“Don’t bother to try and hear what they’re saying. They’re talking about Trotskyites. Trotskyites and Russian culture. Kulturni. Very grand subjects. But Lottie is thinking about the bread her husband forgot. Lottie pays no attention. Look at that!” He pointed to a painting hanging on the wall between the windows. “A Landseer! Imagine a Landseer in this dwelling. The former tenant had English inclinations, perhaps. Or animal.” He walked over to the painting and drew a finger across its surface. Annie had followed him, not quite knowing what else to do. “It’s a copy. I must get glasses.”

“What a pretty dog,” said Annie.

“Yes. Pretty…Were you born in California? Is such a thing possible? Have you seen the avenue of fortunetellers? The swamis? It’s the biggest gypsy encampment in the world, Hollywood. These people”—he waved at the others—“they think you can be good out here. Some of them have never seen lawns before. They think a lawn is the substance of Paradise! Every day is invented here as if there’d been no day before it. But wait. When we are at war, how things will change! Pretty girls will wear uniforms and march down the boulevards singing patriotic songs—”

“It’s an imperialist war,” said a voice at Annie’s shoulder. It was the man who’d been standing at the piano. He’d apparently given up Chaliapin for the moment.

“This is Israel Kuyper,” said Wildener. “He intends to become a famous director, don’t you, Israel? What is your last name, Annie? Walter doesn’t think women should have last names.”

“Gianfala,” she said.

Kuyper nodded at her wearily. “We will not be in this war,” he said to Gunther.

“Oh, but we will. Before it is over, we will!” Gunther said. “You forget. I’ve been in Germany as late as last year. I have seen what I have seen.”

“We must mobilize the people against imperialist war,” Kuyper said insistently. “Tell me, Gunther, how are your students reacting to events?”

“My students,” Wildener said, “are either passive or stupid or both. But they are all rich. I have had to teach a little course in the Depression. I told them there is no more bitter sight than men without work. But they think that is the ideal condition of life.”

“Would you like to hear Chaliapin again?” asked Kuyper.

“I loathe opera!” roared Gunther. “Especially Russian opera!”

Kuyper shrugged.

“So you’re a foreigner, like me,” said Gunther to Annie. Regretfully, she shook her head; it was pleasant to be included in a group, even a group of two.

Israel Kuyper looked at her impersonally. “Are you in the industry?” he asked.