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.”