“She said you’d be able to help me.”

Leonard’s hands were moving even faster now, as if he were shuffling a giant deck of cards. He never stopped staring, weirdly, at me. “Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t know why she would have … I mean, I don’t know what she was referring to.…”

Leonard had now officially won the award for World’s Worst Liar. He picked up his phone. In a cracking voice, he spoke like an untrained actor in a student film. “Marie? Is my two o’clock here?”

I tried not to laugh at the cliché. Leonard worked for people who sanitized movies others had made; there wasn’t an original emotion in the place. And, I sensed, Leonard couldn’t have handled it if he had one.

He couldn’t handle it when he did.

“Katie said she loves you,” I said.

It was another word to hypnotize him. He seemed to melt, his mouth dropping open, his hand releasing the phone. In this weird way, across an ocean, Katie and I were once again working in tandem.

I assumed that Leonard had become intolerant for the same reason many others do: a broken heart. I bet he had seen merit in that Luftwaffe book shortly after Katie turned him down.

His voice was thick. “Did she … tell you that?”

I nodded.

“Well, why doesn’t she … tell me that herself?”

“She’s shy.”

I hoped my intention was clear. If Leonard let me read the chapter, Katie might be, shall we say, grateful. So what if it wasn’t true? This was for a bigger cause than protecting the public from smut. This was for Clown.

“She’s the only one I’ve ever shown it to,” he said, thoughtfully.

For a second, I was confused—and repelled. Then I realized: He meant the chapter.

“Really?” I said. “Interesting.”

“It wasn’t even in the censored edition. It never went into the book at all.”

“I see.”

“What do you plan to do with it?”

“The right thing,” I said, vaguely. “Don’t worry.”

Still a zombie, Leonard rose, very slowly, from his chair. He took a key chain from his pocket. He approached a file cabinet behind his desk. He started to open one of the drawers. Then, having second thoughts, he started to close it.

Right on my hand.

I had followed him there, not sure of his resolve. Now the two of us struggled for the small stack of paper inside.

“Where is she?” he asked, as I tried to yank out the drawer.

“Don’t worry about that—”

“I think it’s only fair that you tell me where—”

“I will, as soon as you—”

“Should I call the police?”

Leonard turned. The receptionist was standing in the doorway, looking cute—and pitiless.

“No,” he said, wearily. “It’s all right.”

While he watched her leave, with one great pull, I got the drawer free. It flipped off its track, sending pages, bound with a rubber band in a plastic bag, all over the floor.

“Now look what you did,” he said, seething.

He gripped both of my wrists with the full force of the unrequited. I felt a frightening pressure on my bones. Then, as if surrendering, he released me.

“Please, then,” he said, “read it here.”

CHAPTER 14

Sweden Spring 1972

I am a prisoner!

Not really—I’m no man’s prisoner. But I’ve been hired to play one. It’s not even a part. It’s an extra job. For Jerry Lewis!

But no one can make Graus Menzies small. Let them try! I will bite them!

We’re in Sweden, and I’m slogging along, in a concentration camp. When the camera picks me up, the world will see the true face of pain. I have prepared. I have dieted, I have stayed awake. I’m an artist. Let the editor dare to cut me out!

In truth, I am young, just thirty, and paying my dues. Greatness will come later. It is endless, tedious work. I suffer as much as anyone in history has. I feel familiar grumbling in my gut and my groin. I want to eat! I want to love! But first I must suffer for my art.

And for Jerry Lewis!

He plays a clown called Helmut Dorque (pronounced Dork), sentenced to a prison camp for insulting a Nazi. We extras are political prisoners, brought into a separate area, bordered by barbed wire.

Today I am one of a few adults among children. We are looking through the barbed wire, at Jerry clowning on the other side. He wears a chalky face and charcoal on his lips. He salutes and knocks himself out. He “sews” with a hair from his head. He puts on a too-small jacket. His pants fall down.

We all laugh. I make sure to laugh the loudest of all. But the camera is not even on me.

Catching my attention is a little minx sitting on the set. She is called Elsa (not her real name). Does she work for the studio in Stockholm? I think so. I know she is a leggy young blonde with an insolent air. A princess. Yet she notices Graus, as he trudges back and forth, in agony.

When Jerry calls “cut,” I am full of energy and at the woman’s side. At first, she ignores me, her nose in the air. Yet she is intrigued by the filth on my face, the torment in my heart. She keeps looking at me. She knows I am a man who confers greatness on women.

“Shouldn’t you be with the others?” she asks, haughtily.

“I’m not one of many,” I say.

“But you’re an extra.”