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“Yes. Like John Cage?”

I said, “Well, for me the emperor has no clothes. I think he is an impostor.” Each artist, and even Sonia, began to shout at me. “You can’t call John Cage an impostor.”

I remembered fifteen years earlier being an impoverished dancer. I saved every penny of my money so that I could attend a John Cage concert. I sat happily in the cheapest seat waiting for the artist so many people held as one of the important figures of twentieth-century art.

John Cage and a stagehand appeared carrying a record player. They plugged it into a socket and left the stage.

As the audience waited, there was a click and after a few seconds there was another click. Then another click. And another click.

I looked at the program and it read something like “Traffic Light at the Corner of Sixty-fifth and Park Avenue.”

I left the theater hurriedly, pushing myself past people who were rapt in ecstasy over the sound of a traffic light clicking.

On the street, I was spitting mad. I had given up too many slices of pizza and ice-cream cones and subway rides to be so insulted.

I repeated at Sonia’s table, “Yes, I think he is a charlatan and a poseur.”

The company looked at me with disgust.

“Obviously conversation with you will be impossible.”

“Anyone ignorant enough to call Cage a poseur is too ignorant for social exchange.”

“Where did you find her, Sonia?”

Sonia came out of the kitchen carrying a tray that held a beautiful roast pork and baked apples. I stood up.

“Thank you, Sonia. I realize I have to be in Bangkok in half an hour.” She followed me upstairs and to her front door.

“Maya, they really like you. They think of you as an equal or they wouldn’t have talked that way.”

“I will never be their equal and they will never be mine.”

I walked down her front stairs and into the London night.

I could have kicked myself for having wasted an evening. Then I thought I didn’t really waste the evening. I did meet up with a great onion tart, and I had had the time to linger over it. And (I hoped) I could solve its mystery.

Onion Tart

SERVES 6

4 cups thinly sliced onions

3 tablespoons butter or bacon fat

2 cups heavy cream

3 large eggs, slightly beaten

1½ teaspoons salt

¼ teaspoon paprika

¼ teaspoon pepper

⅛ teaspoon ground nutmeg

9-inch pie shell, baked

Preheat oven to 450°F for 10 minutes.

Sautê onions in butter or bacon fat slowly until soft and golden.

Cool to room temperature. Add cream, eggs, salt, paprika, pepper, and nutmeg to onions, mix well, and turn into pie shell.

Bake for 10 minutes. Then reduce heat to 350°F, and bake for 30 minutes longer, or until knife blade inserted in the tart comes out clean.

IN THE MID 1960S, Los Angeles was friendly but unfocused for me. Thanks to Frances Williams, whom I had known years earlier, I had a place to stay but no job, and my money was slipping away.

I had sounded like a dunce at the employment agency.

The young, serious social worker asked, “What was your last job?”

“I sang calypso and blues in a supper club.”

She made notes and then asked, “Where was that?”

“In Oahu, Hawaii, Waikiki.”

Her eyes opened. “Why did you stop?”

“I realized I don’t sing very well.”

She caught a breath. “Ahem, okay. What did you do before that?”

“I was an administrative assistant at a university.” “Oh.” For a moment she found relief. “So, you can type?” “No, but I can file.”

The relief vanished. “At what university did you work?” “At the University of Ghana in West Africa.”

The interviewer let the pencil fall from her fingers. “I don’t have anything for you. You may be unemployable.”

As was to be expected, Frances Williams knew someone who could offer me a job. She asked if I could cook.

I said, “I cook very well.”

She asked, “Southern?”

I said, “Of course, but I don’t really want a job as a cook.”

She said, “No, that’s not the job I’m looking at for you. Let me tell you about Phil, who handles random research systems for large companies like Kellogg’s and General Foods and Ivory Soap.”

She said