Stirring the Pot

By Clive Cooke

“String Theory” is a science fiction story at the human level, rather than an epic. An American family on a boating holiday off the coast of Croatia is involved in a strange incident for which there is no logical explanation.
The “PhD Virus” is a humorous story about going back to work (or school) after the summer vacation. We all agree that holidays are too short. Take my advice and get a doctor to certify that you need an extra two weeks’ holiday.
“Economic Warfare” is a humorous story about academics (especially economists) partial to bad-mouthing one another in the open press. Still, a good controversy never harmed newspaper sales, isn’t that so?
“Cabin Fever” charts the mental break-down of a trapper living alone in his cabin in the mountains.
“Murder 101”, is set on the campus of a university. A professor of English Literature tries to liven up his course by studying books by crime writers. Meanwhile, a series of murders takes place on the campus, seemingly copying the lectures given by the professor. Naturally, the professor becomes the prime suspect.
“Pygmalion 400” is a Sci Fi story, a re-working of the Greek Myth of that name. This theme was used by George Bernard Shaw in his play Pygmalion, in the musical “My Fair Lady” and in the Roberts-Gere film “Pretty Woman”. This version is set 400 years after the first computer algorithm was written. Who is in control.... humans or computers?
The three stories entitled “How to Murder” are inspired by the famous film starring Jack Lemon, Virna Lisi and Terry Thomas. We learn how to murder your wife, your husband and your mother-in-law. Actually, no-one gets murdered. They are humous mix-ups.
“Meow.... Burp” is a lampoon of the contemporary obsession with dieting. The narrator is a greedy cat.
The second half of the book is a continuation of the series: “Big Companies for Dummies”. Anyone who has ever worked for a big organization should recognize some of these stock characters and situations.
The first story, “Bootblack”, is a humorous tale about a greedy financial advisor. A pity he never took the advice given to him by the man who polishes his shoes on the plaza outside the stock exchange.
“Alpha Male” lifts the lid on how appointments and promotions are made in big companies. Despite the official line, the committee charged with plotting the human resource strategy is simply an opportunity for the alpha males in the company to display their power.
The story “Black Dog” is a humorous tale about how people behave when things go wrong at work. If there is any mud flying around, you had better make sure that it does not land on you.
‘Schadenfreude” is the German word for the pleasure one derives from other people’s misfortunes. Do people really behave like this? You bet they do.
“Wheel of Fortune” charts the ups and downs of people’s careers. You can never be too sure what will happen at the next company re-organization, or the one after that, or the one after that.
“Terms and Conditions” is a philosophical story about failure. Does failure really exist, how is it defined and how does one cope with it?
“Ethics Training” is a farcical romp. Every time a big company gets caught out for wrong-doing, it responds by sending its staff on an ethics training course. The real reason is to exonerate management when the proverbial hits the fan. “It wasn’t me”, “I wasn’t informed”, “it was a rogue employee”. At the end of the training course, one has to pass a test. Take heart: no-one answers these tests truthfully. You would be stupid to do so.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clive Cooke
• Release date: Sep 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301016242

Clive Cooke

Worked for thirty years in the petrochemical industry in production and marketing, recently retired. Published ten books. Intends to devote more time to writing and to travelling.Specializes in small-scale human dramas rather than in epics. A shrewd observer of the complexities of human behavior. Loves contradictions and uncertainties. Health warning: there are unexploded land mines buried in my writing. The reader is advised to tread warily.Traveled extensively in Europe, North, Central and South America. Speaks four languages. Photograph: I'm the one on the left wearing the hat.

Book preview

Stirring the Pot

By Clive Cooke

*****

Published by Clive Cooke at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Clive Cooke

*****

Cover Design by Jo Naylor

Cover photo courtesy of CanStockPhoto

*****

This volume comprises two collections of short stories. I have used the British style of spelling throughout, and have frequently taken liberties with English grammar in the dialogue to represent local speech. Please enjoy!

*****

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

Contents

String Theory

The PHD Virus

Cabin Fever

Economic Warfare

Murder 101

Pygmalion 400

How to Murder Your Wife

How to Murder Your Husband

How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law

Lipstick on the Collar

Meow…. Burp

Big Companies for Dummies

Bootblack

Alpha Male

Black Dog

Schadenfreude

Wheel of Fortune

Terms and Conditions

Ethics Training

Stirring the Pot

String Theory

A gentle breeze ruffled the main sail. Guy ropes smacked lazily against the mast. They had waited all morning for the wind to pick up so they could visit a small group of islands further out to sea. The wind was stronger now, but was not strong enough to make up for lost time. It was too late to reach the islands. They would have to leave it for another day. Branko stood on the deck while his wife slipped into the water to cool off. He would have liked to have joined her, but one person had to stay on board. The turquoise water was clear. He could see all the way to the sandy bottom and Gabrijela’s shadow chasing her like a predatory shark. A shoal of fish darted away in military precision, the sun’s rays flashing suddenly on their silvery sides as they turned. Gabrijela blew a fine stream of bubbles from her nose and came up for air. She swam around the boat twice and then climbed up the swimming ladder.

‘Lovely,’ she said and went into the cabin to change.

Branko went to the bridge. It was time to turn the boat about.

‘I think we should be heading back now,’ he called to his wife.

‘What was that?’

‘I think we must be going.’

‘If you say so.’

Gabrijela dried herself with a towel and changed into fresh clothes. Branko hauled in the mast, tied it neatly in position and started the engine. The whole boat shook and vibrated, the noise of the engines spoiling the beautiful calm of the afternoon, the poisonous smell of exhaust fumes fouling the clean air.

‘Would you like to stay the night out here?’ he called. They did that often. They liked to see the sun rising over the island and the colours changing from pink to blue. In the early morning, sky and sea were one. There was no horizon, no join. The boat seemed to be suspended in space. Gabrijela did not answer. The noise of the engine suffocated conversation.

Within ten minutes, they had rounded the western promontory of the island. Branko put the engine into neutral and climbed down to the saloon.

‘Binoculars…. where are the binoculars?’

‘What is it, Branko?’

‘I don’t know. It looks like a capsized boat.’

It was a capsized boat. Branko could make out two figures sitting on the up-turned hull. He put the engine into full speed and turned into the wind.

‘I can see them,’ said Gabrijela, looking through the binoculars. ‘There are two adults and one child. No, two children. One is hidden behind its parents. Can we go faster? The boat is going down.’

As they drew closer, Branko slowed down to prevent the bow-wave from swamping the overturned craft. From the time they had first spotted the boat, it had settled noticeably deeper in the water. They were just in time. Branko waved his arms and shouted.

‘Bog…. Hi…. Ciao.... Hallo.’

‘Thank God,’ the man on the drowning boat shouted back.

‘Engelski?’

‘American…. Los Angeles.’

‘My English is liddle, very liddle,’ said Branko. The boat drifted closer. ‘Take this.’

He picked up a rope to throw across to the family. The father went to the edge of the sinking boat and held out his hands. The boat dipped at the sudden change in weight. One of the children tried to grab something to hold onto and overbalanced. He slipped and fell. His mother shouted. His father tried to catch him as he disappeared under the water. The sinking boat rocked violently nearly throwing the rest of the family into the water. Without waiting to take off his shoes, Branko jumped into the water. The boy struggled and then sank. Branko swam towards him.

‘Where he go?’ shouted Branko.

The father indicated that the boy had slipped underneath the boat. Branko could not see him. He swam around to the other side and dived. He could see him now. He grabbed the boy by the arm, but his foot was caught in the rigging. Branko came up for air. He dived again. This time he freed the child’s foot and brought him to the surface. His body was limp and he was not breathing. Branko squeezed the child against his chest and started artificial respiration. After a few breaths and squeezes, the child coughed. He banged the child on his back.

‘More…. more…. water come out…. is good.’

Branko swam back to his boat with the child in tow. Gabrijela was at the swimming ladder waiting to lift him out of the water. The boy was about eight or nine years’ old and too heavy for her. Branko hung onto the ladder with one hand and gave the boy a push with his other. The boy fell onto the deck. The family on the other boat shouted encouragement. The mother applauded. Gabrijela took the boy below while Branko climbed up the ladder and went to the controls. Slowly, he brought the boat around to within a few feet of the sinking vessel.

‘Now come,’ he shouted. ‘First the Mrs…. attention!’

The woman jumped across followed by her daughter and then by her husband. The mother hurried into the cabin to find her son. Gabrijela was busy drying him with a towel.

‘Sweetheart! Are you all right?’ The child did not answer. ‘My darling!’ She put her arms around him and kissed him on the top of his head. ‘You gave us such a fright.’ She turned to Gabrijela. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. We would have drowned. Jeff is a good swimmer, but I doubt whether Carrie and I could have made it all the way to the shore.’ Gabrijela waved her finger to indicate that she did not speak English. Then she opened a drawer under the bed and took out one of Branko’s T-shirts. She said something in Croatian and gave it to the mother. Then, it was Branko’s turn for the towel and a dry T-shirt.

The father sat in the lounge staring into space. ‘The crew abandoned us,’ he said. ‘There was only one life raft. They just took off.’

‘Took off?’

‘They disappeared. Ran away…. went…. away…. left…. do you understand?’

‘I understand good. I speak bad.’

‘We were out there for hours.’

Branko called his wife to bring bottled water from the galley. After hours in the hot sun, the family would be suffering from dehydration.

‘Drink,’ said Branko.

‘I’m Jeff Paige, by the way.’ He held out his hand.

‘Branco Drašković. This is Gabrijela, my wife.’ Gabrijela smiled and said something in Croatian. ‘She does not speak the English.’

Gabrijela gave Jeff a bottle of water. He tried to read the label, but it was in Croatian.

‘The tour operator has obligations to the clients,’ said Jeff. ‘It is a legal contract. We could have drowned. I am getting my lawyers onto this. There are international conventions. These people are running a crummy outfit and I am going to make them pay. I am going to bankrupt them. They can’t treat American citizens like this. They should realize that bad publicity could ruin the tourist industry in their country. We are quite well-known. I should say my wife is well-known. That is, back in the States. I don’t know if anyone in this crummy country has ever heard of her.’

‘Crummy?’

‘Sorry, no offence meant. It’s just that the standards here are not the same as in the USA. We are used to certain levels of service.’

‘Drink,’ said Branko.

Mother and son came in from the cabin and sat down next to their father.

‘This is my wife Angie, my son David and my daughter Carrie.’

Gabrijela gave each of them a bottle of water.

‘Drink.’

‘My boy, how are you feeling?’

Jeff stroked his son’s hair. The boy said he wanted a coke. Branko apologised. All he had was water.

‘We will to arrive home in about one hour. You stay with me. I tell to my servant to make ready the rooms.’

‘Thank you Mr Branko. We have lost everything: credit cards, clothes, passports, the lot.’

‘I fix problem. Not to worry. You stay with me. We phone to the American Embassy. I take the boy to the doctor.’

Branko called his wife. They spoke for a while in Croatian. She went to the bridge and made a radio telephone call.

‘Gabrijela telephones to the house. Everything is ready when we come there. Now, I drive the boat. Excuse, please.’

Branko left the family to discuss their predicament. On the bridge he took a sighting from the beacon on the promontory and altered course. Branko explained to his wife that he had offered to look after the family until they had made alternative arrangements. They had lost everything on the boat. They had no money, passports or clothes. After a while Jeff joined them on the bridge.

‘I don’t think I thanked you for saving out lives.’

‘Happy to be of service.’

‘Another hour out there and we would have been gonners.’

‘Gonners?’

‘Drowned…. finished…. dead. Do you understand? Do you live in Korčula? I mean the town not the island.’

‘No. We live in village, about twenty-five kilometres from Korčula town. Liddle village, very small. About thirty houses. I buy the village. The whole village belongs me.’

‘Cool.’

‘The village was a few farmers. They were poor and the young people left. Then the communists came and offered people jobs and better houses. Everyone went to mainland.’

They passed a village clustering around a small bay. There were a few pleasure boats in the bay and people swimming. This side of the island was out of the wind and the sea was like glass. The coast was heavily wooded, right down to the shoreline.

‘It’s pretty here.’

‘Yes, we like.’

‘Will you develop your village for tourism?’

‘Maybe, someday. Now we have the artist’s colony.’

‘Are you an artist?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cool.’

‘What you do for working?’ asked Branko.

‘Angie is a film actor and I teach. I am a professor of math at UCLA. She is pretty well known. Hollywood…. have you heard of Hollywood?’

‘Da. Everyone knows the Hollywood.’

‘Angela Paige. Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘My apology.’

‘That figures. Do you not get American movies here?’

‘Da, but we prefer the Croatian movies.’

Angie and the children joined them on the bridge. The boy looked none the worse for his swim. The boat rounded a rocky outcrop and a narrow cove with a shingle beach came into view. There were three ancient stone houses close to the shore, one of which was a ruin, a beach and a jetty. Behind the houses was a steep hill covered in dense vegetation. A road disappeared amongst the trees.

‘We stop.’

‘Is this where you live?’ asked Angie.

‘We walk four hundred, four hundred and fifty meters to village.’

The boat was tied up at the jetty and the party disembarked. They walked up the road through the trees. Branko explained that he was busy restoring the houses in the abandoned village. They were centuries old and without modern conveniences. A baker and a publican had set up business in the village. The rest were either summer tourists or resident artists. He had turned one of the houses in the village into an art gallery. He was both a collector and an artist. The resident artists exhibited in the gallery and sold their works there. He asked Jeff if he was interested in art.

‘You know the Naïve?’

‘No,’ said Jeff.

‘Croatian Naïve is famous.’

‘You mean Naïve art?’ asked Angie.

‘Da. We have about seventy, eighty Croatian Naïve. Tourists come from France, Sweden to see our liddle gallery.’

They entered an avenue lined with chestnut trees. In the distance, the first stone house came into view.

‘I’m hungry. Mummy I’m hungry…. mummy.’

‘Yes David.’

‘I want a burger.’

Carrie also wanted a burger.

‘Darling, we’ve got no money.’

‘You want burger,’ said Branko ‘I tell to Mrs Tadić to make you Croatian burger.’

‘I didn’t know you had burgers.’

‘It is not really burger. It comes from Ottoman Turkish. It is called the ćevapčići.’

Angie tried to pronounce the word, but gave up, laughing. She asked Branko to say it again, slowly.

As they left the row of chestnut trees, they reached the first house of Branko’s village. The house was roofless and its windows were boarded up. The next few houses were in ruins. The road between them was too narrow for cars. Owners had parked their cars on the grassy verge outside the village. Beyond the ruins, the houses were in better condition. Red ceramic roof tiles showed that they had recently been restored. Other houses had tiles made out of natural stone. These were the original roofs. Most of the windows at ground level were closed with wooden shutters, hiding the occupants from prying eyes. Curtains and flower pots in the upper stories showed that there were people living there. The road between the houses was paved with large, smooth stones polished by the footsteps of centuries. Carrie stopped at a stone wheel leaning against a roughly hewn stone trough. Someone had planted flowers in the trough.

‘Mr Branko, what is this?’ she asked.

‘For making the olive oil.’

‘Cool.’

‘Long time ago, no longer.’

The road opened into an irregular-shaped village square. On the right was a church with a small bell tower. Stone benches on either side of the entrance to the church served as a place for the elderly to sit in the sun and gossip. There was a well in the centre of the square covered by a wooden lid.

‘I noticed the windows have iron bars,’ remarked Jeff.

‘Pirates. Two hundred years ago, the pirates.’

‘You don’t say.’

Branko stopped at the doorway of a house on the far side of the square. Like all the houses in the village, it was built out of stone. Unlike the other houses, the doorway had an elaborate carving around the portal.

‘This is my home. I say welcome to my American guests.’

A stout, middle-aged woman peered through an upper window and then hurried downstairs to open the door. She smiled and said something in Croatian.

‘This is Mrs Tadić. She say welcome. Please to enter.’

Branko ushered them inside. They stood in the hallway.

‘This is amazing,’ said Jeff.

After the unprepossessing exterior, the grandeur of the hallway was totally unexpected. The left-hand side of the room was dominated by a massive fireplace. On the other side, a door decorated with ironwork led into the main reception rooms. Ahead was a staircase with a wooden balustrade leading up to the second floor. At intervals along the balustrade, fearsome-looking animals carved out of wood served as guardians.

‘Cool,’ said Carrie.

Carrie was stroking the first carving, smooth with age and almost unrecognisable. She said it was a cat. Her mother thought it was a lion only the wood carver had probably never seen a lion in his life.

Mrs Tadić started walking up the grand staircase. She beckoned to them.

‘Please to follow Mrs Tadić. She show to you the rooms,’ said Branko.

Branko waited for his guests in the sitting room. When Jeff returned, he took him to his study and telephoned central enquiries for the number of the American Embassy in Zagreb. Jeff said he needed to contact his bank in California. He doubted whether the Croatian directory would have the number. He would ask the embassy to find it for him. Meanwhile Branko would take Angie and the children to the doctor leaving him behind to sort out their personal affairs.

‘Mr Branko, do you have any moisturiser?’ asked Angie.

‘Unfortunate.’

‘I am a film actor. I have to take care of my skin. We’ve gotten too much sun out there to-day. I use a special formulation with jojoba and avocado oils. I won’t use anything with artificial chemicals in it, or genetically modified vegetable oils. And it must be certified that it hasn’t been tested on animals. I don’t suppose….’

‘We buy moisturiser in village. We visit doctor. We buy clothes in village.’

‘I’ll make a list,’ said Angie.

‘I want a burger…. mummy…. I want a burger.’

‘Mrs Tadić, she make the ćevapčići for dinner,’ Branko repeated.

The nearby village of Neretva was much larger than Branko’s village. It was almost big enough to be called a town. Branko’s village did not even have a name. He called it Staro Selo, or old village in English. They parked the car near the main square and walked to the doctor’s rooms. Branko explained to the doctor what had happened. He did not speak English. The doctor examined the boy, but could not find anything wrong with him. He recommended an early night and wished the family a pleasant stay on Korčula Island. After the visit to the doctor, they went to buy clothes. Branko left Angie and her children to do the shopping while he went to buy two suitcases. When he returned, they had collected a huge pile of clothes. Branko paid for everything.

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ said Angie.

‘Not a worry.’

‘We will reimburse you as soon as our bank in California sends us money.’

‘Not a worry.’

The next visit was to the pharmacy. Angie looked through all the skin-care products. Branko had to translate the writing on the bottles for her.

‘This labelling is pathetic,’ said Angie. ‘I don’t know what’s in this stuff.’

Branko spoke to an assistant. He relayed the message to Angie that this was all they had.

‘Well, I guess I’ll just have to take it.’

A stranger came up to Branko and started a conversation. Then two and then three other people joined the group. Within minutes, there was a small crowd.

Angie waited for the conversation to finish.

‘Everybody, he know everybody else in Korčula,’ Branko explained to Angie. ‘We talk about the fjera at Staro Selo at weekend.’

‘Mummy, I want a coke.’

‘Just a minute, David. Branko, what is a fjera?’

‘Feast…. traditional festival. Mr David, I get you coke,’ said Branko. ‘Miss Carrie?’

‘No thanks.’

It was already dark when they arrived back at Staro Selo. Jeff met them in the hallway. His attempts to contact the American Embassy had been unsuccessful. It was late and the embassy had closed. The following day was a public holiday in the United States and the embassy would not open until Monday. It looked as though they would have to impose on Branko and Gabrijela for three or four more days. Jeff was in a bad mood.

They sat in the main sitting room. Gabrijela brought out wine and glasses.

‘Not for me,’ said Angie. ‘I have to be careful what I eat and drink. Don’t touch that, David. Come and sit here…. David, I said don’t touch that…. come here.’

Angie asked about the portraits on the wall, dark and covered with the grime of centuries. Carrie liked the men’s fur hats.

‘Mr Branko, I take it these are family portraits?’ asked Jeff.

‘Yes.’

‘How did all this escape the communists?’

‘I tell you story. My family, we escaped to Italy after the war. I was born here, but I grow up in Italy. My father hide everything in cellars. You look at my house. The bottom stones are different, big, very old, from monastery.’

‘Benedictine Monastery?’

‘Da. My father, he put everything from family inheritance in cellars. He build wall and cement and paint the wall. Then, we flee to Italy. The communists did not find.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘So, these are your ancestors?’

‘Da.’

‘Cool.’

‘In LA,’ said Angie ‘if anything is more than fifty years old, they pull it down and build something new.’

Angie stood up to examine the portraits more closely. ‘Who is this one?’ she asked.

‘We don’t know. It could be another branch of family.’

Angie tried to see if there was any resemblance to the present owner. However, the man’s beard obscured most of his face. Mrs Tadić announced that dinner was ready.

After dinner, the children went to bed. It had been an exhausting day for everyone. Gabrijela offered Angie and Jeff liqueurs, but they excused themselves saying that they also wanted an early night. They wished their hosts good night and went through to the sitting room. Angie stopped in front of the portrait she had earlier been examining. She looked around to see if their hosts had followed them and then beckoned to Jeff.

‘Do you notice anything?’ she whispered.

‘It’s old. It’s in bad condition.’

‘I mean the subject, the man.’

‘No, honey.’

‘It may be my imagination, but before dinner he was looking to the right.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Now he’s looking the other way.’

‘Let’s go to bed.’

There was a coat of arms next to the figure, dark and cracked. The writing was almost illegible.

‘Look at the writing, Jeff. It’s back to front, like a reflection in a mirror.’

‘Strange.’

After breakfast next day, Branko suggested the Americans might like to spend the day at the beach, or hire bicycles. He mentioned a few places on the island to visit. He also offered them the use of his boat, but Jeff said that they had had enough of boats for one holiday. Branko apologised that he would not be able to entertain them as he was helping to get ready for the fjera. Angie and Jeff decided not to do anything at all. They wandered around the village, looked at the church, the little art gallery and they had coffee in the pastry shop. There was not much else to do. By mid-morning, the local residents had emerged. Everyone was involved in the fjera. Trestle tables were being set up around the square. Workmen were erecting a stage in front of the church and scaffolding for a spectators’ stand. Branko directed operations.

‘Branko, what is the stage for?’ asked Jeff.

‘We have three orchestra. We have the singing, the dancing. You must come. Mrs Tadić is singing, very good, very nice voice, no training, from the heart. Then we have the fjera and dancing.’

‘What is the fjera all about?’

‘Very old, traditional. The people take it serious. They come from all over the world. America, New Zealand. Families who come originally from here return every year. There are more Korčula families in New York than in Korčula. Very traditional.’

‘How old?’

Branko made a noise like a brass musical instrument. ‘Two thousand years, maybe. Before Christian time.’

‘Pagan?’

‘What is pagan?’

‘Non-Christian.’

‘Da. But, the Church make it okay for the people.’

After lunch, Branko asked Angie if she wouldn’t mind sitting for him. It was seldom that he had the opportunity to paint someone from real life.

‘It’s the least I can do,’ said Angie.

‘One hour. Then next week two hours. Not too much trouble?’

‘It would be a pleasure.’

Branko’s studio was at the back of the building housing the art gallery. The room looked out onto a tidy garden with a lawn and flower beds. A marmalade cat sat on the windowsill in the sun, thinking about…. nothing.

‘You very beautiful woman,’ said Branko.

‘Thank you.’

Branko placed a fresh canvass on an artist’s easel and mixed colours on a palette. He added turpentine to thin the mixture.

‘No, I really mean it Mrs Angie. You are very beautiful.’

‘Let me tell you: beautiful women are two for a dime in Hollywood. I guess I was just lucky.’

‘Hold still.’

‘In some ways, I envy your life style Branko.’

‘Lift the head a liddle.’

‘There is a lot to be said for the simple life, Branko. Sometimes, I feel I want to opt out of the rat race. The film business is so competitive. The Hollywood social circuit is so artificial. I am not a typical film star. I don’t have this need for fans and adulation. If you are not careful, it goes to your head. If my looks go out of fashion to-morrow and I have to stop work, I really don’t care. I was a teenager when I started in the movie business. I never thought I would get this far. It was a low-budget slasher movie. I am quite embarrassed to think about it.’

The afternoon sun flooded into the room. The orange cat jumped off the window sill and rubbed itself against Branko’s legs.

‘Please to move more into the light. Are you comfort?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. As I was saying, there are more important things in life than being a Hollywood film actress. I guess I have matured. I’ve got different priorities now. My family was not rich. My father was killed during the war. He was twenty-five. He had hardly gotten out of college. He had hardly started to live. My mother had to work on the production line in a factory to support two small children. I have a lot to be thankful for. You say you fled to Italy after the war? It must have been a difficult time for you.’

‘A little to the right…. more…. ah, hold the position.’

‘My left side is better.’

‘I paint the left side, like Egyptian queen.’

‘There are a lot of disadvantages in being famous. It is not all glamour, you know. It is mostly hard work. Yes, we can afford all sorts of things that other people can’t afford. But, at the end of the day, you can only sleep in one bed. As one gets older, one discovers that there are no advantages without disadvantages. That’s life. You have to sacrifice something. For us it is privacy. Also, human relationships. People try to get to know me because I am famous. I can’t begin to tell you how annoying this can be. In English we call these people social climbers. They are not interested in me as a person. They want something out of me. I have become so cynical about people. Do you understand what I am saying? Then, living in a fishbowl puts a strain on one’s marriage.’

‘Da.

‘Can I see what you’ve done?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘I earn a thousand times more than Jeff and he doesn’t like it. I think deep-down he is jealous of my success. I probably should have married another film actor then these kinds of problems would never have arisen. I thought of leaving him. But, the kids….’

‘You moved.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Please, a liddle to the right… good.’

‘I hope I am not boring you with this stuff? Jeff is a good person. He is very clever, professor of math and all that. He is much cleverer than me. Carrie is like him. It’s just that we lead separate lives. I