I headed straight over and sat on the bench with Saba, to show him the sequence I had just filmed, and to ask him what he thought of my idea. He thought it was lovely. That’s all he had to say—lovely!

Oh, and also that he wasn’t a fan of dissolve shots.

I didn’t persist.

On the way back, we went down Rothschild Boulevard. It was still peaceful, apart from the occasional car going past. We walked slowly, as if we were out on a casual stroll between the rows of trees along the central path.

Saba was lost in thought. Something was bothering him. It was obvious.

‘And the painter, what happened to him?’ he asked out of the blue.

I was about to reply when we both suddenly jumped sideways at the same time. A sprinkler had sprayed us with water.

Then another one.

There was nowhere to take shelter. Jets of water like fencing swords were crisscrossing the whole pathway. The boulevard was covered in a fine cloud of droplets.

We were drenched—in cool water that revived our bodies.

All at once, the sprinkler system had started up.

After all that time.

Saba buttoned up his dripping Hemingway jacket. I rolled up the hems of my jeans. And we weaved our way between the sprinklers. Capering along to the click-clack rhythm they made as they turned.