Often Charlie would have a date, and they were quite pretty girls, usually recent arrivals in the community. Charlie would ask them to come to his house in their own cars, so he wouldn’t have to drive them home later, and they’d go out together to Romanoff’s or Chasen’s, always one or the other, and when they came back I had to assume they went into Charlie’s bedroom. The next morning I’d say to my host at breakfast, “How was she, Charlie?” And his answer was invariably one word: “Nothing.” He once had taken out Greta Garbo; he dropped this to me one day, and of course I asked him, “How was she, Charlie?” “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing!” And he shrugged. I couldn’t imagine what the hell he was used to, and I never heard him take any responsibility for his sexual partners’ lack of ardor. It didn’t occur to him that the fault might be his. On the other hand, as an admirer of Miss Garbo’s genius, I had to face the possibility that one night, for a few hours, she’d desired Charlie Feldman; I must say this upset me.