“I’m from here. I’m a Californian. My mother was a white woman and when she died, my father married another white. My stepmother is a bad lady. I had to clear out. My old man has a little chicken farm up in Petaluma, the egg basket of the West. He’s a dried-up little thing—he’s got a Japanese chicken sexer working for him. You know what that is? Somebody can tell what sex a chick is. He bullies that Japanese something terrible. You know the story about the bongo tree? There’s an island with a bongo tree. When there’s enough fruit on it, the natives don’t bother each other, but when the bongo tree is barren, they eat each other. One of those stories…the truth is, the natives eat each other regardless of what the tree is putting out. Theda lays on a good table. Some women can’t do it, you know. They just can’t put a meal together. I’ve got to go soon. I have to write this crap eight weeks ahead and the seventh week is sliding up to crush me. I’ll have to work all night tonight.”

“Is it what you like to do?”

“Ho! Choices! That’s another life. What I’d like is to write essays. Hazlitt, Arnold, like those people. I’d like to write about dumbness. If you think about it, you’ll see how many subtle variations there are, what nuances stupidity has, what grace and style accompany self-stupefaction.”

“Don’t go!”

“You like to listen to me? You come over and see me. I’ll play you some nice music and I’ll talk some more. And if the day isn’t too hot, I’ll wear my Harris tweed which I bought in London, made to fit my own bones and no one else’s.”

“I’d like that!”

“You know Countee Cullen? No? James Weldon Johnson? I’ll fix that.”

She stood. He held out his warm, dry hand and she pulled him to his feet. He jumped up and down in place several times, shot his cuffs, and patted her head. “You mixed up with Theda’s congregation? The party?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t like groups,” he said. “Doesn’t matter what’s in their mouths. Somewhere there’s a lynching in the making. Don’t join anything. Do you read Kipling? There’s a story, The Cat That Walked by Himself. I’ll read you something else from him when you come over. Theda’s gang says he was a dirty old imperialist. Theda’ll tell you where I live. You might like it. It’s a big barn over a nightclub. Not far from here. Take care now.”

She watched him go to Theda, touch her face, then leave. He was quick, moving out of the way of drunken staggerings, moving fast and neatly.