It's raining.The rain fell like a slow moving curtain wall on Hyde Park in the city of London, and under the slight westerly wind, it was like a falling curtain of water, drifting towards the park paths and the narrow plane tree green space that separates the north-south traffic lanes.A drenched pensive man stands under a bare tree and watches. The entrance to the ballroom at the Grosvenor House was as bright as day under arc lights and a continuous camera flash, and inside it was warm, cozy and dry.There was just a wet pavement under the awning in front of the door, where liveried doormen stood, shining umbrellas at the ready; limousines drove up one after the other.

Every time a rain-soaked sedan pulls up under the awning, a janitor runs up to hold up an umbrella for the bowed movie star or celebrity, and provides them with an umbrella between the car and the awning. A few steps away from the wind and rain.Then they can straighten up, turn their faces to the camera, and flash a disciplined smile. The paparazzi stood on the sides of the awning, drenched, trying to protect their precious interview equipment from the rain.Their shouts were carried across the road to the ears of the man under the tree. "Here, Michael. This way, Roger. Smile big, Shakira. So cute."

Celebrities and dignitaries of the movie industry nodded amiably to the bearded sycophants, to the cameras and camcorders, and to the distant audience of cinephiles.Ignoring the odd, persistent autograph collectors in hooded waterproof jackets with earnest glances, they drifted into the hotel like a breeze.There they will be ushered to the table reserved for them.They will stop from time to time, greet acquaintances with smiles, and prepare to participate in the annual awards ceremony. The little man under the tree continued to watch, his eyes full of unfulfilled desire.He also dreamed that one day he might join it, becoming a movie star, or at least known to his peers.But he knew that it was impossible, it was impossible now, it was too late.

For thirty-five years he has been an actor, almost exclusively in films.He played more than a hundred roles, starting out as extras with no lines and moving on to insignificant walk-on parts, but never a really big one. He was the hotel porter who passed by and was on screen for seven seconds; he was the army truck driver who gave Peter O'Toole a lift into Cairo; he was once armed with an ancient Roman spear , standing at attention just a stone's throw away from Mike Palin; the former aircraft mechanic who helped Christopher Plummer climb into a Human Torch. He's played waiters, baggage handlers, and soldiers in every army from the Bible to the Battle of the Bulge in WWII.He's been a taxi driver, a policeman, a fellow diner, a street crosser, a peddler pushing a trolley, and anything else one can imagine.

But it's always the same: a few days on location, ten seconds on screen, and an old friend goodbye.He'd been within walking distance of every known star on celluloid, had seen the good guys and the bad guys, the disciplined and the curmudgeonly.He knew he could play any role absolutely convincingly; he knew he was a chameleon among humans, but no one recognized the gift he believed he had. So he watched in the rain as his idols got out of their cars and into the ballroom, and then back to their lavish apartments and suites.When the last celebrity was inside, the lights dimmed and he trudged back to the bus station at Marble Arch against the wind and rain.On the bus, he stood in the aisle, and the rain kept dripping off him.After getting out of the car, he walked another half mile to a one-bedroom apartment between White City and Shepherd's Wood.

He took off his rain-soaked clothes and wrapped himself in an old terry dressing gown from a hotel in Spain (he was filming the Peter O'Toole movie "Dream Knight," in which he lead the horse) and turned on a single-pipe heater.Moisture from wet clothing evaporates overnight, leaving only some moisture in the morning.He knew that he was now poor and had nothing.Haven't found a job for weeks; it's a career that's competitive even for short, middle-aged men, and the prospects are bleak.His home phone was out, so if he wanted to get in touch with his agent, he had to go there himself.He has made a decision on this matter and will go tomorrow.

He sat down and waited.He always sits and waits.This is the set of his life.Finally, the door of the office opened and someone he knew stepped out.He jumped up. "Hello, Robert, remember me? I'm Truby." Startled, apparently unable to remember the face in front of him. "The Italian Mission, Turin. I was driving a taxi and you were in the back seat." Robert Powell's usual humorous responses save the scene. "Oh yes, in Turin. It was a long time ago. How is it, Truby? How are you doing?" "It's okay. Not too bad, nothing to complain about. I came here suddenly just to see if there is any work for your acquaintances that I can do."

Powell noticed that the cuffs of the other's shirt and old waterproof trench coat were frayed. "I'll keep him on the lookout. Nice to see you again. Good luck, Truby." "Good luck to you too, old friend. Brace yourself, eh?" They shook hands and parted.The agent was a good man, but there was no job for Truby.A period drama is to start filming in Shepparton, but the actors have already been cast.This is a very competitive industry, and the only motivation is to remain optimistic and believe that tomorrow will be a big role. Back at the apartment, Truby ponders desperately.You can receive social assistance of a few pounds a week, but London is very expensive.He had just had another negotiation with his landlord, Mr. Kozakis.Kozakis is again chasing back rent arrears, saying his patience is not as unlimited as the sunshine in his native Cyprus.

The situation was bad; in fact, it couldn't have been worse.When the dim sun disappeared after entering the tall building across the yard, the middle-aged actor walked to the cupboard and took out an item wrapped in sackcloth.Over the years, he had often asked himself why he kept this nasty thing.After all, it was not in his taste.Sentimental, he guessed.It had been left to him by his Aunt Millie thirty-five years earlier, when he was a young lad of twenty, a bright, eager young actor whom the troupe thought would be a star.He opened the wrapped burlap. It was a small oil painting, about twelve inches square without the gilt frame.He hadn't unpacked it in years, but even when he first got it, the painting was dirty, covered with grime and dust, making the figures blurry outlines, only slightly more distinct than shadows .Even so, Aunt Millie always claimed that it might be worth a few pounds when she was alive, but it was probably just an old lady's fancy.As for its origin, he knew nothing.In fact, this small oil painting really has a story.

In 1870, a thirty-year-old Englishman who spoke some Italian immigrated to Florence, Italy, with a small gift from his father, with the dream of becoming rich.At that time, it was the peak period of the Victorian Dynasty in England, and the Queen's shafrin gold coins were very popular.Italy, by contrast, is in its usual chaos. In five years, the pioneering Mr. Brian Frobisher had accomplished four things.He discovered a delicious wine in the mountains of Chianti and began exporting it in large wooden barrels to his native England, competing with traditional French wines at a lower price, thus laying the foundation for a huge fortune.

He bought a beautiful town house, added a carriage, and hired a groom.He married the daughter of a local aristocrat, bought a lot of decorations for his new house, and bought a small oil painting in a second-hand shop on the quayside near Ponte Vecchio. He didn't buy the painting because it was famous or prominently placed.It was dusty and almost hidden in the back of the shop.He bought the painting because he liked it. For thirty years he had been British Vice-Consul in Florence, Lord Bryan, and the painting had hung in his study, and for thirty years, every night, he would smoke an after-dinner under the painting. cigar. In 1900, a cholera epidemic swept through Florence.Sickness took the life of Mrs. Frobisher.After the funeral, the sixty-year-old businessman decided to return to the land of his ancestors.He mortgaged the property, returned to England, bought a handsome manor in Surrey, and hired nine servants.At the lowest level was a local village girl named Millicent Gore, who was a table maid. Sir Bryan never continued.In 1930, when he was ninety years old, he died.He once brought back from Italy about a hundred wooden crates, one of which contained a small now faded oil painting framed in gold. Since it was the first gift he had given to Madame Lucia, and she had always liked it, he hung the painting again in the study.There, soot and grime blackened the once bright colors and the figures became increasingly illegible. World War I broke out and ended, and the war changed the pattern of the world.Because the shares invested in the Royal Russian Railways evaporated in 1917, Lord Bryan's assets were depleted.After 1918, a new social change also took place in Britain. The servants scattered, but Millicent Gore remained.She was promoted from dining maid to assistant housekeeper, and after 1921 to housekeeper and sole servant in the house.During the last seven years of Lord Bryan's life, she nursed his frail master.He did not forget her until his death in 1930. He left her a lifetime lease on a cottage and a trust fund by which she could live a modest life.The rest of his real estate was sold for cash at auction, except for one item: a small oil painting.She is proud of the painting because it comes from a strange place: a foreign country.She hung the picture in the small living room of her cottage, not far from an open wood stove.There, the paintings get dirtier and dirtier. Miss Gore, a lifelong maiden busy with village and parish work, died in 1965 at the age of eighty-five.Her older brother was married and had a son, who bore a boy and was the old lady's only grandnephew. When she died she left little, since the little house and the fund belonged to her benefactor's estate, but she bequeathed her paintings to her grandnephew.It was another thirty-five years before this grimy, stained and grime-covered work of art was dismantled and brought to light in a run-down one-room flat in London's Shepherd's Wood area. The next morning, the owner of the oil painting came to the front desk of the prestigious Darcy Building, which specializes in auctions and valuations of fine art, and he hugged an object wrapped in sackcloth tightly to his chest. "I know you guys provide art valuation services to the public," he said to a young woman sitting behind a desk.She also noticed that the shirts and trench coats that customers were wearing were worn out.She pointed him to a door marked "Valuation."The interior was less luxuriously furnished than the front hall, where there was a writing desk and another girl.The poor actor repeated his inquiry.The girl reached out and took out a form. "Name, sir?" "My name is Trupington Gore. Well, this painting..." "address?" He gave the address. "telephone number?" "Uh, no phone." She glanced at him as if what he had just said was that he was missing a head. "What is it, sir?" "A painting." Slowly, details about the artwork came out of his mouth, and her expression became more and more bored.years?have no idea.school?have no idea.period?have no idea.painter?have no idea.nation?Probably Italy. The woman in the valuation room was very attracted to a young man in the "Classic Reception", and it was noon, the time to go to the corner cafe Uno for coffee.If the little man with the poor drawing could leave, she could sneak out with her girlfriend and, with luck, maybe snatch the next table. "Finally, sir, what is your own estimate of this?" "I don't know either. So I brought it here." "We must have a customer's estimate, sir. How about a hundred pounds, I say, just to be on the safe side?" "Okay. Can you tell me when we'll hear from you?" "I'll let you know, sir. There's a lot of art in the storage room waiting to be appraised. It'll take time." Apparently, from her own point of view, just looking at something like that is enough.God, some people put junk on her desk and they think they've found something rare. Five minutes later Mr. Trupington Gore, having signed the form, took his copy, and leaving the sackcloth behind, stepped into the street near Knightsbridge.He is still destitute and can only walk home. The painting, wrapped in sackcloth, was placed in an underground storage room, where it was marked with an identification tag reading "D1601."

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