He held the document in his hands, caressed his upper lip and read slowly through the clauses. He had successfully printed an agreement on his inkjet.
He would acquire an option to purchase film and television rights in Hilldyard's novel. On exercise the author would assign all rights to adapt and exploit the book as a motion picture or TV mini-series, and thereafter to produce sequel and remake films and spin-off series. Michael would control merchandising, soundtrack and book-of-the-movie rights; plus the unfettered right to alter or adapt the novel in any way, subject only to author consultation without veto. Hilldyard would experience three-quarters of a million dollars on exercise and, when the film got made, a single-card front-end credit in a lettering three-quarters the size of the director's.
There was a space for the author's signature.
It struck him as curious that the imprint of a name, the motions of ink on a page, could change everything.
He tucked the document into his pocket carefully.
Today would not be subtlety day. He would aim to get things done, so that other things could happen. First this, then that, a practical progression. Not everything that Hilldyard might feel should trouble him now; a certain withdrawal of empathy was inevitable, a certain narrowing of concern for the author, and, if it disturbed him to contemplate such efficiency, he told himself that Hilldyard had been persuaded to change his mind, and that he had changed his mind, too. He honestly wanted to produce the film. It was now his wish, his ambition, and where there was honesty there need be no embarrassment. Self-knowledge was proof against bad conscience.
His preparations were cool-headed, even dextrous. He dressed, shaved, and after a moment's preparation dialled Curwen's office in London. He was not decided on the degree of misrepresentation required to prepare the agent for the Americans, but he knew that something subtle would occur once they were talking. Curwen, it turned out, was ill, off for a day and possibly longer. There was no contact number and thus no risk of the Americans reaching Curwen before Michael did. He rang off thoughtfully.
He dialled Nick Adamson's Los Angeles number, not fearing to wake him in the middle of his night. The voicemail cut in. He deposited a résumé of developments and asked for a return call p.m. Adamson would be excitable, venally strategic. Once briefed he would shift into download: the shape of the deal, the theatrics of negotiation with Coburn, the body language and opening gambits and deal breakers. Michael needed that. He was reliant on that.
Adela had asked for a decision. He rang her hotel as though it were another business call. Her line was engaged and he left a message with reception: 'Shane's agent arrives tomorrow. With Hilldyard now. See you lunch.'
Enough to make her stay.
He descended to the lobby and asked the Signora to watch out for an incoming fax. Weislob had not yet sent the coverage.
He patted his pockets, composed himself. It was a ten-minute walk up to Hilldyard's villa and in that ten minutes he needed to become solid, dense with purpose. He inhaled resolutely and went on to the veranda where the day's light was captured in a thousand particles of colour.
Michael blinked, fetched out his sunglasses, waited a moment.
He made his way up the road, pushing himself to achieve clarity of thought. He needed to prevail. For once he was at the centre of things and the forces gathering to his person, of hazard and chance, would give him strength.
A wash of nerves hit the pit of his stomach, almost lifting him off his feet with exhilaration. He was dizzy for a moment, the screen of his mind clearing, losing colour, as though he could be anything, anywhere, was no longer fixed.
The figure came from a side-alley, catching his arm with a hard down-clasp.
Michael shrieked in surprise.
The writer recovered at the roadside. He held on to Michael's arm and glanced about, catching his breath. They had nearly collided. The old man was shaken.
'I was coming to see you,' he said at last.
Michael concentrated. 'I was coming to see you.'
They stood there facing each other, opening moves accomplished.
Hilldyard got his breath back, made a gesture. 'Frances has gone on a jaunt.'
'Has she?'
'Sorrento.'
Michael slowly nodded. 'Shall we go up to your place?'
Hilldyard looked over his shoulder. 'No. Come to my room.'
'Your room?'
'I have a room.' He produced a key from his pocket.
Michael looked at the key in surprise.
There was a flicker of insomnia in Hilldyard's eye. His jowls were rawly shaven.
'Go on.' He pointed the way up the narrow flight of steps. 'Up there.'
Michael pressed on ahead, putting some energy into his upward climb, as if he were his own man.
Hilldyard followed behind, one hand on the rail. The high walls on either side were crumbly, unrendered, host to spumes of weed and grass, and gloomy, like the sides of a dungeon. Halfway up the old man coughed violently, a catty spasm. He hauled himself on, watery eyes glinting behind Michael.