* * * * * * * * * * * *

August 7. 2:00 p.m. Paris, France

The telephone rang, in that French way.
"Allo?"
"Hello, is this Monsieur Truffle, the eminent French film director?"
"I have that privilege, and who might I be speaking with?"
"Hello, my name is Lana Lewis. I work for a major American newspaper, and we are working on an article about some astonishing coincidences that seem to involve you, your last film, "Champs de Mars" and the impending attack of Martians."
"I am tres sorry, but I -- "
"No, seriously, Monsieur Truffle, they are truly eerie."
Monsieur Truffle had had his fill of Americans for one day. The war in Iraq was one thing, but his French-American liason officer had somehow talked him in to having a breakfast meeting with possible buyers from Miramax for his new film, L'Attacque des Champignons; which had not gone well. Even the croissants were unfortunate. He put down the phone, silencing the babbling voice at the other end, and turned back over in bed to continue his in depth discussion of the symbolism of Jean Vigo with Marie Oscur, his crack editor and current mistress.