to success of Topov.’
Hearing his name, Maxim Topov raised his glass. ‘To great hostess and patron, Madame Olga. To all supporting great expedition to Northern Territory and to all embarking on great adventure! Salute. We are ready to make plans. You are with us or you miss out! Come, let us meet in dining room and sign names!’ He turned and headed into the house.
Peter walked beside Colin as they went through thelong French doors where the pale brocaded curtains had faded from scarlet to rose in the Sydney sunlight. ‘Do you suppose we sign our names in blood?’ he remarked with a slight smile.
Colin thought of his savings. His late grandmother would have considered this venture a total folly and it would dismay his parents if they knew what he was contemplating. He might not see a return on his investment, despite Topov’s glowing promises, but if it was a way of breaking out of the box he saw as his life, then maybe it was worth the gamble. Going to the Northern Territory sounded such an adventure, especially compared with living in Sydney and working at the bank.
‘Hollywood here we come,’ he said, attempting to sound jaunty as he made the biggest decision of his life.
Peter gave him an unamused glance. ‘I will stick to motor repairs. This experience will be useful for me. I’m not swallowing the fairy dust of Topov.’
Colin glanced at the others in the room. What did they expect as a return on their investment? Money, the promise of a new career, being part of the Australian film industry, or an adventure, like Helen hoped?
Madame Olga, assisted by Helen, neatly laid out a pile of contracts, a large map of Australia and a receipt book. The room, with its formal decor and expensive trappings, was intimidating. There was little chatter or banter as the investors shuffled forward and committed not just their money, but also as Topov and Olga said, their passion and spirit to the enterprise.
Maybe it was the room, the champagne and the atmosphere, but Colin felt there was now no turning back. He looked around him, committing his surroundings to memory. It was a scene he could perhaps use some time later in a film – the late afternoon sunlight coming through the dusty leadlight windows, a glimpse of blueharbour through dark European trees, the hushed voices, save for Helen’s brisk, ringing English accent as she filled in the paperwork for each of the investors. Madame Olga fanned herself with a document, beaming at each person as Helen handed them their formal agreement with their receipt. Topov’s voice could be heard from the adjoining drawing room.
Colin was surprised at how calmly he wrote out his cheque and signed it almost with a flourish instead of his usual careful and deliberate signature. He smiled at Helen.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound. One of my granny’s sayings.’
‘Yes,’ said Helen shortly. ‘I have heard the expression.’
Colin joined Peter the Dutchman in the next room. Topov stood in front of the marble fireplace as a group of people listened intently to what he was saying.
‘There’re a lot more of us than I thought. Do you think everyone will be coming along?’ asked Colin.
Peter shook his head. ‘I doubt it, these people do not look like they want to get their shoes dusty. Helen says they are non-participating investors.’
Colin took a small pastry from a plate on the dining table and suddenly saw another man he recognised. He inched around the room and when the man was alone he introduced himself.
‘Hello, I recognise you. I’m Colin, I’ve seen you at a couple of New Realist film screenings down at the wharves.’
‘Is that so? Sorry, did we meet? I talk to so many people at those meetings. I am Drago.’
‘Yes, yes. The cameraman. I heard you speak at one or two of the Wharfie’s Film Unit documentaries. There was one about workers’ living conditions. I was interested in what you said about film being the new instrument of progress. Are you
Hearing his name, Maxim Topov raised his glass. ‘To great hostess and patron, Madame Olga. To all supporting great expedition to Northern Territory and to all embarking on great adventure! Salute. We are ready to make plans. You are with us or you miss out! Come, let us meet in dining room and sign names!’ He turned and headed into the house.
Peter walked beside Colin as they went through thelong French doors where the pale brocaded curtains had faded from scarlet to rose in the Sydney sunlight. ‘Do you suppose we sign our names in blood?’ he remarked with a slight smile.
Colin thought of his savings. His late grandmother would have considered this venture a total folly and it would dismay his parents if they knew what he was contemplating. He might not see a return on his investment, despite Topov’s glowing promises, but if it was a way of breaking out of the box he saw as his life, then maybe it was worth the gamble. Going to the Northern Territory sounded such an adventure, especially compared with living in Sydney and working at the bank.
‘Hollywood here we come,’ he said, attempting to sound jaunty as he made the biggest decision of his life.
Peter gave him an unamused glance. ‘I will stick to motor repairs. This experience will be useful for me. I’m not swallowing the fairy dust of Topov.’
Colin glanced at the others in the room. What did they expect as a return on their investment? Money, the promise of a new career, being part of the Australian film industry, or an adventure, like Helen hoped?
Madame Olga, assisted by Helen, neatly laid out a pile of contracts, a large map of Australia and a receipt book. The room, with its formal decor and expensive trappings, was intimidating. There was little chatter or banter as the investors shuffled forward and committed not just their money, but also as Topov and Olga said, their passion and spirit to the enterprise.
Maybe it was the room, the champagne and the atmosphere, but Colin felt there was now no turning back. He looked around him, committing his surroundings to memory. It was a scene he could perhaps use some time later in a film – the late afternoon sunlight coming through the dusty leadlight windows, a glimpse of blueharbour through dark European trees, the hushed voices, save for Helen’s brisk, ringing English accent as she filled in the paperwork for each of the investors. Madame Olga fanned herself with a document, beaming at each person as Helen handed them their formal agreement with their receipt. Topov’s voice could be heard from the adjoining drawing room.
Colin was surprised at how calmly he wrote out his cheque and signed it almost with a flourish instead of his usual careful and deliberate signature. He smiled at Helen.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound. One of my granny’s sayings.’
‘Yes,’ said Helen shortly. ‘I have heard the expression.’
Colin joined Peter the Dutchman in the next room. Topov stood in front of the marble fireplace as a group of people listened intently to what he was saying.
‘There’re a lot more of us than I thought. Do you think everyone will be coming along?’ asked Colin.
Peter shook his head. ‘I doubt it, these people do not look like they want to get their shoes dusty. Helen says they are non-participating investors.’
Colin took a small pastry from a plate on the dining table and suddenly saw another man he recognised. He inched around the room and when the man was alone he introduced himself.
‘Hello, I recognise you. I’m Colin, I’ve seen you at a couple of New Realist film screenings down at the wharves.’
‘Is that so? Sorry, did we meet? I talk to so many people at those meetings. I am Drago.’
‘Yes, yes. The cameraman. I heard you speak at one or two of the Wharfie’s Film Unit documentaries. There was one about workers’ living conditions. I was interested in what you said about film being the new instrument of progress. Are you
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