Actors of sorts

I dreamed I was bicycling along a winding road in a rustic area of France. Note, I've never been to the French countryside, but as sometimes happens in dreams, you just know where you are. My bicycling partner was a Frenchman who looked suspiciously like Italy football manager Roberto Mancini. We ended up in a small village, and walking through a quaint gate to a wooden lodge. Inside I met up with my brother, who had come separately, and an older lady with silver white hair and wearing some type of animal fur that wrapped her entire body. She was apparently once a famous actress once upon a time, and we four were all going to be in a four-person play, right here in the lodge, and we were going to start rehearsing right then and there. We sat on stools like logs turned longways, and the table was much too high in front of us, so your elbows were propped up by your shoulders.

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I dreamed I was in The City, maybe somewhere out in Brooklyn. I had brought the kids out there and dropped them off while I went to pay a visit to my old friend, award-winning actor Wallace Henderson Garcia-Williams. Now, I don't know anybody by that name, much less an award-winning actor, but in the dream he was a figure from the early '80s who apparently had some groundbreaking roles in Hollywood that shaped the landscape for black and Hispanic actors of that generation. Anyways, he was in retirement now, and mostly just seen around the edges of the New York Post every now and again when they got up to covering local celebs. 

I dropped by his home, which was extremely modern and looked almost like a giant greenhouse that occupied an entire city block. Turns out Wallace Henderson Garcia-Williams had just died, and his first wife was at the house too, bringing along two or three young kids, evidently progeny of my friend. Inside the house, and refusing to let her entry, was Garcia-Williams's second wife, who was younger and definitely not into first wives and especially not the kids of first wives. For some reason she let me in, and just then the press started to show up. The second wife was somewhat distraught, and went to sit down in a glass-enclosed parlor like something a modern Andrea Palladio would cook up.

I ran up a staircase that looked like ivory, down a long elevated hallway, and busted out of the back of the home. I found my car, which was stashed a block away, and hopped into it, and, distressed at the loss of my friend, drove off, looking for my kids.