at the museum, watching the clouds roll in low and the rain hazard the traffic. Driving into the centre, I was thinking of Welles and his last noir, The Trial, guys in trench coats and pork pie hats waiting in doorstep shadows, midnight train rides and From Russia with Love. We couldn’t find our apartment so made a call and our host told me to wait on a street corner until she arrived. How will she know me, I wondered? Should I text and say I’m the man with the green bag, or just smile at the way you get everything you imagine you want in this life, this Zagreb mystery rendezvous, but always with unseen shifts in the staging.
