pinter

Pinter has coffee brewing in the corner. He doesn't mind if you get up and walk across his study to help yourself to another cup. Pinter listens whilst Horacio tells him at length about his plans for a rock 'n roll version of Peer Gynt. Horacio is a director. He likes to talk. Pinter is a playwright. You can hear him listening.

Pinter replies to my letter with a hand-written letter of his own. He offers the best kind of help. Pinter says the story about the torturer who became a lecturer is fascinating. Pinter says the play is terrifying. Pinter writes in a confident sprawl.

Pinter sends his poems to someone I know. She gets the poem out and we read it. The poem's terrible, she says, and she's right.

There's an old couple in the queue for the cinema. It takes a moment to place the old man. It's five in the afternoon at the Panton Street Odeon. The film's an overated piece of sci-fi. I think about going over and saying hello, but don't. In the cinema, I turn and watch him and his wife. He looks uncomfortable. They don't look like they belong, in this public space, watching this film that means less than it claims to. I decide to say hello when the film ends. But midway through, they leave.

Someone tells me they knew Pinter's assistant. Her first job in the morning was to put the champagne on ice.