“I knew that. I saw it in a B.B.C. documentary,” the shy scriptwriter adds.

“On the point of death our protagonist says to his wife, ‘My love, let’s watch a last B.B.C. documentary together,’” the team’s resident intellectual throws in.

Fred is upset. “That’s enough, kids.”

“I’m not sure it’s true about this business of the tear glands, you know. It was in one of those popular magazines that tend to hype things up to sell a few more copies.”

“I think we’re getting away from the subject here.”

“You’re right. What a dickhead Julian is. Just like his mother. You remember? I worshipped her, while all she worshipped was stagehands and electricians.”

“She would worship anybody, Mick.”

The one female scriptwriter smiles. “Ecumenicalism is a noble ideal.”

“Ecumenicalism?!” Mick says, feigning anger. “My best friend is saying that my ex-wife would go to bed with anyone and in all these years he’s never said a word to me. Don’t you realise how serious this is?”

“Like you never told me about Gilda Black.”

“Alright, I get it, you want revenge. And now you’ve had it. But let’s get real here. I want to hear what that dickhead of a son of mine has to say.”

Mick grabs the telephone again and dials.

“What are you doing? If you’re thinking you can persuade him to go back to Lena, it’s pointless.”

“No, but at least I want to understand.”

His son must have answered because Mick starts to speak in an angry voice. “I’m your father, but on the basis of recent evidence I’m not so sure that you’re my son.”

The intellectual scriptwriter nudges the shy one: “Make a note. We’ll put that in the movie.”

20

It is late for breakfast. Some waiters are already laying the tables for lunch. There are no other guests, apart from the eternally silent couple who finish, leave the table and go out as usual without having said a word.

Mick and Fred watch them leave and when they disappear a disconsolate Mick mechanically takes out fifty francs and hands them over to Fred.

“How do you always know with such certainty that they won’t say a word?”

“Because a waiter told me something about them.”

“What was that?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s the edge I have over you.”

“You just tell me right now! Anyway, that waiter’ll tell me. I’ll bribe him. At this point, with all the money I’ve blown on it . . .”

“Oh, alright, I’ll tell you. They’re deaf.”

“You dickhead! You can just give me back all the money I’ve shelled out, right now. You’re a crook. The bets are all null and void.”

“You know, you really are naïve! I was only joking. They’re not deaf at all.”

The conversation is interrupted by a silent apparition at the other end of the room: a forty-year-old man in immaculate jacket and tie, followed by a woman, also in her forties, who appears to be his secretary, frumpy and non-descript, hair done up as best she can, wearing no make-up, but respectably dressed in cheap clothes.