Paul Gauguin The Siesta

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didn’t come. A few acres of scrubby backlot stopped being the rolling dunes of the Great Nef and went back to being scrubby backlot again. Victor felt that much the same thing was happening to him.
In ones and twos, the makers of moving-picture magic departed, laughing and joking and arranging to meet at Borgle’s later on.
Ginger and Victor were left alone in a widening circle of emptinessJust after another half-hearted fight scene Dibbler announced that it was all finished. ‘Aren’t we going to do the ending?’ said Ginger. ‘You did that this morning,’ said Soll. ‘Oh.’ There was a chattering noise as the demons were let out of their box and sat swinging their little legs on the edge of the lid and passing a tiny cigarette from hand to hand. The extras queued up for their wages. The camel kicked the Vice-President in Charge of Camels. The handlemen wound the great reels of film out of the boxes and went away to whatever arcane cutting and gluing the handlemen got up to in the hours of darkness. Mrs Cosmopilite, Vice-President in Charge of Wardrobe, gathered up the costumes and toddled off, possibly to put them back on the beds.