Little misunderstandings of no importance : stories

CINEMA

The small station was almost deserted. It was the station of a town on the Riviera, with palms and agaves growing near the wooden benches on the platform. At one end, behind a wrought-iron gate, a street led to the centre of the town; at the other a stone stairway went down to the shore.

The stationmaster came out of the glass-walled control room and walked under the overhanging roof to the tracks. He was a short, stout man with a moustache; he lit a cigarette, looked doubtfully at the cloudy sky, stuck out a hand beyond the roof to see if it was raining, then wheeled around and with a thoughtful air put his hands in his pockets. The two workmen waiting for the train on a bench under the sign bearing the station’s name greeted him briefly and he nodded his head in reply. On the other bench there was an old woman, dressed in black, with a suitcase fastened with a rope. The stationmaster peered up and down the tracks then, as the bell announcing a train’s arrival began to ring, went back into his glass-walled office.

At this moment the girl came through the gate. She was wearing a polka-dotted dress, shoes laced at the ankles, and a pale blue sweater. She was walking quickly, as if she were cold, and a mass of blonde hair floated under the scarf tied around her head. She was carrying a small suitcase and a straw handbag. One of the workmen followed her with his eyes and nudged his apparently distracted companion. The girl stared indifferently at the ground, then went into the waiting room, closing the door behind her. The room was empty. There was a large cast-iron stove in one corner and she moved toward it, perhaps in the hope that the fire inside was lighted. She touched it, disappointedly, and then laid her straw handbag on top. Then she sat down on a bench and shivered, holding her face between her hands. For a long time she remained in this position, as if she were crying. She was good-looking, with delicate features and slender ankles. She took off her scarf and rearranged her hair, moving her head from one side to the other. Her gaze wandered over the walls of the room as if she were looking for something. There were threatening signs on the walls addressed to the citizenry by the Occupation Forces and notices of “wanted” persons, displaying their photographs. She looked around in confusion, then took the handbag she had left on the stove and laid it at her feet as if to shield it with her legs. She hunched her shoulders and raised her jacket collar. Her hands were restless; she was obviously nervous.

The door was flung open and a man came in. He was tall and thin, wearing a belted tan trenchcoat and a felt hat pulled down over his forehead. The girl leaped to her feet and shouted, with a gurgle in her throat: “Eddie!”

He held a finger to his lips, walked toward her, and, smiling, took her into his arms. She hugged him, leaning her head on his chest. “Oh, Eddie!” she murmured finally, drawing back, “Eddie!”

He made her sit down and went back to the door, looking furtively outside. Then he sat down beside her and drew some folded papers from his pocket.

“You’re to deliver them directly to the English major,” he said. “Later I’ll tell you how, more exactly.”

She took the papers and slipped them into the opening of her sweater. She seemed fearful, and there were tears in her eyes.

“And what about you?” she asked.

He made a gesture signifying annoyance. Just then there was a rumbling sound and a freight train was visible through the door’s glass panel. He pulled his hat farther down over his forehead and buried his head in a newspaper.

“Go and see what’s up.”

The girl went to the door and peered out. “A freight train,” she said. “The two workmen sitting on the bench climbed aboard.”

“Any Germans?”

“No.”

The stationmaster blew his whistle and the train pulled away. The girl went back to the man and took his hands into hers.

“What about you?” she repeated.

He folded the newspaper and stuffed it into his pocket.

“This is no time to think about me,” he said. “Now tell me, what’s your company’s schedule?”

“Tomorrow we’ll be in Nice, for three evening performances. Saturday and Sunday we play in Marseille, then Montpellier and Narbonne, one day each, in short, all along the coast.”

“On Sunday you’ll be in Marseille,” said the man. “After the show you’ll receive admirers in your dressing room. Let them in one at a time. Many of them will bring flowers; some will be German spies, but others will be our people. Be sure to read the card that comes with the flowers, in the visitor’s presence, every time, because I can’t tell you what the contact will look like.” She listened attentively; the man lit a cigarette and went on: “On one of the cards you’ll read: Fleurs pour une fleur. Hand over the papers to that man. He’ll be the major.”

The bell began to ring again, and the girl looked at her watch.

“Our train will be here in a minute. Eddie, please…”

He wouldn’t let her finish.

“Tell me about the show,” he interrupted. “On Sunday night I’ll try to imagine it.”

“It’s done by all the girls in the company,” she said unenthusiastically. “Each one of us plays a well-known actress of today or of the past. That’s all there is to it.”

“What’s the title?” he asked, smiling.

“Cinema Cinema.”

“Sounds promising.”

“It’s a disaster,” she said earnestly. “The choreography is by Savinio, just imagine that, and I play Francesca Bertini, dancing in a dress so long that I trip on it.”

“Watch out!” he exclaimed jokingly. “Great tragic actresses simply mustn’t fall.”

Again she hid her face in her arms and started to cry. She was prettier than ever with tear marks on her face.

“Come away, Eddie, please, come away,” she murmured.

He wiped her tears away gently enough, but his voice hardened, as if in an effort to disguise his feelings.

“Don’t, Elsa,” he said. “Try to understand.” And, in a playful tone, he added: “How should I get through? Dressed like a dancer, perhaps, with a blond wig?”

The bell had stopped ringing and the incoming train could be heard in the distance. The man got up and put his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll put you aboard,” he said.

“No,” she said, shaking her head resolutely. “You mustn’t do that; it’s dangerous.”

“I’m doing it anyhow.”

“Please!”

“One last thing,” he said; “I know the major’s a ladies’ man. Don’t smile at him too much.”

She looked at him supplicatingly. “Oh, Eddie!” she exclaimed with emotion, offering him her lips.

He seemed nonplussed for a moment, as if in embarrassment or because he didn’t have the courage to kiss her. Finally he deposited a fatherly kiss on her cheek.

“Stop!” called out the clapperboy. “A break!”

“Not like that!” The director’s voice roared through the megaphone. “The last bit has to be done again.” He was a bearded young man with a long scarf wound around his neck. Now he got down from the seat on the boom next to the camera and came to meet them. “Not like that,” he repeated disappointedly. “It must be a passionate kiss, old-fashioned style, the way it was in the original film.” He threw an arm around the actress’s waist, bending her backwards. “Lean over her and put some passion into it,” he said to the actor.

Then looking around him, he added, “Take a break!”

The actors invaded the station’s shabby cafe, jostling one another in the direction of the bar. She lingered at the door, uncertain what to do, while he disappeared in the crowd. Soon he came back, precariously carrying two cups of coffee, and beckoned to her with his head to join him outside. Behind the cafe there was a rocky courtyard, under a vine-covered arbour, which served also for storage. Besides cases of empty bottles, there were some misshapen chairs, and on two of these they sat down, using a third one as a table.

“We’re winding up,” he observed.

“He insisted on doing the last scene last,” she answered. “I don’t know why.”

“That’s modern” he said emphatically. “Straight out of the Cahiers du Cinema… look out, that coffee’s boiling hot.”

“I still don’t know why.”

“Do they do things differently in America?” he asked.

“They certainly do!” she said with assurance. “They’re less pretentious, less… intellectual.”

“This fellow’s good, though.”

“It’s only that, once upon a time, things weren’t handled this way.”

They were silent, enjoying their coffee. It was eleven in the morning, and the sea was sparkling, visible through a privet hedge around the courtyard. The vine leaves of the pergola were flaming red and the sun made shifting puddles of light on the gravel.

“A gorgeous autumn,” he said, looking up at the leaves. And he added, half to himself. “‘Once upon a time’… Hearing you say those words had an effect on me.”

She did not answer, but hugged her knees, which she had drawn up against her chest. She, too, seemed distracted, as if she had only just thought about the meaning of what she had said.

“Why did you agree to play in this film?” she asked.

“Why did you?”

“I don’t know, but I asked you first.”

“Because of an illusion,” he said; “the idea of re-living… something like that, I suppose. I don’t really know. And you?”

“I don’t really know, either; with the same idea, I suppose.”

The director emerged from the path which ran around the cafe, in good spirits and carrying a tankard of beer.

“So here are my stars!” he exclaimed, sinking into one of the misshapen chairs, with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Please spare us your speech on the beauties of direct takes,” she said. “You’ve lectured us quite enough.”

The director did not take offense at this remark and fell into casual conversation. He spoke of the film, of the importance of this new version, of why he had taken on the same actors so many years later and why he was underlining the fact that it was a remake. Things he had said many times before, as was clear from his hearers’ indifference. But he enjoyed the repetition, it was almost as if he were talking to himself. He finished his beer and got up.

“Here’s hoping it rains,” he said as he left. “It would be too bad to shoot the last scenes with pumps.” And, before turning the corner, he threw back: “Half an hour before we start shooting again.”

She looked questioningly at her companion, who shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“It did pour during the last scene,” he said, “and I was left standing in the rain.”

She laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder as if to signify that she remembered.

“Do they still show it in America?” he asked with a stolid expression on his face.

“Hasn’t the director projected it for our benefit exactly eleven times?” she countered, laughing. “Anyhow, in America it’s shown to film clubs and other groups from time to time.”

“It’s the same thing here,” he said. And then, abruptly: “How’s the major?”

She looked at him questioningly.

“I mean Howard,” he specified. “I told you not to smile at him too much, but obviously you didn’t follow my advice, even if the scene isn’t included in the film.” And, after a moment of reflection: “I still don’t understand why you married him.”

“Neither do I,” she said in a childlike manner. “I was very young.” Her expression relaxed, as if she had put mistrust aside and given up lying. “I wanted to get even with you,” she said calmly. “That was the real reason, although perhaps I wasn’t aware of it. And then I wanted to go to America.”

“What about Howard?” he insisted.

“Our marriage didn’t last long. He wasn’t right for me, really, and I wasn’t cut out to be an actress.”

“You disappeared completely. Why did you give up acting?”

“I couldn’t get anywhere with it. After all, I’d been in just one hit, and that because of winning an audition. In America they’re real pros. Once I made a series of films for television, but they were a disaster. They cast me as a disagreeable rich woman, not exactly my type, was it?”~

“I think not. You look like a happy woman. Are you happy?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But I’ve a lot going for me.”

“For instance?”

“For instance a daughter. A delightful creature, in her third university year, and we’re very close.”

He stared at her incredulously.

“Twenty years have gone by,” she reminded him. “Nearly a lifetime.”

“You’re still beautiful.”

“That’s make-up. I have wrinkles. And I could be a grandmother.”

For some time they were silent. Voices from the cafe drifted out to them, and someone started up the jukebox. He looked as if he were going to speak, but stared at the ground, seemingly at a loss for words.

“I want you to tell me about your life,” he said at last. “All through the filming I’ve wanted to ask you, but I’ve got around to it only now.”

“Certainly,” she said, spiritedly. “And I’d like to hear you talk about yours.”

At this juncture the production secretary appeared in the doorway, a thin, homely, plaintive young woman with her hair in a ponytail and a pair of glasses on her nose.

“Make-up time!” she called out. “We start shooting in ten minutes.”

The bell stopped ringing and the incoming train could be heard in the distance. The man got up and put his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll put you aboard,” he said.

“No,” she said, shaking her head resolutely. “You mustn’t do that, it’s dangerous.”

“I’m doing it anyhow.”

“Please!””

“One last thing,” he said, “I know the major’s a ladies’ man. Don’t smile at him too much.”

She looked at him supplicatingly. “Oh, Eddie!” she exclaimed with emotion, offering him her lips.

He put his arm around her waist, bending her backwards. Looking into her eyes, he slowly advanced his mouth towards her and gave her a passionate kiss, a long, intense kiss, which aroused an approving murmur and some catcalls.

“Stop!” called the clapperboy. “End of scene.”

“Lunchtime,” the director announced through the megaphone. “Back at four o’clock.”

The actors dispersed in various directions, some to the cafe, others to trailers parked in front of the station. He took off his trenchcoat and hung it over his arm. They were the last to arrive on the street, where they set out towards the sea. A blade of sunlight struck the row of pink houses along the harbour, and the sea was of a celestial, almost diaphanous blue. A woman with a tub under her arm appeared on a balcony and began to hang up clothes to dry. Then she grasped a pulley and the clothes slid along a line from one house to another, fluttering like flags. The houses formed the arches of a portico and underneath there were stalls, covered during the midday break with oilcloth. Some bore painted blue anchors and a sign saying Fresh Fish.

“There used to be a pizzeria here,” he said, “I remember it perfectly, it was called Da Pezzi.”

She looked at the paving-stones and did not speak.

“You must remember,” he continued. “There was a sign Tizza to take out,’ and I said to you: ‘Let’s purchase a pizza from Pezzi,’ and you laughed.”

They went down the steps of a narrow alley with windows joined by an arch above them. The echo of their footsteps on the shiny paving-stones conveyed a feeling of winter, with the crackling tone that sounds acquire in cold air. Actually there was a warm breeze and the fragrance of mock-orange. The shops on the waterfront were closed and cafe chairs were stacked up around empty tables.

“We’re out of season,” she observed.

He shot her a surreptitious look, wondering if the remark had a double meaning, then let it go.

“There’s a restaurant that’s open,” he said, gesturing with his head. “What do you say?”

The restaurant was called L’Arsella; it was a wood and glass construction resting on piles set into the beach next to the blue bathhouses. Two gently rocking boats were tied to the piles. Some windows had blinds drawn over them; lamps were lit on the tables in spite of the bright daylight. There were few customers: a couple of silent, middle-aged Germans, two intellectual-looking young men, a woman with a dog, the last summer vacationers. They sat down at a corner table, far from the others. Perhaps the waiter recognized them; he came quickly but with an embarrassed and would-be confidential air. They ordered broiled sole and champagne and looked out at the horizon, which changed colour as wind pushed the clouds around. Now there was a hint of indigo on the line separating sea and sky, and the promontory that closed the bay was silvery green like a block of ice.

“Incredible,” she said after a minute or two, “only three weeks to shoot a film, ridiculous, I call it. We’ve done some scenes only once.”

“That’s avant-garde,” he said, smiling. “Fake realism, cinema-verite, they call it. Today’s production costs are high, so they do everything in a hurry.” He was making bread crumbs into little balls and lining them up in front of his plate. “Anghelopoulos,” he said ironically. “He’d like to do a film like O Thiassos, a play within a play, with us acting ourselves. Period songs and accessories and transitional sequences, all very well, but what’s to take the place of myth and tragedy?”

The waiter brought on the champagne and uncorked the bottle. She raised her glass as if in a toast. Her eyes were malicious and shiny, full of reflections.

“Melodrama,” she said, “Melodrama, that’s what.” She took short sips and broke into a smile. “That’s why he wanted the acting overdone. We had to be caricatures of ourselves.”

He raised his glass in return. “Then hurrah for melodrama!” he said. “Sophocles, Shakespeare, Racine, they all go in for it. That’s what I’ve been up to myself all these years.”

“Talk to me about yourself,” she said.

“Do you mean it?”

“I do.”

“I have a farm in Provence, and I go there when I can. The countryside is just hilly enough, people are welcoming, and I like horses.”

He made more bread-crumb balls, two circles of them around a glass, and then he moved one behind the other as if he were playing patience.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said.

He called the waiter and ordered another bottle of champagne.

“I teach at the Academy of Dramatic Arts,” he said. “My life’s made up of Creon, Macbeth, Henry VIII.” He gave a guilty smile. “Hardhearted fellows, all.”

She looked at him intently, with a concentrated, almost anxious air.

“What about films?” she asked.

“Five years ago I was in a mystery story. I played an American private detective, just three scenes, and then they bumped me off in an elevator. But in the titles they ran my name in capital letters… ‘With the participation of…’”

“You’re a myth,” she said emphatically.

“A leftover,” he demurred. “I’m this butt between my lips, see…” He put on a hard, desperate expression and let the smoke from the cigarette hanging between his lips cover his face.

“Don’t play Eddie!” she said, laughing.

“But I am Eddie,” he muttered, pulling an imaginary hat over his eyes. He refilled the glasses and raised his.

“To films and filmmaking!”

“If we go on like this we’ll be drunk when we go back to the set, Eddie.” She stressed the name, and there was a malicious glint in her eyes.

He took off the imaginary hat and laid it over his heart.

“Better that way. We’ll be more melodramatic.”

For a sweet they had ordered ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce. The waiter arrived with a triumphal air, bearing a tray with ice-creams in one hand and the steaming chocolate sauce in the other. While serving them he asked, timidly but coyly, if they would honour him with their autographs on a menu and shot them a gratified smile when they assented.

The ice-cream was in the shape of a flower, with deep red cherries at the centre of the corolla. He picked one of these up with his fingers and carried it to his mouth.

“Look here,” he said. “Let’s change the ending.”

She looked at him, seemingly perplexed, but perhaps her look signified that she knew what he was driving at and was merely awaiting confirmation.

“Don’t go,” he said. “Stay here with me.”

She lowered her eyes to her plate as if in embarrassment.

“Please,” sh: said, “please.”

“You’re talking the way you do in the film,” he said. “That’s the exact line.”

“We’re not in a film now,” she said, almost resentfully. “Stop playing your part; you’re overdoing it.”

He made a gesture that seemed to signify dropping the whole thing.

“But I love you,” he said in a low voice.

She put on a teasing tone.

“Of course,” she said, in slightly haughty fashion, “in the film.”

“It’s the same thing,” he said. “It’s all a film.”

“All what’s a film?”

“Everything.” He stretched his hand across the table and squeezed hers. “Let’s run the film backwards and go back to the beginning.”

She looked at him as if she didn’t have the courage to reply. She let him stroke her hand and stroked his in return.

“You’ve forgotten the title of the film,” she said, trying for a quick retort. “Toint of No Return.’”

The waiter arrived, beaming and waving a menu for them to autograph.

“You’re mad!” she said laughing, but letting him pull her along. “They’ll be furious.”

He pulled her onto the pier and quickened his steps.

“Let them be furious,” he said. “Let that cock-of-the-walk wait. Waiting makes for inspiration.”

There were no more than a dozen people on the boat, scattered on the benches in the cabin and on the iron seats, painted white, at the stern. Their dress and casual behaviour marked them as local people, used to this crossing. Three women were carrying plastic bags bearing the name of a well-known shop. Plainly they had come from villages on the perimeter of the bay to make purchases in the town. The employee who punched the tickets was wearing blue trousers and a white shirt with the company seal sewed onto it. The actor asked how long it would take to make the round trip. The ticket-collector made a sweeping gesture and enumerated the villages where they would be stopping. He was a young man with a blond moustache and a strong local accent.

“About an hour and a half,” he said, “but if you’re in a hurry, there’s a larger boat which returns to the mainland from our first stop, just after we arrive, and will bring you back in forty minutes.”

He pointed to the first village on the north side of the bay.

She still seemed undecided, torn between doubt and temptation.

“They’ll be furious,” she repeated. “They wanted to wrap it up by evening.”

He shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands.

“If we don’t finish today we’ll finish tomorrow,” he countered. “We’re paid for the job, not by the hour, so we can surely take an extra half-day.”

“I’ve a plane for New York tomorrow,” she said. “I made a reservation, and my daughter will be waiting for me.”

“Lady, make up your mind,” said the ticket-collector. “We have to push off.”

A whistle blew twice and a sailor started to release the mooring rope. The ticket-collector pulled out his pad and tore off two tickets.

“You’ll be better off at the bow,” he remarked. “There’s a bit of breeze, but you won’t feel the rolling.”

The seats were all free, but they leaned on the low railing and looked at the scene around them. The boat drew away from the pier and gathered speed. From a slight distance the town revealed its exact layout, with the old houses falling into an unexpected and graceful geometrical pattern.

“It’s more beautiful viewed from the sea,” she observed. She held down her windblown hair with one hand, and red spots had appeared on her cheekbones.

“You’re the beauty,” he said, “at sea, on land, and wherever.”

She laughed and searched her bag for a scarf.

“You’ve turned very gallant,” she said. “Once upon a time you weren’t like that at all.”

“Once upon a time I was stupid, stupid and childish.”

“Actually, you seem more childish to me now than then. Forgive me for saying so, but that’s what I think.”

“You’re wrong, though. I’m older, that’s all.” He shot her a worried glance. “Now don’t tell me I’m old.”

“No, you’re not old. But that’s not the only thing that matters.”

She took a tortoiseshell case out of her bag and extracted a cigarette. He cupped his hands around hers to protect the match from the wind. The sky was very blue, although there was a black streak on the horizon and the sea had darkened. The first village was rapidly approaching. They could see a pink bell tower and a bulging spire as white as meringue. A flight of pigeons rose up from the houses and took off, describing a wide curve towards the sea.

“Life must be wonderful there,” he said, “and very simple.”

She nodded and smiled.

“Perhaps because it’s not ours.”

The boat they were to meet was tied up at the pier, an old boat looking like a tug. For the benefit of the new arrival it whistled three times in greeting. Several people were standing on the pier, perhaps waiting to go aboard. A little girl in a yellow dress, holding a woman’s hand, was jumping up and down like a bird.

“That’s what I’d like,” he said inconsequentially. “To live a life other than ours.”

From her expression he saw that his meaning was not clear and corrected himself.

“I mean a happy life rather than ours, like the one we imagine they lead in this village.”

He grasped her hands and made her meet his eyes, looking at her very hard.

She gently freed herself, giving him a rapid kiss.

“Eddie,” she said tenderly, “dear Eddie.” Slipping her arm into his she pulled him towards the gangplank. “You’re a great actor,” she said, “a truly great actor.” She was happy and brimming over with life.

“But it’s what I feel,” he protested feebly, letting her pull him along.

“Of course,” she said, “like a true actor.”

The train came to a sudden stop, with the wheels screeching and puffs of smoke rising from the engine. A compartment opened and five girls stuck out their heads. Some of them were peroxide blondes, with curls falling over their shoulders and on their foreheads. They started to laugh and chat, calling out: “Elsa! Elsa!” A showy redhead, wearing a green ribbon in her hair, shouted to the others: “There she is!” and leaned even farther out to wave her hands in greeting. Elsa quickened her step and came close to the window, touching the gaily outstretched hands.

“Corinna!” she exclaimed, looking at the redhead, “What’s this get-up?”

“Saverio says it’s attractive,” Corinna called back, winking and pointing her head towards the inside of the compartment. “Come on aboard,” she added in a falsetto voice; “you don’t want to be stuck in a place like this, do you?” Then, suddenly, she screamed: “Look girls, there’s a Rudolph Valentino!”

The girls waved madly to catch the man’s attention. Eddie had come out from behind the arrivals and departures board; he advanced slowly along the platform, with his hat pulled over his eyes. At that same moment, two German soldiers came through the gate and went towards the stationmaster’s office. After a few moments the stationmaster came out with his red flag under his arm and walked towards the engine, with rapid steps, which accentuated the awkwardness of his chubby body. The soldiers stood in front of the office door, as if they were on guard. The girls fell silent and watched the scene looking worried. Elsa set down her suitcase and looked confusedly at Eddie, who motioned with his head that she should go on. Then he sat down on a bench, under a tourist poster, took the newspaper out of his pocket and buried his face in it. Corinna seemed to understand what was up.

“Come on, dearie!” she shouted. “Come aboard!”

With one hand she waved at the two staring soldiers and gave them a dazzling smile. Meanwhile the stationmaster was coming back with the flag now rolled up under his arm. Corinna asked him what was going on.

“Don’t ask me,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders. “It seems we have to wait for a quarter of an hour. It’s orders, that’s all I know.”

“Then we can get out and stretch our legs, girls,” Corinna chirped. “Climb aboard,” she whispered as she passed Elsa. “We’ll take care of them.”

The little group moved in the direction opposite to where Eddie was seated, passing in front of the soldiers. “Isn’t there anywhere to eat in this station?” Corinna asked in a loud voice, looking around. She was superb at drawing attention to herself, swinging her hips and also the bag she had taken off her shoulder. She had on a clinging flowered dress and sandals with cork soles.

“The sea, girls!” she shouted. “Look at that sea and tell me if it isn’t divine!” She leaned theatrically against the first lamp-post and raised her hand to her mouth, putting on a childish manner. “If I had my bathing suit with me, I’d dive, never mind the autumn weather,” she said, tossing her head and causing her red curls to ripple over her shoulders.

The two soldiers were stunned and couldn’t take their eyes off her. Then she had a stroke of genius, due to the lamp-post, perhaps, or to the necessity of resolving an impossible situation. She let her blouse slip down off her shoulders, leaned against the lamp-post, stretched out her arms and addressed an imaginary public, winking as if the whole scene were in cahoots with her.

“It’s a song they sing the world over,” she shouted, “even our enemies!” And, turning to the other girls, she clapped her hands. It must have been part of the show, because they fell into line, raising their legs in marching time but without moving an inch, their hands at their foreheads in a military salute. Corinna clung to the lamp-post with one hand and, using it as a pivot, wheeled gracefully around it, while her skirt, fluttering in the breeze, displayed her legs to advantage.

The girls applauded and one of the soldiers whistled. Corinna thanked them with a mock bow and went to the fountain near the hedge. She passed a wet finger over her forehead while looking down at the street below; then, trailed by the other girls, she started to reboard the train.

“Goodbye, boys!” she shouted to the soldiers. “We’re going to snatch some rest. We’ve a long tour ahead of us.”

Elsa was waiting in the corridor and threw her arms around her.

“You’re an angel, Corinna,” she said, giving her a kiss.

“Think nothing of it,” said Corinna, starting to cry like a baby.

The two soldiers had come close to the waiting train; they looked up at the girls and tried to exchange words; one of them knew some Italian. Just then there was the sound of a motor, and a black car came through the gate and travelled the length of the platform until it stopped at the front, just behind the engine. The girls tried to fathom what was happening, but there was a curve in the tracks and they couldn’t see very well around it. Eddie hadn’t moved from the bench. Apparently he was immersed in the newspaper that shielded his face.

“What’s up?” asked Elsa, trying to seem indifferent as she stowed her things in the luggage net.

“Nothing,” one of the girls answered. “It must be a big shot who arrived in the car. He’s in civilian clothes and travelling first-class.”

“Is he alone?” Elsa asked.

“It seems so. The soldiers are standing at attention and not boarding the train.”

Elsa peered out the window. The soldiers had turned around and were walking towards the road leading into the town. The stationmaster came back, dragging the red flag behind him and looking down at his shoes.

“The train’s leaving,” he said in a philosophical, knowing manner, and waved the flag. The engine whistled. The girls returned to their seats, only Elsa stayed at the window. She had combed her hair off her forehead and her eyes were still gleaming. At this moment Eddie came up and stood directly under the window.

“Goodbye, Eddie,” Elsa murmured, stretching out her hand.

“Shall we meet in another film?” he asked.

“What the devil is he saying?” shouted the director from behind him. “What the devil?”

“Shall I hold?” asked the cameraman.

“No,” said the director. “It’s going to be dubbed anyhow.” And he shouted into the megaphone, “Walk, man, the train’s moving, move faster, follow it along the platform, hold her hand.”

The train had, indeed, started, and Eddie obeyed orders, quickening his pace and keeping up as long as he could. The train picked up speed and went around the curve and through a switch on the other side. Eddie wheeled about and took a few steps before stopping to light a cigarette and then walk slowly on into camera. The director made gestures to regulate his pace, as if he were manipulating him with strings.

“Insert a heart attack,” said Eddie imploringly.

“What do you mean?”

“A heart attack,” Eddie repeated. “Here, on the bench. I’ll look exhausted, sink onto the bench and lay my hand on my heart like Dr. Zhivago. Make me die.”

The clapperboy looked at the director, waiting for instructions.

The director moved his fingers like scissors to signify that he’d cut later, but meanwhile the shooting must go on.

“What do you mean by a heart attack?” he said to Eddie. “Do you think you look like a man about to have a heart attack? Pull your hat over your eyes, like a good Eddie, don’t make me start all over.” And he signalled to the crew to put the pumps into action. “Come on, move! It’s starting to rain. You’re Eddie, remember, not a poor lovelorn creature… Put your hands in your pockets, shrug your shoulders, that’s it, good boy, come towards us… your cigarette hanging from your lips… perfect!… eyes on the ground.”

He turned to the cameraman and shouted: “Pull back — tracking shot; pull back!”