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weren’t that frequent.
    Now as we rattled along, Colin said: ‘We need to know a lot more about Enescu. How did he get the money to make House of Shadows , for example?’
    Alan shrugged. ‘The fact that he got it is surely what matters.’
    The taxi turned into a narrow street off Piccadilly. Colin muttered: ‘I’m sure I saw him hanging around the Athénée Palace in Bucharest with all the bourgeois riff-raff.’
    Alan stooped to climb out of the taxi: ‘Are you saying you know more than you’re letting on?’
    Colin shrugged, but he looked at Alan very hard.
    â€˜Well, keep it to yourself for the time being. Don’t mess up this meeting. I mean it. Don’t .’
    Hugh was waiting for us in the tiny foyer and led us upstairs. The rather odd trio – possibly a ménage à trois , I suddenly thought, how very sophisticated – were seated at the far end of the room in a warm twilight of soft beige carpeting and tapestry fauteuils , tinted mirrors and vellum-shaded wall lights. I’d expected a more masculine sort of place, with leather and wood panelling, not this boudoir.
    â€˜Like a tart’s flat,’ muttered Colin. That shocked me. How did he know?
    The men stood up. Enescu actually kissed my hand! Stanley Colman clicked his fingers to bring the barman over to our table. There seemed to be a wide choice of drinks; no shortages here.
    I sat and watched and listened – as Stanley Colman was doing. The Romanian seemed to like Hugh’s idea for a feature film about refugees. Colin sat stonily silent as Enescu outlined his vision of a dark, romantic film, the tragedy of central Europe in the aftermath of war.
    Finally Colin spoke: ‘I still think a documentary would reveal the truth more clearly.’
    Radu smiled winningly. ‘But fiction is truth, really, it is just as true as reportage ,’ pronouncing the word in French. ‘What do you think, Stan? Would you put your money on a documentary?’ A sly move, I thought, bringing in the money man like that.
    Stanley looked from one to another of them. ‘I’ll be frank with you,’ he said. ‘I haven’t even dipped a toe in the water, and I don’t know if I will. To begin with I was interested in the cinemas – the buildings themselves. I didn’t understand the link between the distributors and the actual theatres at first. But J Arthur Rank has that all sewn up – he owns the Odeons and the Gaumonts. The next thing is – well, how is this country going to compete with Hollywood? Things don’t look good financially. And documentaries – is that what people want? Radu’s right. All very well in the war, kept people’s spirits up, that sort of thing, but now – don’t you think the audiences want a bit of colour in their lives? A bit of escapism? Refugees – is that going to take people out of themselves? You know something? People don’t like refugees. They don’t want to hear about all the suffering in mittel Europa , they’re too busy grumbling about the electricity cuts and the meat ration.’
    Hugh was delighted; it was just what he’d said. ‘ Exactly . We’ve been through all this, and I thought we’d agreed.’
    Colin sipped his whisky in silence. Then, unexpectedly he turned to Enescu. ‘How did you start in films? There’s no film industry in Romania.’
    Enescu smiled modestly. ‘I have been very fortunate,’ he said. ‘I was able to work abroad, in France, and before that in Berlin. With UFA. This was before the Nazi time, of course.’
    â€˜You must have been very young.’ Colin hardly bothered to hide his scepticism.
    Radu smiled. ‘Indeed,’ he said modestly, ‘I was very fortunate,’ he repeated.
    There was an awkward silence. Alan was looking apprehensive.
    Colin was staring at him. ‘When did you actually leave? How