you were to look back over your career, what role gave you the greatest satisfaction, as an actor?”
“It would have to be Rochester. I won a BAFTA for that one.”
“So was it the role or the award that made it satisfying?”
“I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it may incriminate me.” Mark responded in his best American accent.
“Very good.” Sandra clapped her hands. “But what’s your answer?”
“I enjoyed the challenge of the role. I enjoyed the accolades. I enjoyed the money. Did I feel I had given something of value to the world? Not really.”
“So, would this new role, the one given to the other actor, would it have added value in the way you think is important?”
“Are you sure you’re not some kind of therapist, masquerading as an artist?”
“Answer the question.”
“No, wait, perhaps a barrister.”
Sandra stared at him.
“All right then—no, probably not. It had the potential to make the award lists. The subject matter was not of much interest to me and I doubt it would have changed the world. But what movie ever does?”
“So if movies don’t change the world, what does? Who does?”
He began counting on the fingers of his left hand, tapping the pinky as it rose from his fist. “My brother does. He’s a surgeon; saves lives nearly every day.” His ring finger stood next, empty of any ring. He smacked them both with the index finger of his other hand. “My father does. He’s a history professor at Newcastle; builds young minds.” His middle finger joined the other two and Mark thrust his hand toward Sandra. “My friend Norman definitely does. He’s an old school chum who runs a humanitarian organization that’s brought aid to a dozen different countries, horrid situations most of us aren’t even aware of.” Mark looked out to the sea. “He called me last week, asked me to narrate a documentary for him, on the high rates of child mortality in Mali and a couple of other African countries.” Mark’s gaze came back to Sandra’s expression. “Don’t feel bad. I hadn’t heard of it either.”
“Well doesn’t that fit with your definition of work with value?”
“A low-budget documentary that will be shown by film societies and universities? My agent was horrified. I believe he called it euthanasia for my film career.”
“Perhaps it would be, but maybe it’s time.” As soon as the words passed her lips she wished she could pull them back.
“Time to put my sorry career out of its misery?” Mark slammed his hand on the table top hard enough to make the cutlery jump. “Is that what you think?” Heads turned toward them from the surrounding tables.
Sandra glanced toward the exit, wondering if leaving would be more or less uncomfortable than staying. She leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone, “Number one—trying to help; number two—public place.” She was surprised at her own boldness.
“Right. Sorry.” Mark signalled the waiter and ordered another beer.
“What I meant to say was that if your career is no longer satisfying, why not venture out into something different?”
“Because I’m not ready to give up yet. I’m not ready to call time.” The edge was still there. “I’ve invested more than thirty years of my life in this business. I can’t just throw that away.”
“Fair enough.” Sandra leaned into the back of her chair and took the last swallow of beer from her bottle. It seemed the fun part of the conversation was over.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it. I rest my case.”
***
S andra followed Mark down the steps to the sidewalk in front of La Perla. She pulled her sunglasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose.
“The marina is a short walk down this way. Care for a stroll?” Mark asked. “I’m rather an admirer of the floating craft.”
The remainder of lunch had passed without incident. She’d gone back to Paul’s recommendation and kept the conversation away from
“It would have to be Rochester. I won a BAFTA for that one.”
“So was it the role or the award that made it satisfying?”
“I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it may incriminate me.” Mark responded in his best American accent.
“Very good.” Sandra clapped her hands. “But what’s your answer?”
“I enjoyed the challenge of the role. I enjoyed the accolades. I enjoyed the money. Did I feel I had given something of value to the world? Not really.”
“So, would this new role, the one given to the other actor, would it have added value in the way you think is important?”
“Are you sure you’re not some kind of therapist, masquerading as an artist?”
“Answer the question.”
“No, wait, perhaps a barrister.”
Sandra stared at him.
“All right then—no, probably not. It had the potential to make the award lists. The subject matter was not of much interest to me and I doubt it would have changed the world. But what movie ever does?”
“So if movies don’t change the world, what does? Who does?”
He began counting on the fingers of his left hand, tapping the pinky as it rose from his fist. “My brother does. He’s a surgeon; saves lives nearly every day.” His ring finger stood next, empty of any ring. He smacked them both with the index finger of his other hand. “My father does. He’s a history professor at Newcastle; builds young minds.” His middle finger joined the other two and Mark thrust his hand toward Sandra. “My friend Norman definitely does. He’s an old school chum who runs a humanitarian organization that’s brought aid to a dozen different countries, horrid situations most of us aren’t even aware of.” Mark looked out to the sea. “He called me last week, asked me to narrate a documentary for him, on the high rates of child mortality in Mali and a couple of other African countries.” Mark’s gaze came back to Sandra’s expression. “Don’t feel bad. I hadn’t heard of it either.”
“Well doesn’t that fit with your definition of work with value?”
“A low-budget documentary that will be shown by film societies and universities? My agent was horrified. I believe he called it euthanasia for my film career.”
“Perhaps it would be, but maybe it’s time.” As soon as the words passed her lips she wished she could pull them back.
“Time to put my sorry career out of its misery?” Mark slammed his hand on the table top hard enough to make the cutlery jump. “Is that what you think?” Heads turned toward them from the surrounding tables.
Sandra glanced toward the exit, wondering if leaving would be more or less uncomfortable than staying. She leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone, “Number one—trying to help; number two—public place.” She was surprised at her own boldness.
“Right. Sorry.” Mark signalled the waiter and ordered another beer.
“What I meant to say was that if your career is no longer satisfying, why not venture out into something different?”
“Because I’m not ready to give up yet. I’m not ready to call time.” The edge was still there. “I’ve invested more than thirty years of my life in this business. I can’t just throw that away.”
“Fair enough.” Sandra leaned into the back of her chair and took the last swallow of beer from her bottle. It seemed the fun part of the conversation was over.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it. I rest my case.”
***
S andra followed Mark down the steps to the sidewalk in front of La Perla. She pulled her sunglasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose.
“The marina is a short walk down this way. Care for a stroll?” Mark asked. “I’m rather an admirer of the floating craft.”
The remainder of lunch had passed without incident. She’d gone back to Paul’s recommendation and kept the conversation away from
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