television. Phil thinks so too.’
‘You’re a friend of his?’
‘An associate, actually. I’m his film guy.’
‘And what does a “film guy” do?’
‘Primarily I look after his archive.’
‘He’s got a film archive?’
‘You bet – with around 7,000 films on celluloid and another 15,000 split between video and DVD. Outside of the American Film Institute, it’s the best archive in the country.’
‘Let alone the Caribbean.’
Chuck smiled. ‘He only keeps around 2,000 movies here on Saffron.’
‘I guess with no multiplex in town . . . ’
‘Yeah – and, you know, Blockbuster doesn’t exactly ship Pasolini movies out here.’
‘You like Pasolini?’
‘To me, he’s a god.’
‘And to Mr Fleck?’
‘He’s God the Father. Anyway, we’ve got all twelve of his films – so whenever you like, the screening room’s yours.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, thinking that
The Gospel According to St Matthew
(the only Pasolini I’d seen) was about the last thing I wanted to watch on a Caribbean island.
‘By the way, I know Phil’s really looking forward to working with you.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s a great script.’
‘Which one? His or mine?’
Another of his major smirks. ‘They both have equal validity.’
That’s certainly diplomatic of you, I thought, considering they’re both the same.
‘Listen, speaking of the script,’ I said, ‘I’ve done a bit of work on it over the past few days and was wondering if I might get it typed up.’
‘No problem. I’ll get Joan to drop over to your room and pick it up. See you at the movies, Dave.’
Meg now led me to my room. En route, I asked her about herself. She said that she was from Florida, and had been part of ‘The Saffron Island Crew’ for the past two years. She used to work on a cruise ship out of Nassau, but this was a lot more pleasant. And easy – because, by and large, the crew were the only people here.
‘You mean, Mr Fleck doesn’t use the island very often?’ I asked.
‘Only about three or four weeks a year.’
‘And the rest of the time?’
‘It’s empty . . . though, occasionally, he might lend the island to one of his friends. But that’s maybe another fourweeks a year maximum. Otherwise, we’ve got the place to ourselves.’
‘How many are you?’
‘A full time staff of fourteen.’
‘Good God,’ I said, thinking what the annual wage bill must be like . . . especially given that the island was in use less than two months per year.
‘Well, Mr Fleck’s got the money,’ she said.
My room was in one of the smaller V-shaped turrets that defined the centre section of the house. ‘Small’ was an inaccurate way of describing this loft-like space. White stone walls. Hardwood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out directly on the water. A huge king-sized Mission bed. A large living area, with two enormous sofas. A full bar, stocked with everything upscale. A bathroom with a sunken bath tub, a sauna, and one of those showers – encased in clear plexiglass – which shot water at five different corners of the body. Above the bedroom, accessed by a circular metal staircase, was a complete office area, with all the requisite communications gadgets.
But, without question, the gadgety
coup de théâtre
was the three flat computer screens in my room. They were conveniently located on the desk, on an end table in the living room, and by the bed. Each screen was completely interactive. You touched it with your finger and it came to life, informing you that this was your very own in-room audio and video centre. I tapped the screen, and then the prompt marked
Video Library
. The letters of the alphabet were then displayed. I touched A – and a list of thirty films appeared on the screen: everything from Godard’s
Alphaville
to Joseph Mankewicz’s
All About Eve
to Joseph Strick’s
Ulysses.
I touched
Alphaville.
Suddenly, the state-of-the-art
‘You’re a friend of his?’
‘An associate, actually. I’m his film guy.’
‘And what does a “film guy” do?’
‘Primarily I look after his archive.’
‘He’s got a film archive?’
‘You bet – with around 7,000 films on celluloid and another 15,000 split between video and DVD. Outside of the American Film Institute, it’s the best archive in the country.’
‘Let alone the Caribbean.’
Chuck smiled. ‘He only keeps around 2,000 movies here on Saffron.’
‘I guess with no multiplex in town . . . ’
‘Yeah – and, you know, Blockbuster doesn’t exactly ship Pasolini movies out here.’
‘You like Pasolini?’
‘To me, he’s a god.’
‘And to Mr Fleck?’
‘He’s God the Father. Anyway, we’ve got all twelve of his films – so whenever you like, the screening room’s yours.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, thinking that
The Gospel According to St Matthew
(the only Pasolini I’d seen) was about the last thing I wanted to watch on a Caribbean island.
‘By the way, I know Phil’s really looking forward to working with you.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s a great script.’
‘Which one? His or mine?’
Another of his major smirks. ‘They both have equal validity.’
That’s certainly diplomatic of you, I thought, considering they’re both the same.
‘Listen, speaking of the script,’ I said, ‘I’ve done a bit of work on it over the past few days and was wondering if I might get it typed up.’
‘No problem. I’ll get Joan to drop over to your room and pick it up. See you at the movies, Dave.’
Meg now led me to my room. En route, I asked her about herself. She said that she was from Florida, and had been part of ‘The Saffron Island Crew’ for the past two years. She used to work on a cruise ship out of Nassau, but this was a lot more pleasant. And easy – because, by and large, the crew were the only people here.
‘You mean, Mr Fleck doesn’t use the island very often?’ I asked.
‘Only about three or four weeks a year.’
‘And the rest of the time?’
‘It’s empty . . . though, occasionally, he might lend the island to one of his friends. But that’s maybe another fourweeks a year maximum. Otherwise, we’ve got the place to ourselves.’
‘How many are you?’
‘A full time staff of fourteen.’
‘Good God,’ I said, thinking what the annual wage bill must be like . . . especially given that the island was in use less than two months per year.
‘Well, Mr Fleck’s got the money,’ she said.
My room was in one of the smaller V-shaped turrets that defined the centre section of the house. ‘Small’ was an inaccurate way of describing this loft-like space. White stone walls. Hardwood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out directly on the water. A huge king-sized Mission bed. A large living area, with two enormous sofas. A full bar, stocked with everything upscale. A bathroom with a sunken bath tub, a sauna, and one of those showers – encased in clear plexiglass – which shot water at five different corners of the body. Above the bedroom, accessed by a circular metal staircase, was a complete office area, with all the requisite communications gadgets.
But, without question, the gadgety
coup de théâtre
was the three flat computer screens in my room. They were conveniently located on the desk, on an end table in the living room, and by the bed. Each screen was completely interactive. You touched it with your finger and it came to life, informing you that this was your very own in-room audio and video centre. I tapped the screen, and then the prompt marked
Video Library
. The letters of the alphabet were then displayed. I touched A – and a list of thirty films appeared on the screen: everything from Godard’s
Alphaville
to Joseph Mankewicz’s
All About Eve
to Joseph Strick’s
Ulysses.
I touched
Alphaville.
Suddenly, the state-of-the-art
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