‘And I am the potter. I say this in all modesty of course, it is a humble craft, but it is my delight and my joy to take raw clay and mould it into a thing of beauty, poise, strength and brilliance. The Master Craftsman and his material; simple, living, earth. Clay! Mine is the perfect balance between art and technique.’

Marcus took a sip of Cristal. ‘I can’t say I really act in the things I do. You know? Not words and so on. My job is a bit more, well, physical; know what I mean?’

‘Physical? Ah! Adventures, athletic things.’

‘Oh yes, very athletic indeed.’

‘A lot of action?’

‘Terrific. Never let up. But no words really.’

‘Cowboy things, you mean?’

‘Some. Lassoing, branding irons, bull whips, you know. But no dialogue. So really I’d be pretty much your lump of clay, wouldn’t I?’

‘But experienced of course?’

‘Oh yes. That. Sure. I know the form, technically; great at taking direction, just do as I’m told, I never argue back.’

‘Very wise,’ said Grottorosso warmly, ‘An essential lesson learned.’

‘I started in a tough school, studio, I mean.’

‘And this pleases you? To do as you are told? To obey.’

‘Sure. Suits me.’

‘And you would allow yourself to be, shall I say, taken in hand, trained, shaped, moulded and fired in the furnace of my creativity? I am curious to know?’

‘Course. I’m a great believer in discipline. We all need it, and I reckon you can hand it out, eh? No nonsense.’

‘No nonsense,’ agreed Grottorosso enjoying himself more and more. ‘So you are not afraid of the furnace?’

‘No, lead me to it. Just tell me where it is, is all.’

‘It is here!’ said Grottorosso standing as straight as a staff, arms stretched wide, head thrown back. ‘It is all before you: look, Pollock!’

‘It is?’ said Marcus gravely.

‘You fail to see that it is I myself! I am the furnace and the potter!’

‘My word!’ said Marcus respectfully.

‘And I am beginning to wonder to myself, daring to consider it, is it possible? Am I mad? That after all the tragedy which has befallen us, you could be the clay?’

‘I’ not entirely sure that I follow you; excuse me,’ said Marcus politely.

‘My clay. We have no need, Pollock, for a double as you are aware, but we have the most desperate need of a star. Of l’Aiglon. Could it be possible that it is you? Sitting there before us; could it be?’

‘Me? Could it be? Goodness, I don’t know.’

‘I had a sudden feeling, the instant I set eyes on you at that terrible picnic, that you had many of the qualities I need. You have his looks exactly. Think, just think, of the incredible publicity this will give us! You have no need of subterfuges and disguises, you have vigour, and beneath that attractive aggression I am sure that grace lies hidden. For grace I must have also. If I can assure myself that these qualities are there, then I do believe that an incredible solution has been presented to me at this moment of disaster. Are you aware perhaps of the old English saying “When one door closes …”.’