Chaplin sat in silence. He hadn’t even thought about the American War Department. He considered what Robinson might be able to accomplish, until he realized he was looking at himself in the mirror, mouth soft, eyes unfocused, as if horrified by his reflection, as if expecting revelations. This was a pose he loathed. He looked away.

He tore at the label of his Rachel powder, which was well glued to its container. He absently ran his fingertip over the upper lip of the pretty girl on the label, drawing a Charlie Chaplin mustache on her.

An hour later, he came back onto the set in his street clothes. He told everyone to go home. Then he asked if the dogs were still here.

When night fell, the guard was at the gate, and Kono was waiting at the curb in the Locomobile touring car, but otherwise, Chaplin had the world to himself. He threw sticks across the courtyard, and his dogs chased them, fighting for the right to bring them back. There were Klieg lights to see by, and above that, the moon. He walked to the grass by the swimming pool, and made room in the pack to lie among them, both hands going in a frenzy of pats and scratching. He wished he were on the edge of tears. He wanted the whole world to feel that way. “I am a very bad son,” he whispered to the dogs. “It’s true. I am a monster. I am a bad son.”

4

Two weeks later, at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in February, Chaplin lay flat on his back again. This time, on the floor of his bedroom at the Club. Postcards were scattered around him. He stared at the ceiling. He knew without looking that he had thirty-seven dollars on him, two tens, two fives, a two, and five ones, each brand-new and signed by William G. McAdoo, secretary of the treasury. There is order in the universe.

He could use his most interesting emotions for performance. Moments of desire were best, followed by fear. He called them key emotions, because, like an escape artist, he could hide them somewhere on himself and use them to unlock factions and scenes. But now he felt dread, a mélange of embarrassment and goodwill. He was awaiting the car that would take him to a party.

Chaplin was doing what he’d heard other people did: he was sharing a ride. A car would pull up, a decent-enough fellow named Eddie Sutherland would wave to him from the driver’s seat, Chaplin would get in, and there would be other partygoers inside. They would drive to Santa Monica. He would have fun.