space available for them. He’d tried to argue but Paramount wouldn’t budge. So Stahl and the others would learn their lines, continue the read-throughs, then start to rehearse. Deschelles regretted the delay, but maybe all for the best as Jean Avila and his cameraman would be going off to Syria and the Lebanon to scout locations. In fact, Deschelles might join them. Of course, if those countries didn’t work out, they could always go to Morocco.
An hour later, as Stahl was about to leave for Joinville, a call from Mme Boulanger at the Warner publicity office. After a few opening pleasantries she said, ‘I have an interview for you. It’s tomorrow — whenever you can be available.’
‘Who’s doing the interview?’
‘I doubt you know him. His name is Loubec, he writes sports and entertainment features for Le Matin.’
Again, Le Matin. ‘I wonder if that’s a good idea,’ Stahl said, treading carefully. ‘What with all the politics.’
‘You’ll manage,’ Mme Boulanger said firmly. ‘It’s my job to get press coverage, Monsieur Stahl — you aren’t going to turn me down, are you?’
‘What’s he like, this Loubec?’
From Mme Boulanger, a theatrical sigh that meant, Oh no, he’s being a prima donna. ‘I’ve run into him before, he’s rather workmanlike, gets the information, writes it down. Just another journalist, dear. I’ll hold your hand if you like.’
Stahl hesitated, then said, ‘I guess I should do it. Where do we meet?’
‘In your hotel, he’s bringing a photographer.’
‘All right. I’ll likely be back from Joinville around five and I’ll see him at — six?’
‘I’ll let him know. If you don’t hear from me it’ll be at six. How’s everything else going? How’s Avant la Guerre?’
‘It’s Apres la Guerre, and the omens aren’t so bad.’
‘Superstitious, love? Don’t dare to say it’s good? Oh you actors! You’re probably excited.’
‘Too soon, too soon for that. Thanks for getting me the interview, Madame Boulanger.’
‘You’re welcome, but the truth is, he came to me.’
27 October. Loubec was prompt. They called up from the desk and Stahl said he would be right down — the idea of being interviewed ‘in his suite at the Claridge’ somehow felt wrong to him. He wore slacks and a dark-blue sweater — after twenty minutes of trial and error with his wardrobe — and had ordered up a good stiff whisky and soda. He was tense about this interview, apprehensive, and the drink helped.
They met at the desk and Stahl led the way to a table in the nearly deserted hotel bar. The photographer, bearded, bored, and rumpled, sat at the neighbouring table and fiddled with his camera. ‘Would you care to have something?’ Stahl said, looking from one to the other.
‘No, thank you,’ said Loubec. The photographer shrugged — if Loubec wouldn’t, he couldn’t. Loubec, in his mid-thirties, was pale and fair-haired, with a smooth, expressionless face and glasses with clear plastic frames. He flipped up the cover of his notepad and riffled through the pages until he found what he wanted. ‘Thank you for agreeing to the interview, Monsieur Stahl. Do you mind if Rene takes a picture or two while we’re talking?’
Stahl did mind. Unposed photographs, the subject caught unaware by the camera, could make you look like a madman or the village idiot. ‘One or two, but no more,’ he said. ‘And I’d prefer to do it when we’re done talking.’
Rene couldn’t have cared less. ‘As you like,’ he said.
‘So,’ Loubec said, ‘can we start by going over the titles and dates of your movies? And the award nominations? I have them listed, but I just want to make sure I didn’t miss something.’
This was done quickly enough — Loubec basically had it right, though Stahl wasn’t certain about some of the dates. ‘I won’t try to use it all,’ Loubec said, ‘just the highlights. Now, looking at your date of birth, it seems you were likely the right age for military service during the war, but that isn’t covered in your Warner bio. Did you serve in the army? Perhaps you were exempt?’ Loubec’s pencil hovered over the empty space on his notepad page.
‘I was at sea, on a neutral ship, when the war began. The ship was damaged by gunfire but we made it to Barcelona.’
‘And that was…?’
‘In 1916.’
‘With two years of war remaining.’
‘When I went to the Austrian legation, they gave me a job. As what’s called an “office boy.”’
‘What were they like? The other Austrians, I mean.’
Where is this headed? ‘What were they like?’ Stahl said. ‘They were like people who worked in an office.’
‘So, “ordinary”, you’d say.’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, you’re of German origin and…’
‘I was born in Vienna, but I left when I was sixteen — I believe the bio says that.’
‘Sorry, I should’ve said Austrian. I’m afraid that many people here in France think it’s the same thing. My point is, you weren’t in the trenches shooting at French soldiers. And your experience of Austrians during the war wasn’t, militaristic, or anything like that.’
Stahl shook his head, clearly ready to move to another subject.
‘Have you been, since you arrived in France, the subject of any anti-German, I should say anti-Austrian, hostility?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘There is some considerable anti-German sentiment here in France, Monsieur Stahl.’
Stahl shrugged. ‘Not on movie sets, the subject doesn’t come up.’
Loubec turned the page back to his questions. ‘You’ve arrived in France during a period of considerable turmoil, some people say that war is coming, did your American friends think you were brave, or maybe foolish, to come to France?’
‘No. They might have wondered, but nobody said anything.’
‘Do they believe that war is inevitable? Or do they hope that diplomacy can resolve political differences?’
Stahl let his irritation show — Loubec had manoeuvred him into a political discussion he’d meant to avoid. As he leaned forward, a flashbulb popped as Rene took a photograph. Stahl rubbed his eyes and stared at him. ‘Pardon,’ Rene said. ‘It’s dark in here.’
‘Should I read back the question?’ Loubec said.
‘No, naturally they hope there won’t be a war. They don’t want to see people killed, cities burned down. Do you?’
Loubec’s face was so immobile, so opaque, that for a moment Stahl wondered if there was something wrong with him. ‘I don’t,’ Loubec said. ‘But, sad to say, there are politicians who are dedicated to preparation for war, massive rearmament, anti-German propaganda, because they have dismissed the idea that France and Germany can come to any rapprochement. But, perhaps, you agree with them.’
‘I don’t,’ Stahl said. ‘But I don’t spend time worrying about it, I spend my time preparing to make a moving picture.’ Stahl hadn’t raised his voice, but the emphasis was there. ‘It’s called Apres la Guerre, produced by Jules Deschelles for Paramount Pictures.’ Stahl smiled, meaning he wasn’t angry, but…
‘Of course we’ll talk about the movie, but my readers are interested in your views, Monsieur Stahl, what sort of fellow you are — one’s life is more than one’s profession, no?’
Stahl smiled again. ‘Maybe less than you think, Monsieur Loubec.’
‘Very well, then tell me this, are you concerned about the possibility that, if war breaks out, you might not be able to finish your film?’
Stahl lit a cigarette, then looked at his watch. ‘I believe it will be finished,’ he said. And that’s that.
‘Maybe it would be better if countries never again went to war. As an artist, do you believe that?’
‘That it would be better?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who doesn’t believe that?’
Loubec shrugged. ‘Now, can you say something about Apres la Guerre?’
