The first shoot of the Viagra documentary was supposed to start in a month; we had no final script. I waited a day, then another and sent him a jolly e-mail. (I loathed its tone of phony camaraderie.) His answer came almost immediately. He had been offered a two-hour documentary on Nelson Mandela; full interview access to him, to his ex-wife, even some of his cronies from prison. There was a time factor at play, Mandela was eighty-four years old, surely I could understand. He was, Derek concluded, terribly sorry, but he had just “run out of time.” I was floored. Not to mention broke after the “celebratory” trip to Cuba. I also felt that I’d been “had.” Lured into a frivolous, undignified piece of work that made me look like a fool. I remembered my words to Jesse in the cathedral square, the missionary’s zeal with which I’d delivered them. “You never get anything worth getting from an asshole.” I stomped up and down the living room with my fists clenched and swearing revenge; Jesse listened quietly, numb with guilt, I imagine.
