“So you’d better start now.” She glanced around the suite, taking in every detail of the books on the table, Cleo’s clothes hanging in the bedroom, the open suitcases and presentation photographs. As she sized me up, deciding that no more than a few seconds’ inspection was needed, I tried to remember the edgy young woman I had last seen in the Del Monte nightclub. Despite the years, her features were almost unchanged, the lips as cutting as ever, the hectic eyes carrying out an inventory of my clothes, self-confidence, integration into the real world. But her face wore a curious mask, as if a child’s cheeks, nose, and chin had been slung from her temples, through which glared the penetrating eyes and sharp teeth of an old woman.

“You haven’t changed, James. Not even a little. You’re still riding your pedal bike.” She smiled shrewdly, slipping her coat across a chair. “But now you remember me?”

“Olga, yes … I’m still amazed to see you. Did the studio arrange this?”

“The studio? Everything isn’t a film, James. My daughter and I are staying with our friends in Van Nuys, so I thought, Let’s see how my James is.”

“I’m glad you did. But you got out of Shanghai?”

“Of course! Once the Americans left. Believe me, James, I’m not designed for Communism. I’m living in San Francisco for many years now…”

“And you’re married…?”

“Mrs. Edward R. Weinstock—my husband is a nose and throat surgeon, very influential.” She nodded darkly, scrutinising with only marginal approval a photograph of Cleo and myself. “But you were nearly a doctor yourself? I read an interview—I couldn’t understand…”

“I gave it up after a couple of years—I wanted to be a writer.”

“A writer?” Her nostrils twitched doubtfully, as if only the plushness of this Beverly Hills hotel suite prevented her from criticising a disastrous career move. She was wearing an expensive gown with a gleaming lamé thread that she might have worn to the opening of a Las Vegas casino, but as she turned to and fro on her rapier heels I found myself glancing under the arms for the telltale tear. I remembered the brief glimpse of her breast that had so dazed my adolescent mind. Despite her expensive hair and jewellery, there was still something slatternly about Olga, as if her body were a disposable tool to be used as necessity dictated. I thought of her in postwar Shanghai, a tank trap full of vodka, lying in wait for the young American servicemen.

“So this film, James. Is it good?”

“I’m sure it is. They say it’s his best. I haven’t seen it yet.”