Mae West is borne in between two strong men with long hair and open-necked shirts with masses of muséles underneath. They whisper in my ear that these are her lovers. She has yellow corkscrew curls and her face is heavily made up, and she has false eyelashes that are coming loose. They ask me to come and meet her. She so wants to know me. Dumbly we grasp each other’s hands.

As I walk away, I hear her hiss to one of the lovers, “Who the hell was that?”