the paper-wrapped eagle, Orlova’s notes in his jacket pocket — he was met by the smell of coffee and cigarettes and the sound of quiet conversation and thanked God that he was back in France.
Production for Apres la Guerre began that afternoon, 11 November, with scenes that could be shot on sets built in the studios at Joinville, and a few exteriors using local settings. Location shooting was now to take place in and around Beirut, where it would be ‘summer’ — sunshine and blue sky — in December, so Deschelles and Avila were pleased with the weather, the cold rain and gloom of November, appropriate for scenes in the Balkans as the story wound to its finale. Some trouble with the screenwriters here, the script specified a death scene for Stahl’s Colonel Vadic but Deschelles argued that they couldn’t kill off Fredric Stahl, so it would have to be rewritten. He almost dies but, nursed back to health by the loving false countess, he survives. Avila argued the other way, Deschelles allowed him to lose gracefully, and in return agreed to ask Paramount for money to shoot the Hungarian castle scenes in a Hungarian castle.
The first time that cameras rolled in a film was traditionally a superstitious moment for the cast and crew, an omen of what was to come. Avila was smart, and chose a scene that he felt would go well — Pasquin’s comic night of love with a heavy-set Turkish woman, the wife of a local policeman. The script called for a dog that had to scratch at a bedroom door — the husband was on the other side, unaware that his wife had returned home, unaware that she was in bed with Pasquin’s sergeant. For this scene Avila had chosen a French bulldog, a good character to play against the roly-poly Pasquin.
But the dog wouldn’t scratch at the door, it simply stood there like a rock while its trainer, on the other side of the door, called out first commands, then baby-talk endearments, and finally tried to tempt it with hazelnut ice cream, its favorite treat. Time went by, a certain anxiety began to spread through the people on the set, a half- naked Pasquin sat up in bed and shouted, ‘Scratch the fucking door, goddamn it!’ but the bulldog merely turned its head towards the source of the noise and broke wind. That relieved the tension — the ‘Turkish wife’ laughed so hard that tears rolled down her chubby face and her make-up had to be reapplied.
At last, one of the prop men came to the rescue, with a trick he’d seen in other productions. From his prop room he produced a stuffed toy, a tabby cat. When he showed it to the dog, the animal went crazy, it hated cats, and the prop man only just managed to snatch the toy away before it was savaged. Avila was now poised to call out ‘Action’, the cameraman was ready, the trainer took the tabby cat outside the room and closed the door, and the dog stood there. Immediately, a conference was held — do without the scratching at the door? From Avila, an emphatic no. So the prop man tried one last thing: he pushed the cat’s tail beneath the door and when the trainer released the bulldog it galloped towards the tail and, when the prop man on the other side whisked it away, the dog scratched at the door as though he was trying to tear it to pieces. The cameras rolled, the policeman’s wife said, ‘Oh my God, he smells my husband,’ Avila said ‘Cut!’ and the cast and crew applauded.
They were on the set until 5.30, Avila had met his day’s quota — two minutes of film — and Stahl, though he ached to go back to the Claridge and get into a hot shower, had one final chore ahead of him. Renate Steiner was expecting his appearance at her workroom in Building K. Colonel Vadic had to wear, at several points in the film, a thin cotton long-sleeved undershirt with buttons at the top — a khaki-coloured garment meant to look like Foreign Legion issue. This could not be bought in Paris, so a seamstress ran one up, a duplicate to follow once Stahl had a fitting.
It was a long walk to Building K in the cold fading twilight but Steiner’s workroom was warm, heated by a small charcoal stove in one corner. And Renate was glad to see him — a sweet smile, kisses on both cheeks. ‘You seem to be doing better,’ Stahl said. ‘The last time I was here…’ She’d been in tears with husband trouble.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘One’s personal life… But everything’s different now.’
‘You’ve made up? Your husband found a job?’
‘My husband found a girlfriend,’ she said. ‘And off they went. I was miserable for a week, then I discovered how relieved I was to have him gone — thank heaven for sexy little Monique! Oh, that sounds terribly cold, doesn’t it.’
‘Not to me.’
She shrugged. ‘If we hadn’t had to run away from Germany everything might have been all right but… that’s just what happened.’
‘You do seem different,’ Stahl said.
‘Freedom,’ she said. ‘It’s good for me. Now, Fredric, would you be so kind as to take off your shirt? You can go behind the curtain if you like.’
Stahl took off his sweater, then unbuttoned his shirt and hung it over the back of a chair. He was just muscular enough, no bare-to-the-waist pirate but not at all soft, that he didn’t mind being seen in his skin. Steiner held the khaki undershirt up by its shoulders and showed it to Stahl. ‘What do you think?’
‘I like it.’
‘It’s your women fans who must like it, so it should show the outline of your shoulders and chest, then loosen a bit as it falls to the waist.’
‘What do I wear down below?’
‘Uniform trousers, then civilian trousers. These were voluminous in the script and tied with a string but that’s just writers, Avila wants to show your bottom half. Now it’s Gilles Brecker who gets the big trousers. How is his wrist, by the way?’
‘We’re shooting around him for another two weeks, then he’ll be fine.’
Stahl slid the undershirt over his head; Renate had perched on a high stool and lit a cigarette, shaking the match out as she looked critically at the fit of the shirt. ‘Can you turn sideways?’
He did.
‘Now the back.’
He turned his back to her.
‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘For a first try.’
She put her cigarette out in an ashtray and, pins in mouth, set about refitting the undershirt. She was very close to him, he could smell some sort of woodsy perfume, and when she reached up beneath the shirt her hand was warm against his skin. ‘If I stick you just yell,’ she said, her words slurred by the pins in her mouth.
‘I will,’ Stahl said.
She kept on fussing with the shirt, stepping back for a look, then repositioning the pins to move a seam. Stahl hitched up his trousers because, to his surprise, not an unpleasant surprise, he’d become excited and he didn’t want her to see it. ‘What are you doing?’ she said.
‘Pulling up my pants.’
‘Well, don’t. Just stand still.’ Then she said ‘ Merde! ’ and withdrew her hand, a drop of blood on the ball of her index finger. This she put in her mouth for a moment, took it out and pressed her thumb against it. Looking for something to cover the pinprick, she walked over to her work table. Stahl couldn’t take his eyes off the back view. She wore, as usual, a smock over a long skirt, which should have hidden the motion beneath but didn’t quite. He hadn’t noticed this the last time he’d seen her — was she wearing a different skirt? Had she changed for his eyes? That idea he liked very well but he knew it was wishful thinking. Probably.
At the table she found a strip of adhesive tape, tore off a piece with her teeth and stuck it on her finger. That done, she mumbled, ‘Goddamn thimble,’ and went rummaging through mounds of fabric, retrieved only a scissors and a magazine photo, then gave up. She turned, walked back and stood in front of him. ‘You can take it off now,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry this took so long.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I expect you want to go home and have a drink.’
‘I do.’ Then, after a moment, ‘Is there anything here?’
‘There is, but…’
‘But what?’
‘I have Strega.’
‘Strega!’ Of all things. ‘The witch,’ he said, translating the Italian word. It was a liqueur made of mountain herbs, secret herbs — a strange taste, sweet at first, then something more.
She walked over to a cabinet, took out a bottle of Strega and two cloudy glasses, poured some thick, dark- gold liqueur in each, returned and handed him a glass. ‘ Salut,’ she said.
‘To us,’ he said and immediately regretted it. He was acting like a teenager.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘To us. You like it?’
