Blues music is playing in the background. We see langston sitting at his desk, busy typing. He puts the letter in an envelope and goes upstage centre and deposits it. He walks back to the desk empty-handed. He looks anxiously at his desk, searches for new mail, but there is none. He sits down to write again and sends the post, but still he is not finding any mail. The screen shows a calendar, moving from June 1962 until 23 November 1962; then the light changes and focuses on bloke, who is sitting at his desk writing.

BLOKE: Dear Langston,

I don't even feel I have the right to ask you to forgive me for neglecting to write to you; but pardon it, sir, as you are a gentleman.

I was kicked out of my flat with no money to move into another and I’ve since been living in the good offices of a friend who's allowed me to sleep in his living room. I broke off completely with your cast because they bought me a meal and drinks all the time; I couldn't face it, so I just got lost, perhaps some day you might explain to Alex.

Anyway, I’m writing my book, and if I didn't have to dedicate it to my mother, it would have been for you. I’m frightfully proud to know you. Just keep believing in me, maybe someday I’ll justify it.

Keep swinging,

Bloke.

LANGSTON: Dear Bloke,

I have been talking with the United Negro College Fund here and with AMSAC – American Society of African Culture – about the possibility of bringing you to the USA for lectures. It looks promising, and I hope you will be hearing from them soon.

Pula!