As the credits began their laconic journey to the top of his screen, Michael Haneke smiled, yawned and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma was a disturbing film. But it was so emotionally and physically taxing it always left him with a sort of fuzzily pleasurable feeling, not unlike that post-coital mix of fatigue, vulnerability and resignation. He had seen the film perhaps a dozen times, but it hadn’t lost its power to shock.

This was a tremendous relief to Michael Haneke. The famous director stood, stretched, and turned the huge plasma screen off.

The Hanekes were stationed in the Parisian apartment that they had rented for a few years before finally buying. It wasn’t a large space, but it was very modern and laid out most efficiently. The small square kitchen was across from the lounge and next to the bedroom.

Michael Haneke went into the kitchen to make himself a nightcap. Susi was probably asleep already. When he had reached for the Salò DVD, she had elected to watch a rerun of Friends dubbed into French in the bedroom.

He looked down, engrossed, as the milk warmed on the stove. Milk doesn’t come to the boil like water, he thought. You can see the kinetic energy in water building up slowly and you know it’s about to boil. Things aren’t so straightforward with milk. Everything happens under the surface.

With milk, all is calm….

then there are just one or two bubbles…

and then suddenly the whole pan is boiling over. Unbelievable.

Michael poured himself another cup of coffee while Susi busied herself with the silver letter-opener. He watched the object flash about in the morning sunlight.

‘What’s this?’ said Susi, opening up an A4 envelope.
‘Ah… Is it that script I’ve been waiting for from Alain?’
‘No – no. It’s in English. And I don’t think it’s a script… hang on.’

Susi began to read the document aloud softly, feeling her way along the unfamiliar English sentences.

‘…“not unlike that post-coital mix of fatigue, vulnerability and resignation”…’
‘What’s that?’ Michael Haneke leaned over the table.
‘It’s about you, Mike. It’s all about you watching Salò and then boiling some milk.’
‘Let me see.’

He moved around the table and sat next to his wife. He quickly fumbled his way through the page of text, with Susi translating the odd word or two into German. After he had finished reading, he sat back in his chair and rubbed his beard for a long moment.

Susi shook her head slowly.

‘I’m sure that all the blinds were drawn’, she said. ‘I mean, they were this morning, when I woke up…’
‘Hmm’ said Michael Haneke, still rubbing his beard. ‘Yes, I’ve a feeling they were. But, you know, one thing that strikes me about this, is…’ He paused again, giving his beard a final tug. ‘My going to bed, this SPYDA’s writing-up of the incident, and now my reading of it, are, yes, they are three objects in time, but another way of looking at it would be to see the bed-going as just a single event, fragmented across time and personality. It is one object and also three.’
‘A triptych, then.’
‘A triptych, yes exactly. A triptych of me going to bed.’

Michael Haneke smiled as he glanced again at the sheet of paper.

‘A pleasing curio.’

Susi smiled too, if a little uneasily. ‘But Mike, aren’t you concerned?’
‘Yes, I am. Of course. I think it’s a pleasing curio, but let’s not kid ourselves. It has nothing to say about complex Western European societies or the great challenge posed to us by history – I mean, the challenge of somehow creating a shared history out of the future. But, more importantly, although it is a piece of writing, the act of writing itself is left unexamined in the text – undisclosed, you might say. And for me, that makes it an implicitly dishonest piece of work.’

Michael Haneke laid the Imaginary Scene down on Susi’s grubby breakfast plate.

‘It is dead to me’ he said, and stood up.

The one extravagance in the Hanekes’ small, utilitarian apartment was a room, about eight foot square, which Michael Haneke called ‘the Videodrome’ and which Susi called ‘Michael’s cupboard’. It had indeed been a cupboard before Michael Haneke had worked with an electrician for a week, embedding dozens of TV screens of various sizes into all four walls and the ceiling. The idea of the Videodrome was that all the televisions were left on constantly, showing different channels with the sound down. They were wired to a small alternator that changed which channel showed on which screen every thirty seconds.

Michael Haneke was immensely pleased with this randomly generated pastiche of high and low culture and he always encouraged his guests to peep inside. Yet although the Videodrome had cost nearly 300,000 Euros to install, Michael rarely went in there himself more than once every two weeks.

On Tuesday – the day after he and Susi had received the Imaginary Scene in the post – Michael Haneke was sitting in his Videodrome, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. He was making a mental note for the next time he built a Videodrome: next time, he would be sure to ventilate it properly. The room was made unbearably stuffy by all the humming equipment, and the constant peripheral flickering had given the director a headache. In fact, he was just wondering how much more of this 21st century hair suit he would be able to endure when the door opened and a merciful shaft of natural light fell across the austere Austrian.

It was Susi.

‘Mike’ she said. ‘I think you should look at this. It’s another Imaginary Scene’.

In silence, the pair went through to the book-lined dining room. Then Michael took the papers from Susi and smiled.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘So our little SPYDA has struck again! Well, let’s see… triptych…. the great challenge posed to us by history… yes, it seems to be quite accurate. Well, Susi, this changes everything doesn’t it?’

Susi was looking down and biting her lip - a girlish habit she had when she was anxious.

‘That’s not all they sent, Mike.’
‘What – more presents? It’s our lucky day, Susi!’

She reached into the manila envelope and pulled out a small folded handkerchief.

‘Look, they sent this. And in the corner, it’s got your initials.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser’. Haneke held up the hanky. ‘I wonder what it signifies’ he said.
‘I don’t know Michael, but I’m worried. Maybe we should call the police…’
‘What? – and ask whether any spiders have reported any handkerchiefs lost?’
‘Well… I just feel that…. What if they try to break in?’
‘Susi, come on. You can’t believe everything you see at the cinema. People don’t just break into houses and torture and murder strangers for no reason you know.’

Susi sat down on the Hanekes’ cream leather sofa.

‘But… it’s like… it’s like he’s playing a game with us, Mike.’
‘Yes! Yes exactly… a game. But Susi, a question: All games have rules. But who wrote the rules to this one? Is our SPYDA making them up as he goes along? Or were they set down a long time ago? And, in fact, is he playing by the rules? Or is he cheating?’
‘I’m not sure I want to play this game’ said Susi, quietly.

Michael Haneke smiled and laid a hand on her knee.

‘We’ll play it together’ he said. ‘Some interesting patterns are starting to emerge, don’t you think? The layers of meaning are starting to stack up like… like coloured filters on a camera lens. And with every new layer the meaning of the whole is completely reconfigured.’
‘Yes’ said Susi, brightening somewhat. ‘I think your analogy works. But Mike, you know what’s funny? Yesterday, you criticised it for its lack of transparency! Now it’s almost… I would say… a supertext.’

Michael Haneke slid down from his chair and knelt in front of his wife.

‘A supertext. Perhaps. But for now I would prefer to think of it as subcontratextual…’

As he said these words he slid his hands up Susi’s skirt and gently parted her legs.

‘All I can find is endless nonsense about someone called Tara Palmer-Tomkinson’ said Michael Haneke, clicking away at the computer.
‘Who is she?’ asked Susi.
‘I think she must be well-known in Brazil. That’s where the website is registered.’
‘Brazil?’
‘Yes. It’s registered to one Clement Addlestrop in Rio de Janeiro.’
‘So is that SPYDA?’

Michael Haneke turned to his wife, who was kneeling on the floor folding the ironed clothes.

‘I don’t know darling.’

He smiled at her warmly, but she looked away. Susi Haneke was still furious with her husband. The morning post had brought with it news that he had wasted 300,000 Euros on that ridiculous broom cupboard. They had spent most of the morning arguing about it. Despite her husband’s fervent belief, she did not consider it either a great work of art or a valuable improvement to the property. It had simply been one of the expensive whims Michael Haneke had every three or four years. The sullen thought now occurred to Susi that since the Videodrome had been installed three years ago, it was probably time for another capricious enterprise.

‘I’m going to fly to Rio de Janeiro’ said Michael Haneke, standing up.
‘What?’ Susi stopped folding.
‘Oh darling, don’t be angry. I know it’s silly but I have to know this SPYDA or Clement or whoever he is. You might call it an Oedipal urge.’

Michael Haneke left the room and re-emerged a minute later with a large suitcase.

‘Don’t you see?’ he continued. ‘We’re either playing this game or we’re not. If we are, it’s time to make a move! We’ve got to… drive this thing forward to its conclusion. Give me those pants, I’ll need them in Rio.’

Susi Haneke stood up with the pile of folded washing. She looked at her husband levelly.

‘Darling, did you know that there is an expression in English, to take the piss? It means to do something that makes fun of someone.’

Michael Haneke eyed the pants on the top of the pile.

‘What are you saying? That SPYDA is taking the piss at me?’

Susi didn’t respond, but she gave her husband a long look and swept out of the room.

‘Hey’ said Michael Haneke, calling after her. ‘Are we having our piss taken?! Susi! Susi! I need those pants! Susi!’