I'm not an artist, really... not a
real artist...just a sketch artist
for fashion drawings.
She has picked up the drawing and is holding it in her hand
with its back toward Oliver, who extends his hand.
May I see it?
Irena smiles but shakes her head as she tears the drawing
about two-thirds of the way through, dropping it face down
upon the pavement.
Oh, no. It's not good. If I let you
see it, you might not want to know
OLIVER (SMILING AT HER)
I'm afraid it would have to be
pretty bad to do that. Besides,
look... (pointing to a drawing she
had dropped, quoting in a mocking
"Let no one say, and say it to
Irena laughs and starts to pick up the paper, but a gust of
wind blows it down the promenade. She turns to Oliver and
shrugs her shoulders. She starts to fold up her campstool.
Oliver comes forward to offer his assistance. At the same
time the organ-grinder passes between them and the camera,
playing "Aida" on his hand organ. Oliver asks Irena if he may
help her, but the music is so loud she cannot hear him. He
assists Irena in gathering up her things. He takes the
campstool, and Irena carries her artist's portfolio. They
start toward the avenue together.
CLOSE SHOT of the torn drawing as a little wind, carrying
with it some autumn leaves, picks up the paper again and
blows it over and over up the promenade. The torn half of
the drawing falls over into place, so we see what Irena had
been drawing. It is a smart fashion sketch of the type seen
in Vogue or Harper's Bazaar, but the face of the model is the
blunt mask of a black panther, and the hands protruding from
the sleeves are tipped with feline talons. The CAMERA HOLDS
on the drawing.