9 November in London is neither more nor less rainy than any other month is likely to be, but the November rain is considerably colder than the one of July or August. It also begins to darken quite early, and the reflections of streetlights on the wet fallen leaves create a surrealistic glow. There had still been daylight when the funeral service at the small neighborhood Anglican church had begun, but by the time the guests were gone and Margaret Blackwood was left alone with Peter, the little square in front of the church was already permeated with that strange light. “I shall walk back, Peter,” she said before he had asked her anything. “You need to be alone, do you?” he said, sympathetically. “Yes, I do. Thank you.” She did not walk straight to Peter’s – and formerly her mother’s – flat, but wandered aimlessly in the general direction of the West End. She felt a strange sense of freedom, as if she were a tourist in her old hometown. A freedom from the obligation of visiting her mother, of having to put up with Peter... Actually, Peter had been quite decent with her. She had found out that her mother had used only a small fraction of the life insurance before moving in with Peter; that Peter’s broker had helped her invest the rest; that, as a result of the so-called economic recovery – which Peter insisted on attributing to Maggie Thatcher (“your namesake,” he liked to say) – the bundle had grown nicely; and that Peter had taken a firm stand that his wife make her daughter her only heir. This money, then, was yet another kind of freedom: she could now, if she wanted, buy things without having to wait for so many paintings to sell. And, as a tourist, she could allow herself a tourist’s fling if the opportunity were to arise. Unlike a typical tourist, however, she knew every step of the path she was taking, however it might meander, and she looked up only occasionally; the painter in her was fascinated by the patterns of the leaves on the streets. But as she passed (as she knew she would) the cinema where Albert’s films had usually had their London showings, she could not help looking at the marquee, and was startled to read WORLD PREMIERE / ALBERT BOSCH’S LADY G IN PARADISE / WITH GINA GEORGE. She checked her watch and walked to the box office. “Has the film started?” she asked the clerk. “Yes, Ma’am, about ten minutes ago.” “One, please,” she said. She took a quick glance at the poster, entered the dark cinema and groped her way to an empty seat in the back. On the screen she saw the blond actress whose picture was on the poster, evidently Gina George, in a dressing room, wearing a skimpy outfit and putting on makeup while looking at herself in a mirror. On the wall, next to the mirror, hung a poster reading Lady G and the G-Strings, with a picture of Gina and some musicians. A voice-over, evidently in Gina’s very American voice, was saying: “I was tired, so tired. I felt like I’d been running for so long, so long. Where was I running from? I don’t know, maybe from hell. I knew where hell was, it’s where I was from. Where was I running to? I don’t know, maybe to paradise. But where was paradise? I had no idea.” Margaret was intrigued. She wondered what she had missed at the beginning. This was not typical Albert Bosch, but, as Albert had said to her, the last thing he wanted to do was typical Albert Bosch, though sometimes he could not help it. Dissolve to Gina on stage, wildly but soundlessly cheered by the audience, beginning her equally soundless number. Instead of the cheering or the music, the voice-over continued. The camera zoomed in on a dark and handsome man – probably Mario something-or-other, Margaret thought on recalling the poster – watching the singer intently from the audience. “But then I saw those eyes, like two beacons. Where would they point me to? Back to hell, or to paradise? There was only one way to find out.” There was no way for Margaret to know that in a row in the middle of the cinema, Gina George in the flesh was seated between Albert Bosch and Mario Farga, with the two distributors and some of their associates on Albert’s side. Because of commitments on the stage, Sofia Marés had been unable to join them. In the film the Gina and Mario characters, the latter holding a briefcase and both wearing raincoats but carrying no umbrellas, were walking together in the drizzly London night. Mario was speaking in an accent that Margaret could not place. “My flight is in one hour. I must go home.” “Where is your home?” “Why, it’s in paradise. If you ever go there, look me up.” “When would be the best time to go?” “Anytime.” “But what season?” “There are no seasons in paradise.” “Good-bye.” “Good-bye.” After a passionate kiss, Mario hailed a passing taxi. Knowing Albert’s method, Margaret thought that it was probably a real taxi passing by. A careful observer – and Margaret was one – might have noticed that Mario’s mouth actually said the word “taxi,” but the word was not on the soundtrack. What was heard was his saying “Write me!” as he handed her a card before hopping into the cab. The voice-over continued. “Was he telling the truth, or joking? There was only one way to find out.” At this time the real Gina George and Albert Bosch were holding hands, and Mario was looking down on her free hand. A close-up of Gina looking at the card in her hand dissolved to a winding seaside road on the Mediterranean, with a decidedly non-British taxi coming into view. Inside the taxi, Gina, wearing a revealing sundress, was sitting in the back seat. The voice-over continued. “Was this paradise?” The road bent around a large tree. “Would I find the tree of knowledge?” The taxi turned inland, into an area of unassuming small houses. “Would there be a snake?” The taxi stopped, and Gina got out, saying “Wait!” to the driver, who showed that he did not understand, whereupon she mimed sleep and turning watch hands. Looking at a piece of paper in her hand, Gina walked to the house and rang the doorbell. After a long wait, she knocked hard on the door. A very dark (North African? Margaret wondered), very beautiful but plainly dressed woman – probably Sofia whatever – came to the door, looked at Gina, and spoke in a foreign language. Margaret thought she had seen her in some other film. Some real dialogue finally ensued. “I don’t understand,” said Gina’s character. The dark woman did not respond. “Marco?” Gina asked. The woman spoke again, shook her head, and pointed in a faraway direction. Just then a teenage girl walked by, and the woman spoke to her. The teenage girl turned to Gina. “Do you speak English?” she asked. “Sure I speak English,” Gina said. “I thought Marco Mella lived here.” The teenage girl, after translating and hearing the woman’s response, said, “Yes, Marco Mella lives here but he is gone away.” “When is he coming back?” Once again, translation, response and reply. “Maybe today, maybe tomorrow.” “Can I leave a message for him to call me? My name is Gina, and I’m at the Hotel Paradise, or Paradiso, or whatever it’s called.” “Does he expect you?” the girl asked. “I don’t know – I hope so.” The girl spoke again to the dark woman, who answered briefly and withdrew, shutting the door “Do you know Marco Mella?” Gina asked the girl. “I see him sometimes.” “And who’s this lady? His wife?” “No, not wife!” the girl said with a laugh. By then the flesh-and-blood Gina George was still holding hands with Albert Bosch, but her other hand was on Mario’s lap, and Mario was stroking her arm. Margaret was yawning. In the film it was now evening. Gina (that seemed to be the character’s name as well), dressed in tight jeans and a blouse, was in her hotel room, intermittently reading and looking at the seaside lights through the balcony door. Suddenly she picked up the phone, dialed one digit, and asked for room service, ordering some food – “whatever you’ve got” – and beer. After she went back to reading, there was a knock on the door. She opened it to let in a waiter with a cart and a champagne bucket. “There must be a mistake,” said Gina. “I didn’t order champagne.” She then looked at the waiter, who was played by Mario. “Marco!” she exclaimed. “Hello, Gina!” he said softly. “What a surprise!” “But I told you I lived in Paradise!” “You didn’t tell me what you did in paradise.” “What do you think one does in paradise?” Marco asked as he opened the champagne bottle, splashing Gina. She grabbed it from him, splashing him in turn. They laughed. This is getting a little more interesting, Margaret thought, though in a non-Albert-Bosch sort of way. Meanwhile, in the middle row, Gina and Mario, perhaps recalling the shooting of that scene, were caressing each other’s arms, and her handhold with Albert was weakening. Albert, absorbed in the on-screen action, hardly noticed. On screen, Gina was taking off Marco’s champagne-splashed jacket, and then his shirt after saying, “Oh, your shirt is wet too.” “So is yours,” said the bare-chested Marco, and after Gina’s “Yes” he began to unbutton her blouse, with her impressive breasts coming into view. She took the bottle and poured champagne on her breasts, whereupon he licked them. They then began to unbutton each other’s trousers. While, in the audience, Gina was no longer holding hands with Albert but keeping a close hold with Mario, Margaret was feeling most uncomfortable. She got up to leave, whispering “Sorry!” as she made her way to the aisle and walked into the lobby. After glancing at the poster with Albert’s name and Gina’s provocative picture she walked into the rainy street. It was now pouring, and she realized that she had left her small umbrella – which, Londoner that she still was, she had kept furled all through her walk despite the drizzle – in the cinema. She could not face having to see more of the film if she were to go back inside to retrieve it. The elation she had felt on the walk was gone. The feeling of freedom was replaced by one of solitude, and there was no solitude like being alone in an English rain. That is what pubs are for. A few doors down from the cinema she found herself at the entrance to a bar. It was an arty sort of place, with concert and gallery posters on the walls. As she sat down on a stool at the counter, the young bartender asked her cheerfully, with a Northern accent, “What’re we havin’, love?” “Scotch, please!” she said, forcing a smile. “Sorry, Ma’am,” was the reply, “this is a wine bar. We’ve got some hock, and some claret, and some lovely champagne...” “No, no, no champagne,” said Margaret emphatically. “What’s the strongest stuff you’ve got?” “Well, we’ve got some nice madeira... A little glass shall it be?” “No, a big glass!” In the film, meanwhile, Gina and Marco (Mario) were in bed, with Marco smoking. The telephone rang, and Gina – surprised to be receiving a call – answered “Hello!” “Mr. Mella?” she was saying after a moment. “Oh, oh yes...” And, still seeming surprised, she handed the receiver to Marco. “It’s for you.” Marco took the phone and spoke, in his language and with a commanding tone, for a minute before hanging up. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said to Gina, “but I am needed downstairs.” He got out of bed, his well-formed buttocks to the camera, and quickly began to dress. “In the dining room?” asked Gina as the sheet began to slip down from her breasts. “No, in the office.” “Can’t they get another waiter?” “Not really, my darling.” “Why not?” “You see,” he said, fully dressed and turning to gaze at her now fully exposed breasts, “I am not really a waiter. I am... director of the hotel.” As he opened the door to leave, she quickly covered herself again. “Why am I not surprised?” she said, and, after a pause, “By the way, who’s the dark woman?” but he shut the door behind him without answering. As the first sip of madeira warmed Margaret’s gullet, she reflected on whether the loneliness she was feeling came from a sense of loss. Her loss of Albert was something that by now, months after the separation, she felt not as something personal but rather as the world’s loss of the filmmaker Albert Bosch, his seeming surrender to the ego and sexual allure of a porn queen. She was alluring, Margaret could not deny it, but Albert had assured her – boasted, perhaps – that he had never slept with any of his actresses. As, after several sips of ever-increasing size – that was smooth stuff indeed! – her mind shifted to thoughts about her mother, she noticed out of a corner of her eye that a ruddy-looking man next to her was looking at her with interest. She had not noticed him when she first sat down, but also had no recollection of him sitting down beside her. She turned to him, smiled, and pointed at a poster on the wall behind them. “See that poster for Margaret Blackwood?” she said. “She’s a damn good artist, she is.” “Seen her show, have you?” he asked. His voice had a pleasant, comforting quality. “Not this one, but I know her work.” “Do you? What’s it like?” “It’s... it’s very... very...” “Very good?” “Very good, that’s precisely what I meant to say. Sometimes one just doesn’t find the right word, does one?” “Indeed.” “You’ve read my mind. Very good!” “Would you like more of what you’re having?” “You’ve read it again.” If Albert Bosch, who at that moment was walking past the bar’s window alongside Gina George and Mario Farga, with both men holding their umbrellas over Gina, had looked inside, he would have seen the woman he had loved, in his way, with another man. But he did not look around him. “Maybe having the world premiere in London was not the best idea,” he was saying. “They just don’t get it, those limeys,” said Gina. “In my country they will love it!” said Mario. In the bar, Margaret was speaking. “My lover just died, and my mother left me... I mean, my mother died...” “And your lover just left you?” the man filled in. “No, not just... definitely not just...” “But your mother... just died?” “Two days ago, and we buried her today.” “D’you miss her?” “I hadn’t spoken to her in years... Yes, I miss her.” “We all miss our mothers.” “Is that what the inner child is? I met a horrible American woman who talked to me about letting out the inner child.” “Yes, Americans do go on about that sort of thing, don’t they?” the man said with a gentle laugh. “They could be right, you know.” “Is it all right if I cry?” she asked. And without waiting for permission she put her head on the man’s shoulder and felt her tears mix with the rainwater that had not quite dried on her cheeks.