Shadows in the Sun Page #2

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Mixed green salad and spaghetti with pesto.

- Anything else?

- No.

Perfect. Then can I have a mixed green salad

and some spaghetti with pesto?

- Excellent choice. Isabella?

- I've eaten.

All right.

You know, if you've eaten,

you really don't have to stay here with me.

No. People shouldn't eat alone.

I eat alone all the time, so I'm used to it.

You changed your hair. It looks good.

Really?

Thank you.

So, Isabella...

what is it that you do here?

I work with my horses, I help with the vineyard.

That doesn't sound too bad to me.

Your father seems to have adapted well.

Well, my father is not an ordinary man.

Why do you want him to write so bad?

Well...

- Honestly?

- Mmm-hmm.

When I was 12 years old,

I broke my collarbone...

so I had to stay in bed for five weeks.

And I don't know if you've ever tried...

but it's not easy

to keep a 12-year-old in bed for five weeks.

One day, my aunt brings me a book...

The Shadow Dancer by Weldon Parish...

and, as I'm reading this book...

something absolutely miraculous

happens to me.

I am transported into a different world...

and every day for five weeks,

I lived through those words.

And to have the talent...

to instill those kinds of feelings

in other people is a gift...

and it just should not be wasted.

- You should have spoken to him like that.

- Like what?

I see the passion that you have for his work.

You should have let him see it.

- Well, I tried.

- No.

You tried to sell him, and I know my father.

He responds to honesty.

You should have tried using some.

If you want another chance...

he'll be at Carina's later.

It's a bar just outside of town.

[Mandolin music playing]

[People chattering]

You don't have the straight.

That, my dear friend,

you will have to pay to find out.

This is interesting.

You're acting like you have it.

You're trying to make me believe you have it.

- So?

- So, in a way, you're lying.

Priests shouldn't lie, Giovanni.

There is no lying in poker.

There is only bluffing.

And God forgives bluffing.

[People chattering]

[Chattering stops]

[Chattering resumes]

What, I can't come have a drink at the bar?

You could have a drink at the hotel.

- Well, I would have, but there's no one there.

- Well, boo-hoo.

Why don't you let me buy you a drink?

Just so you know,

there's no hard feelings about today.

Thank you.

[All toasting in Italian]

Okay. Why don't you ask it? Then you can go.

Ask what?

The question

that's burning a hole in your little brain.

Why did I stop writing?

Okay. Why did you stop writing?

I didn't have anything else to say, Ollie.

Okay, it's that's simple.

WELDON:
Now you can go.

A writer always has something to say.

Oh, now you're an authority.

How the hell do you know what I have to say?

- No, no, no. Mr. Parish, all I'm...

- Look, we said we'd have a drink.

I don't remember anything

about a conversation.

The mere act of accepting an invitation

to have a drink...

implies a certain degree of conversation.

- I hope you don't write like you talk.

- Why? How do I talk?

WELDON:
Like an uptight jockstrap.

Okay. What would you have said?

Actually, I wouldn't have said anything.

I would have gotten the hint

about not wanting to talk.

You're not one of those...

namby-pamby guys

that nurses a drink all night, are you?

Very impressive.

[Belching]

Okay, hasta la bye-bye.

No.

I bought this bottle of wine,

and I intend on finishing it.

[Chuckling]

Eh?

[Sighs]

[Chanting drunkenly]

See you guys tomorrow.

What do you mean, "see you guys tomorrow"?

You said you were going back to London.

No. You said I was going back to London.

[Laughing]

[Grunting]

WELDON:
Hey, kid.

You're too... You've had too much to drink.

We're gonna drive you back to the hotel.

Come on. Come on, come on. Come on.

[Crickets chirping]

[Men chattering]

[Men singing in Italian]

What's this?

You guys gonna rough me up a little bit?

[All laugh]

Hey, serious...

What's that? What're you doing back there?

It's obvious that you just won't go away.

Hey, whoa, hey, Father,

you just gonna stand by and let this happen?

- This is God's will, my son.

- I don't know why you can't understand.

I think I've gone to great lengths

to make myself clear.

- Come on. I was just trying to do my job.

- Well, now you're going to join the others.

- What others? There are others in there?

- They wouldn't go away, either.

Okay, but I will. I'll go, I promise.

I don't believe you. I think you're just

saying that so that I'll let you go.

No, no. No, no. I will absolutely go.

Tomorrow. As soon as I can.

- I think he's telling the truth.

- Yes! Listen to him.

- I don't believe him!

- No, whoa!

No, there's no need for this!

WELDON:
Arrivederci.

[Jeremy exclaiming]

[Shrieking]

[All laughing]

What does "go away" mean, Mr. Taylor?

It means go away.

I'll expect you to do just that.

[Speaking Italian]

I baptizing you in the name of the Father...

the Son and the Holy Ghost.

[Sputtering]

- What are you doing?

- Baptizing you.

I'm Jewish.

Not anymore.

[Headboard banging on wall]

[Woman moaning]

[Whimpering]

[Birds chirping]

[Gustavo singing]

Hey, ciao.

[Groaning]

[Sighing]

Unbelievable.

You've got balls, boy, I'll give you that.

And you've got my car keys.

Here you go.

Is that all?

Yup.

[Men chattering in Italian]

You know what? That's not it.

Because whatever reasons you have

for not wanting to write...

I accept them as being personal,

but that's still no excuse for you to be such...

an unbelievable!

I guess I'm not for everyone.

You know, I'll admit,

I only came here because my boss sent me...

but underneath, I came because

I have always wanted to meet you.

I thought that maybe

if I could meet the great Weldon Parish...

perhaps you could

teach me how to be a better writer...

but I realize now

that the only things you have to teach me...

are bitterness and mistrust.

[In Scottish accent] How goes

the grape business, Weldon?

What brings you to town, Ian?

I just finished my new novel

and came in for a drink.

You remember how it was

when you finished a book...

way back when you still had something to say.

[Ian chuckling]

Oh, I'm sorry. Did I strike a nerve?

Ah, it must be tough being all dried up inside

and having to live on past glories.

At least he has past glories to live on.

IAN:
And who might you be?

- Jeremy Taylor.

- Ian McBain.

Ian McBain, the novelist?

[Laughing]

- I know your work.

- You're a fan?

- No, I didn't say that.

- Jeremy.

Actually, I would say that

your themes are all the same...

that your narration

lacks depth and imagination.

- Jeremy.

- Your prose struggles for wit.

Overall, your style is sluggish at best...

and contains absolutely nothing...

that your average Joe with a typewriter

couldn't produce.

[Thudding]

[Jeremy groaning]

- He punched me in the nose.

- You'll live. I'll drive.

Your trusty steed shall carry us to battle well.

[Laughing]

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