‘Fine,’ agreed Peter, trying to see how many other names there were on the page Ostendorf had consulted. Christ, it looked like they had seen fifteen people already. All eyes turned to the director. He was an elderly tanned figure in an immaculate Italian suit, and reminded Peter of photographs he had seen featuring Bertolucci’s cinematographer, Vittorio Storaro. Could it even be him? But no, the old man introduced himself as Joachim Luserke, and had a strong, almost comic German accent. As he spoke, he paused to draw on a heavy, wet cigar that appeared to have burnt itself out.
‘We are a Netherlands company,’ he began slowly, ‘releasing feature films through Columbia Tri-Star in Europe. This film is a modern-day thriller entitled – in your language – Hour Of The -’ he looked around for help, unable to translate. ‘Jackals’ said the writer, an exhausted-looking man in his late twenties.
‘There is already a film called Day Of The Jackal,’ Peter interrupted, then stopped himself from saying more. Better to take Jonathan’s advice and get the job first before offering his opinions.
‘This was long ago, yes?’ Luserke waved the problem aside with his cigar. ‘It does not concern us. People go to the cinema for only seven years of their lives, that is the average, and the film you mention is more than seven years old I think.’ Peter was impressed. He was not used to having someone listen to what he had to say.
‘I explain the plot to you now because not all of the script is translated to our satisfaction. It concerns a wealthy businessman whose son, Jack, is kidnapped one night while working late in his office. He searches for the young man – here, there – but he does not find him.’
The others were watching the elderly director’s gestures with amusement. They clearly enjoyed seeing him act out the story. It was probably the sixteenth time he had done so this afternoon. ‘Then he discovers the truth. Jack has been taken by -’ He checked with the others for the approved designation of the phrase. ‘Social terrorists – who plan to keep him imprisoned as an example to the complacent business world. They will use his capture as a propaganda weapon that will bring them great power. The police – pooh! they do not believe our hero. He alone must come to the rescue. He finds out where Jack is being held, but it is too late. One of the terrorists argues with the young man about his privileged position in life, secured for him by his father, and kills him in a fit of fury before he can be rescued. Now they will come after our hero’s wife, and he must convince the police of the conspiracy -’
‘Wait, wait.’ Ostendorf raised his hand. ‘I think this part is not necessary to tell. Wait until we have the new translation.’
‘When could I see a fully translated version of the script?’ asked Peter. The project sounded interesting, the plot uncompromising. This was the kind of subject matter European film-makers handled so well. It was probably a metaphor for the human condition, very profound.
‘We will not give you the complete script unless you win the part, but you may read the pages which feature your role.’
‘Which part is on offer?’ he asked. Was it too much to hope for the lead?
‘I hope you won’t be offended when I tell you it is the part of the evil terrorist,’ laughed Ostendorf.
‘Not at all.’ Peter smiled back. Jonathan had thought him perfect for a meaty villainous role. He was handed half a dozen pages on which the character of DR EMIL was scored through with a yellow highlighter. In order to provide him with some interaction the producer’s assistant read the role of Jack, the hero’s captive offspring. The tone of the piece was sombre and oblique, the exchanges awkward, as though English was not the author’s first language. After the read-through, Peter raised his hand. ‘There’s a problem with the English translation,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s very stilted. I could paraphrase my lines and get a better reading out of it.’
‘I think for now it would be better if you stay with the words you have,’ replied Luserke firmly.
He could take a hint. Tidying the pages, he sat back and waited for a response. The group talked quietly amongst themselves. Heads were nodding. Only the art director seemed to be in dissent. Finally Ostendorf rose and turned to him with an outstretched hand. ‘We believe we have found our evil doctor,’ he said, smiling warmly. ‘You are happy?’
Peter thrust his hands in his pockets and beamed his thanks back at the group. ‘I am very happy.’
‘Good. Now we take some test pictures of you to show our backers.’
‘What do you mean, they’re shooting before signing your contract?’ asked Fanny. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. Your agent certainly wouldn’t allow it.’
‘My agent is never going to find out about it.’ He reached across the counter and emptied a container of apple juice into his cup. The gym was empty and about to close. Rain pattered against the skylight far above them.
‘The guy playing Jack is a big-deal star in Holland and they only have him for four days. It’s not a large part but it’s the key to the film. I’m going to be playing my lines with a stand-in. Obviously I have to do it before the set is struck, so they’ll film my performance at the same time.’
‘Then why not put the two of you together in shot?’
‘For Jack’s scene with me he’s tied to a chair with a bag on his head. He doesn’t need to be there.’
‘Just make sure you get the contract signed as soon as possible.’ Fanny was growing bored with all this talk of Peter’s success. He never asked her how she was doing, why she still spent her evenings serving sandwiches to walking lumps of muscle tissue when she could be pursuing her dream, running a course for disabled actors. She had known all along that she would never be much of a stage success, but she was sure she could teach. She was prepared to settle for something more satisfying than pouring coffee. What she needed now was advice.
‘But you’d advise me to do it even though the contract’s not through, wouldn’t you? I mean, they seem like pretty trustworthy people. It’s a big company. They’re not going to run off without paying me.’ He was looking at her intently, waiting for a opinion. She threw up her hands, knowing that he would only hear what suited him. So many actors were like that. ‘Sure, take the job, it’s what you want.’
‘I knew I could rely on you to steer me to stardom. He reached down and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’d better go. Big day tomorrow.’ He swung his gym bag onto his shoulder and headed for the door. She could have killed him. It was the forehead kiss that made her most angry, as if he didn’t see her as a woman, or the possessor of any kind of sexual identity. Grunting furiously, she wheeled her way back behind the counter and began turning out the lights. Peter was a typical bloody actor, completely closed to the real needs and purposes of other people. She hadn’t seen it in him before, or perhaps she’d hoped that he would be the one to break the mould, but he was the same as all the rest. She didn’t mind them lying, but it was boring when they lied to themselves. No wonder his girlfriends never stayed around for long. She certainly wouldn’t be there for him after tonight. Far too much acting, she decided grimly.
Rain blanketed the city, sheathing the rooftops behind a grey shower-curtain of mist. It flooded the gutters, coarsed over pavements, breached the drains and ruined Peter’s chances of making a decent impression with his new shoes. Filming was about to commence in another old warehouse. This particularly run-down specimen was tucked behind the tube station in Tufnell Park, hidden by a row of shops that were either covered in For Sale signs or were already derelict, and seemed to be spouting water from a thousand broken pipes.