There is no theatre without the Scarlet Woman. Last night, I met her in a dream: she was dressed as a business woman and her name was Savannah. She wore a tailored dark blue suit. She was extremely beautiful. We kissed. She told me she was thirty-nine, but later I found out she also posed as an older woman; in fact, it transpired that she had had at least two identities, and many former lovers. I met one of them near a stone fountain, an amiable, well dressed man in his early thirties, who since ceasing to be her lover, had become her friend. We talked about her, admiringly, for an hour or two, as darkness fell over the stone boulevard.