added to himself. With that scene in the can, I can get out of here. Take the money and run, before the arrival of this extra character dreamed up by Mario. Rumour had it that they were casting an Italian soap star, and Clifford Wesley smiled to himself as he imagined what Gilbert Ensor’s reaction would have been. He’d have gone ballistic, no question. Shame, really, that particular scene would not be played out. He used to enjoy Gil’s histrionics. They reminded him of his father inveighing drunkenly against the fates in his penniless Liverpool childhood, with a luxuriance of language and epithet intensified by hardship and deprivation.
Pulling on the dressing gown offered by the wardrobe assistant, Clifford Wesley retrieved his glasses and started to make his way across the tangle of cords and leads that brought life to the cameras and lights. Monty and Mario were deep in some sort of confabulation together and, from what he could hear, the discussion was not friendly.
Second time in two days, he thought. I’m well out of this.
Outside his trailer, he saw the lean figure of the detective inspector, waiting for him.
“Mr. Wesley?”
“That’s me. You want to talk to me? Come on in.”
He ushered Moretti over the threshold into an extremely untidy space, filled with discarded garments, glasses, newspapers, and books.
“Sorry about the mess, but I can’t stand having strangers mucking about with my belongings. I prefer to wallow in my own filth.” Wesley pushed a pile of magazines off a chair and motioned to Moretti to sit down.
“Now, how can I help you? I’ve nothing to add to my original statement. The body count continues to go up, eh?”
“Indeed. I understand this is your last day.”
“Too bloody right it is. Thank God.”
“Does your feeling have anything to do with the changes? Do they affect your own role, or its prominence in the film?”
“Prominence!” Clifford Wesley laughed with what sounded to Moretti like genuine amusement. “Look — Detective Inspector, isn’t it? — let me explain something to you. I’m twenty-eight years old and I stumbled into this business by accident while I was at university on scholarship, living hand to mouth. I spent four years in repertory theatre, making peanuts, absolutely no money, and then some agent sees me in a play in the middle of nowhere and next thing I know I’m in the West End, and the next thing I know I’m in Rastrellamento making more money than my dad made in his whole working life. It’s a hell of a role, and apart from cutting it out altogether, there’s little they can do to alter that. By the time I’ve finished with them there won’t be a dry eye or a dry seat in the house. Fuck the schoolteacher. Fuck prominence. I’ll take the money and run, thank you.”
“Schoolteacher?”
“That’s the newest addition.”
“I see. I’d like to find out more from your point of view about some of the circumstances surrounding the making of Rastrellamento.”
“Happy to help if I can. Gil was a bastard to his wife, but he was a hell of a writer.”
“In my opinion also. Why then do you think they were making all these changes?”
“This is my first film, Detective Inspector, but I know this kind of thing happens all the time, or so Gunter tells me. However, you have to hope in this case that Mario’s decisions are being dictated by his cinematic skills and not by little packets of white powder. You know about that, I imagine. Some of the changes don’t make sense.”
“Really? Then I wonder why Monty Lord would agree to them?”
“That’s another reason I’m glad to be leaving. All is not sweetness and light any more between those two, and they used to be thick as thieves.”
“Oh?” Moretti watched as Clifford Wesley got up from his chair and went across to a counter at one end of the trailer.
“No. Over the last day or so they’ve had words, hot and heavy ones. Want some?” He was holding up a kettle and a jar of instant coffee. When Moretti declined, he grinned. “Didn’t think you would. As Gunter says, I have depraved tastes. Can’t get used to the real stuff.”
The young actor plugged in the kettle and, when the water had heated, put a spoonful of brown powder into the mug and added water. A malodorous smell filled the trailer. Two heaping spoonsful of sugar and a similar amount of powdered creamer were added to the mix, and Wesley returned to his seat. After a couple of sips he said, “They had a loud argument the day before yesterday, in Monty’s trailer. I’d been over to Betty Chesler’s lodge for a fitting and was coming back to the manor when I heard raised voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and not being that interested I just kept on my merry way. Besides, they were speaking in Italian.”
“You’re sure it was Monty Lord and Mario Bianchi?”
“Yes, I’m certain.”
“Did you hear anything at all that might have given you any idea what it was about? Had anything happened in the last few days that might have caused an argument?”
“The only thing I could think of was the new character. The schoolteacher.”
“How did you find out, and were you told anything about the new character?”
“Piero Bonini told me. He said Monty was concerned I’d be worried about my impact in the film, so I asked him — should I be worried? He laughed it off, saying they’d be crazy to alter the tragedy of the two lovers in any way. My opinion exactly.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wesley.” Moretti stood up. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your coffee in peace. I shall look forward to seeing you in Rastrellamento. Don’t get up — I’ll see myself out.”
“Oh —” Clifford Wesley gestured toward Moretti with his coffee mug, “you asked me if I knew anything about the new character. All I know is they’ve apparently cast some big Italian soap star in the role. A bloke called Tibor Stanjo, or something.”
“Stanjo? That doesn’t sound Italian. Or British, or German, come to that.”
“Nope. Slovak originally, so Bella tells me. Probably cast him for his mass appeal, and for no more sinister reason.”
“Sinister? That’s an interesting choice of word, sir.”
Clifford Wesley shrugged his shoulders. “Isn’t it. Possibly all those fake feldgendarmen and repubblichini getting to me. That’s the trouble with this business, Detective Inspector, illusion becomes more real than reality itself. Probably also my imagination that Donatella and Monty are no longer as chummy as they once were — a certain coolness there now, in the last twenty-four hours. Breakfast this morning was a frosty affair.”
“Interesting. Did you get any impression of who was angry with whom?”
“Donatella was icy and giving a fawning Monty the cold shoulder. For what it’s worth, I’ve never believed there was ever really anything going on between those two — she enjoyed the admiration, and he was making sure his bread remained buttered.”
“A wise move, I would think. Thank you again.”
