He clenched a fist. ‘We did, all morning. Until the last ten minutes when I told him that he would not be wearing his mask during “shooting”, so I wanted to see his eyes, to see the excitement, the passion. So, we both took them off. Catastrophe!’

‘But aren’t there little rubber tips, button things, on the end of the foils’

‘There are. Always.’

‘But not on yours?’

He covered his eyes with both hands, shook his head hopelessly; when he spoke his voice was muffled by his sleeves. ‘I don’t know what happened. I don’t know. It was not fixed, perhaps? Suddenly this terrible cry. He fell to his knees, his hands to his face. The blood. Ayeee!’

‘Bert, I’m so sorry, I’m so terribly sorry. It must have been ghastly for you.’

‘Spettrale! Oh Dio! And we start shooting in eight weeks … what to do? What to do?’

‘Can’t we postpone, for a little? Go back a week or two, shoot some of the stuff which doesn’t concern him … crowd work?’

Nando Belluno shook his head slowly, from side to side as rhythmically as a metronome. ‘Impossible. Impossible. Schönbrunn is already booked, the Hofburg rooms, the gardens, it is the tourist season … we have to be there on the days agreed. Absolutely. It is very tight. No, impossible to postpone.’

Grottorosso swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat, hands on knees, head bowed. He was still in his fencing outfit, white knee-breeches, stockings wrinkled, tunic open at the throat, a long smear of dark blood across his sleeve. ‘I held him in my arms, you know. He wouldn’t uncover his face. Whimpering like a dog. It was my fault; my fault, that I agree. I had tried to provoke him, to get one tiny spark of rage, of fury, of hate even … I would not have minded if he had shown me hate! But nothing. Fear … eyes like a frightened stag, red-rimmed with panic …’ He looked suddenly directly across at Minerva. ‘And fatigue! That stupid picnic yesterday. Too much wine, playing about with some German girl, coming home so late. Midnight when they arrived on the ship. Midnight! And he knew we had to start work again today. He had his “holiday” at your insistence, Minerva. You forced me to let him be “free”, as you called it … get away on his own, get a “tan”, you said, let him be “normal” just for a while. Well: I did. I decided that you were perhaps correct, that it would be the wisest thing to do, but what happens? My kindness brings weakness and utlimately disaster. He had lost his concentration, lost his drive, and now he has lost our film. Catastrophe!’

Minerva tapped ash from her cigarette. ‘I’m really shattered, Bert, I really am. I feel just terrible.’

He crossed his legs, lay back against the crumpled pillows. ‘You should perhaps feel happy, I think, now?’

‘Happy!’