Ayers, in skullcap and earrings, shows us to an elaborate spread overlooking the city. We’ve entered a parody of a multimillion-dollar liberal lair. Unidentifiable abstract sculptures snake about the floor. Framed epigrams from Louise Bourgeois installations (“The Hour Is Devoted To Revenge”) line the wall. Cutouts representing the duality of the American spirit, from Thoreau and Rosa Parks (good), to Dick Cheney and Sarah Palin (evil), festoon our plates. Tofu and quinoa—pinko food—is among the seven savory courses served…

They’re positively conciliatory—playing radical rope-a-dope. Dohrn has tired altogether of politics, she claims, now preferring to listen to sports radio. Bill facetiously admits that, as suspected, he wrote Obama’s Dreams from My Father—“The second book isn’t as good,” he apologizes. When reminded of his past, after saying unradical things to us like, “There’s no reason not to be nice to each other” (Ayers once distilled the Weathermen’s philosophy as “kill all the rich people”—though presumably not those serving the carrot ginger soup), Bill looks pained. “You’re thinking 40 years ago. Read something contemporary.” Asked about the “smash monogamy” ethos that led Weathernymphos to engage in orgies (in the belief that an army that ruts together, fights together), Bernardine demurs, “We have to know each other better first.”