“What a shit, that Brenda Morel,” the intellectual scriptwriter says.

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

“She’s just an opportunist,” the scriptwriter in love says.

“No different from the rest of us,” Mick replies. “And it’s what you have to be to survive in this jungle.”

“And it’s not true she came to Europe just to see you, Mick. I read she’s going to Cannes, to some gala benefit.”

The team shoot dirty looks at the shy scriptwriter who has just spoken.

“Now let’s not go too far with all this reality. Remember illusion is our business.”

“Your lasting testimony is worth much more than yet another T.V. series, Mick,” the team’s clown says.

“My lasting testimony? Let’s not exaggerate. Most people die without anyone taking any notice, never mind leaving a lasting testimony.”

The intellectual speaks again. “But most people aren’t great artists like you.”

“It makes no difference. People, artists, animals, plants – we’re nothing but extras on the set.”

The train comes in, the doors open.

The young scriptwriters grab hold of their rucksacks and get on the train. The woman, who up till now has been silent, gets on last. Mick remains on the platform and looks up. Before the door closes, she turns round to Mick and with a beautiful smile says, “He’s on the point of death and he dies. Only then, for the first time, she says to him, ‘Michael, I love you.’”

Mick is touched and smiles back. “Perfect!”

The door closes. The train pulls away and disappears round a bend. A downcast Mick turns on his heel and leaves the station.

63

Looking old and disappointed, Mick shuffles along the path through the valley. It is a magnificent day. Bright sunshine in a clear blue sky. The air is crystal clear. The cicadas are in full swing. An Edenic scene.

A female voice, coming from who knows where, calls out to him: “Mick!”

Mick turns to his left towards a huge uncultivated meadow. He looks, but can see no-one. Then out of the long grass pops a woman dressed as a 1950s air hostess. It was she who called his name, and she now adds in an anxious voice, “Mick, how should I say this line? I don’t get it.”

Mick has no time to reply because another woman has emerged from the grass. She looks like a young Jean Seberg, wearing a bikini. She speaks as if she were delivering a line of dialogue in a film in the arch tones of a snob. “James, perhaps you don’t realise I never set foot on a yacht less than twenty-five metres long.”

Then from out of the grass springs a ditzy early 1960s blonde with a great cleavage, also delivering a line of dialogue: “Oh, that’s enough! Come on now, boys, where have you hidden my little purple slippers?”

Mick looks at her and gives a radiant smile.

A woman in her fifties then pops up dressed as a lay nun and acts her part, on the verge of tears. “Albert, you don’t know what it has cost me to preserve my virginity until today! Until you!”