacré beaucoup des Indians. Est-ce tu et il des amis?”

“Do I know … Buffalo Bill?”

The broth left the table, and was replaced by a single silver herring for each of them. The herring plate was whisked away the moment it was bare, and replaced (along with a refresher glass of wine) by popcorn. Maria explained how popcorn was made, as if it were a great delicacy. Hugo, who had never before eaten popcorn with a fork, nodded as if learning.

To make up for the sparse food, Hugo drank. His experience with alcohol, like his experience with women, was largely theoretical and based on brief, inconclusive encounters.

He was aware of how, reflected in the carafe, his face had character he had never credited himself with; further, he loved everyone in the room. But why were the princesses pushing back their chairs?

Hugo watched Aarne removing the dessert plates, which indicated not only that dessert had been served, but that Hugo had eaten it. He remembered it had been pie and ice cream. He had been overwhelmed, upon sight of the apple pie, with love of America, a feeling that surprised him, and he wondered how America had changed so much in the last few minutes.

The women understood it might be best for Private Black to lie down in a guest room for an hour or two, perhaps even spend the night in a feather bed. But Hugo had stood, and wobbled like a surprised stork. His mood shifted, like the flipping of a card, from euphoria to regret. He was on the verge of becoming more than he had been, if only he could be very, very good.

“A toast.” He considered it. He was choking back tears. The princesses toasted, a bit frightened of the toasting. “And,” Hugo said, wine sloshing over the rim of the glass, “let us cement our friendship with— a dance.”

39

Before breakfast, the maid tried to open Hannah’s door to bring her a newspaper and tea, and the doorknob came away in her hand. When she went into the room from the other door, on the far side of the bathroom, she found the bed made, Mrs. Chaplin’s clothing folded and stacked atop her dresser, and a ribbon tied to the no-longer-working doorknob. She thought better than to remove it, and reported to Mildred that Mrs. Chaplin was very nice, and wanted to help her tidy the house, and that Mrs. Chaplin said she had tied the ribbon on the door because cats like to play with ribbons. “She asked if I believed in Jesus Christ and I said I did, and she shook my hand just like my minister does. She’s funny.”

Mildred, holding a cup of coffee very still, said, “She had a ribbon on the doorknob? How did that make the doorknob fall off?”

The maid furrowed her brow. “I don’t know.”