That is what I thought when I heard the noise, laughter, and music that were coming from the Bullier, the wooden dance hall. The painters were holding their annual charity ball there and I went out of curiosity. I recognized Derain and Braque among those who were dancing. But the Paris summer, with its pleasures and distractions, meant nothing to me. I left that gay place and decided to drop by Larionov’s place. He had invited me to a party and there, at least, I could have a couple of beers. I entered a dark apartment, which a few candles barely managed to illuminate. The shadows made one think more of fall than of the brilliant light of summer, but I felt at home. In the dark corners and in the middle of the veil of cigarette smoke, I started to recognize all kinds of people I knew: painters, writers, philosophers—the splendor of our Russian exile culture in all its misery. The guests drank and argued in groups and pairs. They weren’t having a good time; they weren’t happy, which also made me feel like I fit in.
