Finally, it is Dee Moray who breaks the silence, smiling at her old friend: “Perchè hai perso così tanto tempo?” What took you so long?
That smile is still too large for her lovely face. But what really gets to him is this: she has learned Italian. Pasquale smiles back and says, quietly, “Mi dispiace. Avevo fare qualcosa di importante.” I’m sorry. There was something important I had to do.
Of the six other people fanned out around them in this room, only one understands what they’ve said: Shane Wheeler, who, even after four quick, desperate glasses of whiskey, is still moved by the bond translators often develop with their subjects. It’s been quite a day for him, waking up with Claire, finding out his movie pitch was nothing but a distraction, trying unsuccessfully to negotiate better terms during the long trip, then the catharsis of that play, identifying with the ruined life of Pat Bender, reaching out to and getting shut down by his ex; after all of that, and the whiskeys, the emotion of Pasquale’s reunion with Dee is almost more than Shane can bear. He sighs deeply, a little whoosh of air that brings the others back into the room . . .
They all watch Pasquale and Dee intently. Michael Deane grips Claire’s arm; she covers her mouth with her other hand; Lydia glances over at Pat （even now, she can’t help worrying）。 Pat looks from his mother to this kindly old man—Did she call him Pasquale?—and then his vision swings over to Keith, standing at the top of the stairs, moving to the side with that goddamned camera he carries everywhere, framing the scene, inexplicably filming this moment. “What are you doing?” he asks. “Put that camera away.” Keith shrugs and nods his head toward Michael Deane, the man paying him to do this.
Debra becomes aware, too, of the other people in the room. She looks around at the expectant faces until her eyes fall on the other old man, the one with the strange plastic, impish face. Jesus. She knows him, too—
“Michael Deane.”
He draws his lips back over his brash, white teeth. “Hello, Dee.”
Even now, she feels dread just saying his name, and hearing him say hers; Deane senses this, because he looks away. She’s read stories about him over the years, of course. She knows about his long trail of success. For a time she even stopped watching credits for fear of simply seeing his name: A Michael Deane Production.
“Mom?” Pat takes another step toward her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says. But she stares at Michael, every eye following hers.
Michael Deane feels their stares and he knows: this is his room now. And The Room is everything. When you are in The Room, nothing exists outside. The people hearing your pitch could no more leave The Room than—
Michael begins, turning to Lydia first, and smiling, all charm. “And you must be the author of the masterpiece we just saw.” He holds out his hand. “Truly. It was a wonderful play. So moving.”
“Thank you,” Lydia says, shaking his hand.
Now Deane turns back to Debra: Always speak first to the toughest person in The Room. “Dee, as I told your son downstairs, his performance was remarkable. A chip off the old block, as they say.”
Pat shrinks from the praise, looks down, and scratches his head uncomfortably, like a kid who has just broken a lamp with a football.
A chip off the old block—Debra shudders at the description, at the threat she senses but can’t quite make out yet （What exactly does he want?）， and at the way Michael Deane is taking over this room, watching her son with that old dead-gazed purposefulness, that hunger, a half-smirk on his surgically implacable face.
Pasquale senses her discomfort. “Mi dispiace,” he says, and he reaches a hand over the counter between them. “Era il modo unico.” It was the only way to find her.
Debra feels herself tense, like a bear protecting a cub. She concentrates on Michael Deane, addressing him as evenly as she can, trying to take the edge out of her voice, not entirely successfully. “Why are you here, Michael?”
Michael Deane treats this as if it were an honest question about his intentions, an invitation to unpack his traveling salesman bag. “Yes, I should get right to that, after disturbing you so late in the evening. Thank you, Dee.” Having transformed Dee’s accusation into an invitation, he turns now to Lydia and Pat. “I don’t know if your mother’s ever mentioned me, but I am a film producer”—he smiles with humble understatement—“of some repute, I suppose.”
Claire reaches out to take his arm—“Michael . . .” （Not now, don’t ruin this good thing you’re doing by trying to produce it）—but Michael can no more be stopped than a tornado now. He uses Claire’s gesture to pull her in, patting her hand as if she’s just reminded him of his manners. “Of course. Forgive me. This is Claire Silver, my chief development executive.”