'I wonder what he'll say,' he said.'I don't even know him,' she said.
'So your staying with a host family?'
' Yeah, they are fresh from Ohio. So I'm not learning much French.'
'I'd sooner get an apartment.'
'Why are you here then?'
'For the great, inexpensive wine and a music festival that's quite reasonable.'
'Oh yeah, how could you tell I was an American abroad, I mean I'm not wearing a baseball cap.'
'I can sense things.'
'Why must you always follow me round Europe when I'm trying to gain independence?'
'It's part of the game.'
The biographer turned up but he wasn't quite there yet. He had written a book on his famous cousin who had fled to Paris and an early demise. This was his first trip to France and his view from his hotel window was so fantastic it made him feel melancholic. He'd done the research, told the story from the contrasting viewpoints of the women in his cousin's life; a mother, a wife, a mistress, a sister. Although, when he read the extracts alone and aloud he realised that he'd prefer to publish his own diaries from the early days before they went their different ways to unknown futures.
A guy in a creased white shirt looked at his silver watch and left the room. He walked through the streets to a nearby cinema. Unsure if to watch Loach's La Part des Anges or Carax's Holy Motors he visited the pitch black bathroom and considered the choice before the match was struck. Glasgow would have been too much of a shock. The mysterious Carax presented a magic show, where the central being shifted identities, his dressing room driven by the elderly lady from Eyes Without a Face. He could be anybody with anyone in any situation at anytime in the city; a father, a phantom, a fetish, a dying man. While the limousines were talking, undercover.
Strolling back through the gardens he saw a pretty brunette ardently stretching and holding positions, balancing herself on a stone balcony. Her younger brother sat over there by the blossom tree, on the park bench, humming to himself, engrossed in video games.
