Gala (to Ernst, who is leaning at the ship’s rail, gazing at the copper sea): You paint better because of me.
Ernst (not looking at her): Unlikely.
Gala: You all paint better with me.
Ernst (dyspeptically): Eluard isn’t a painter.
Gala (still proud of him): He buys panting though. That’s almost as important as painting them. He buys you.
Ernst (abstractly): I’ve already thanked him for that.
Gala (wickedly): And now—as more thanks—you’re screwing his wife!
Ernest (equally wickedly): He’s waiting for us, you know.
Gala (only vaguely interested): He is? Where? In Saigon?
Ernst: Yes.
Gala: He’s there already?
Ernst: Well, obviously yes. Yes, he is.
Gala: What’s he doing?
Ernst: Scratching around in Cambodia. Mostly Angkor Wat.
Gala: How do you know that?
Ernst: He cabled me.
Gala: And I suppose he’ll expect me to sail back to France with him?
Ernst: He did say something like that, yes.
Gala (glaring at Ernst): You know what, Max? I actually think I’ll go with him.
Ernst: Yes, I imagined you would. He probably needs you.
Gala (furious): No, he doesn’t, Max. He doesn’t need me at all.
Ernst (turning back to watch the horizon): I guess that’s part of the appeal, then.
Gala (also returning her gaze to the horizon): I guess so.
(curtain)
