After the singing, a man in horn-rimmed glasses gives a lecture. The thrust, as far as Josef can tell, is that abstract art is a failure because it does not have the capacity to move the soul. Nodding all around. The ashtrays are overflowing; the maid slips quietly through the salon and empties them. The learned man complains that the omnipresent scourge of advertising and the tangos of Hollywood have a ruinous effect on the calm contemplation of art. The young Dior ladies exchange glances. Quiet snorting. They remind him of Lauren—she could laugh like that too. Afterward a hefty woman sings a Schubert song, “Du bist die Ruh,” then the buffet is opened. Schmuederrich simply walks off. Apparently Josef has served his time.

His stomach is out of sorts. He limps outside, reaches for his cigarettes. The terrace is empty, but the group of gentlemen has stayed right where it was, as if in scornful indifference to whatever might be happening around them. They look at him, sizing him up. One of them, still young, has a prosthetic leg, a defiant smile in his well-chiseled face; Josef noticed him earlier. He doesn’t even know if he’s allowed to nod at them. Just as he’s about to leave, he hears the question: “Where did you serve?” He turns around, incredulous at the fact that they would speak to him. He identifies the source of the hoarse voice: a man with very white, well-manicured hands, who wears a uniform covered in medals, the only one of them so dressed.

“Nowhere. I lived in New York. Happily, I might add.”

“We thought you’d injured your leg in the war. You’re limping.”

He suddenly feels inside him a strange mix of lightness and mirth. “My shoe’s busted. The sole is coming off. I have to lift my foot so it doesn’t drag across the ground, see, like this.”

He lifts his foot, stands on one leg. The sole is dangling pitifully by this point. The gentlemen laugh; the one with the prosthetic leg laughs loudest.

“Did you buy the shoes here?”

He nods.

“Looks like you got ripped off.”

“They were cheap. I picked the wrong thing to skimp on.”

“There are certain things one should never skimp on. A good pair of shoes is important. Without shoes you’ll never get ahead in life.”

“I’ll make a note of that.”

He wishes the gentlemen a good evening and starts making his way toward the other end of the terrace, where he runs straight into Schmuederrich.

“What were they asking you about?” he whispers excitedly.

“Where I served.”

Schmuederrich looks over at the gentlemen, seems to take a moment to collect himself, and then calls out, “He was imprisoned! In New York!”

“Oh, so you mean your adjutant isn’t an FBI agent? That’s a relief.”