“Miranda?”

I came out of a daze to see one of my favorite people in the world standing at the door.

“Clayton! I’m sorry, I was daydreaming.”

“The sign of all great minds. Give your old boss a hug.”

We embraced and, as usual, he had on another mysteriously beautiful cologne that made me swoon.

“What are you wearing today?”

“Something French. Called Diptyque, which I think is appropriate for a bookseller, wouldn’t you say?”

“Absolutely. Where have you been, Clayton? I haven’t heard a word from you in months.” I took his hand and led him to a chair. He sat down and looked slowly around before speaking. He must have been sixty, but looked years younger. A full head of hair—and the wrinkles on his face came mostly from smiling. I had gone to work for him in New York after college. He had shown me everything he knew about the rare book business. Enthusiasm and generosity were at the heart of his personality. When I left to open my own store, he lent me ten thousand dollars to get started.

“Do you still have that nice Stevens? I have a buyer. A Scientologist from Utah.”

“A Scientologist who reads Wallace Stevens?”

“Exactly. I’ve been out west, drumming up business. Bumped into some very interesting people. One man lived on a strict carrot diet and collected nothing but Wyndham Lewis. That’s why I haven’t been around. I don’t know about you, but books haven’t been flying off my shelves recently. That’s why I’ve been traveling. How are things for you?”

“So-so. They go in waves. I sold a bunch of Robert Duncan in L.A. a couple of months ago. That put me back on track. Do you know who I saw when I was out there? Doug Auerbach.”

“Ah, the Dog. What’s he been doing?”

“Making commercials. He makes a load of money.”

“But you said he wanted to be Ingmar Bergman. I can’t imagine making dog food ads satisfies that desire. Does he still miss you?”

“I guess. I think he misses the time when his life had more possibilities.”

“Don’t we all? Well, Miranda, I’ve come to see you, but I’ve also come on a mission. Have you heard of Frances Hatch?”

“Am I going to be embarrassed saying no?”

“Not really. She’s a well-kept secret to all but a few. Frances Hatch was a kind of Jill of all trades, mistress of none, in the twenties and thirties. Although she was mistress to an amazing number of famous people. She was a sort of lunatic combination of Alma Mahler, Caresse Crosby, and Lee Miller.

“She came from big money in St. Louis but rebelled and ran away to Prague. She went at the right time to the wrong city. Things were going on there, as in the rest of Europe in the twenties, but it was nowhere near as interesting as Berlin or Paris. She stayed a year studying photography, then moved to Bucharest with a Romanian ventriloquist. His stage name was ‘The Enormous Shumda.’”

“To Bucharest with The Enormous Shumda? I love her already.”

“I know—a strange choice of geography. But she was always being towed somewhere by one man or another and willingly went along for the ride. Anyway, she left after a short time and ended up in Paris, alone.”

“Not for long, right?”

“Right. Women like Frances never stay alone long.” He opened his briefcase and took out a photograph. “Here’s a self-portrait she took around that time.”

I looked at the picture. It was a beautiful black-and-white shot, reminiscent of the work of Walter Peterhans or Lyonel Feininger: angular, stark, very Germanic. I laughed. “This is a joke. You’re joking, right, Clayton?” I looked again. I didn’t know what to say. “It’s a self-portrait? It’s wonderful. From the way you described her, I thought she’d just be a ditz. I’d never have imagined she was so talented.”

“And?” He pointed to the picture and, eyes twinkling, started to smile.

“And, she looks like a schnauzer.”

“My first thought was an emu.”

“What’s that?”

“They look like ostriches.”

“You’re telling me this emu was the lover to famous people? She is ugly, Clayton. Look at that nose!”

“Have you heard the French phrase belle laide?”

“No.”

“It means ugly enough to be desirable. The ugliness adds to the sexiness.”

“This woman is not belle anything.”

“Maybe she was great in bed.”

“She’d have to be. I can’t believe it, Clayton. Part of me thinks you’re bullshitting. Who was she with?”

“Kazantzakis, Giacometti. Her best friend was Charlotte Perriand. Others. She lived a fascinating life.” He took the photo from me. After glancing at it once more, he put it back in his briefcase. “And she’s still alive! Lives on 112th Street.”

“How old is she?”

“Got to be way up in the nineties.”

“How do you know her?”

“Frances Hatch is rumored to have letters, drawings, and books from these people and others, the likes of which would make any dealer weep. Very important stuff, Miranda, just sitting there growing yellow. For years she made noise about wanting to sell, but never did till now. Her companion died a few months ago and she’s afraid of being alone. Wants to move into an expensive nursing home in Briarcliff but doesn’t have the money.”

“It sounds great if you can get her to sell you the stuff. But why tell me?”

“Because at age ninety-whatever, Frances no longer likes men. She had some kind of late-life revelation and became a lesbian. With the exception of her lawyer, she deals only with women. I’ve known her for years and she says she’s really willing to sell now, but only if it’s done through a woman dealer. If she’ll sell, I’ll go fifty-fifty with you.” He made no attempt to hide the desperation in his voice.

“That’s not necessary, Clayton. I’m glad to help if I can. Besides, I’ve always wanted to meet an emu. When would we go?”

He looked at his watch. “Now, this morning, if you’d like.”

“Let’s go.”

Before catching a cab, Clayton said he needed to find a market, but not why. I waited outside. In a few minutes he reemerged with a bag full of serious junk food. Things like pink Hostess Snowballs, fluorescent orange Cheetos, Twinkies, Ding Dongs, Devil Dogs, Yankee Doodles.…

“Those aren’t for you?”

“It’s the only food Frances eats. Anyone who visits her is expected to bring a bag full of this merde.”

“No wonder she’s ninety! If she ate those all her life she’s probably eighty percent chemically preserved. When she dies, her body will have the half-life of plutonium.”

He took out a package and looked at it. “When was the last time you ate a Ding Dong? They all sound obscene—Devil Dogs, Ding Dongs.…” He tore open the wrapper and we contentedly ate them as we rode uptown.

Ms. Hatch lived in one of those beautiful turn-of-the-century buildings that looked like fortresses. It had outlived its neighborhood but was falling to ruin. There were gargoyles on the front facade and a long courtyard with a fountain in the center that no longer worked. It was the kind of building that deserved quiet and reserve, but as we walked across the courtyard, salsa and rap music swept down from open windows and crashed on top of us. Somewhere a man and woman yelled at each other. The things they said were embarrassing. As often happened in situations like that, it struck me how people feel no shame anymore talking publicly about anything. While riding the subway recently, I’d sat next to two women talking loudly about their periods. Not once did either of them look around to see if people were listening, which they were.

When I mentioned this to Clayton, he said, “No one’s concerned with dignity today. People want either to win or to be comfortable.” He gestured toward the windows above us. “They don’t care if you hear. It’s like the TV talk shows: those idiots don’t mind your knowing they slept with their mother, or the dog. They think it makes them interesting. Here we are. This is it.”