“So,” I persisted, “let’s bring in some water. Don’t look at me like that. If we can bring in flowers, we can bring in water.”
“I’m not carrying buckets up that hill.”
“I hadn’t thought of doing it personally, no.”
* * *
Thus it was that on Thursday, four days after we’d come to Cintra, the camera finally started turning. Before us lay a pond of very expensive water, trucked and carried in before dawn that morning by a small army of hirelings, local farmers, and servants from the palace – and if it was mere inches deep and more mud-choked than sparkling, on film it would be fine. Around the pseudo-lake, the surviving flowers stood – and if they looked moth-eaten and wilted up close, despite several sprinklings of water, again, they would look just fine on film. As we came off the carts at the garden tent, the sun even came out – and if it was cold enough to put a rime of frost on the blossoms and set the girls to shivering, well, we had a brazier going behind the camera to warm up between takes, and adding a blush to cheeks was the reason we’d brought Maude, the make-up woman.
Of course, some of the girls had tried to insulate themselves by wearing jumpers and woollen hose under the spring frocks the scene required, making Sally complain at the ill fit of her laboriously constructed costumes. However, once I had mused loudly about how fat this Portuguese food was making the girls, there was a flurry of activity around the impromptu dressing-room, and the problem went away.
The girls took their places. Graziella flitted about (tripping over a pair of shoes I’d ordered her to put on). I consulted my heavily annotated copy of the
“Me?”
“Just say it.”
So I pronounced the word, and thus began my career as a moving picture director.
The scene went beautifully, even a rank amateur like me could see that. Bibi had a natural bent for placing herself at the forefront of any scene, with the other girls forming a visual chorus around her. Daniel Marks set his shoulders to indicate a degree of intense fascination, wrapping his torso around the tree to watch the girls without being seen. Will’s arm worked the crank with a smooth and unvarying speed, until he stopped cranking and stood up, saying, “Cut.”
The scene disintegrated with Mabel jumping up to exclaim that she’d been sitting on something sharp and Bonnie complaining that Celeste had been blocking her light, and Frederic objecting that we weren’t filming his good side. He became quite upset when I made the mistake of saying I couldn’t see any difference, but Will smoothed things over by saying that he would be doing a number of close-ups from the desired side, since Fflytte would be sure to want them.
Then he pulled the girls together to do the scene again. It took a couple of hours to finish the group shots, some of which required me to act as his assistant, turning the handle as he panned the camera. He had to correct me a couple of times, telling me I was slowing my turning speed, but the takes seemed to satisfy him. Later, he shifted the camera to Daniel Marks, then to Bibi, first in their roles as Frederic and Mabel, then in modern dress as the director of
“I think the sun is going,” I finally said, drawing an end to this fascination. The rest of the girls and Marks had long since retreated to the refreshments of the tent, and the wind was growing chilly. Bibi jerked up her stocking and stepped into her shoe, wrapped herself in her warm furs, and flounced away down the hill, leaving us to carry the film and equipment.
“How was that, do you think?” I asked the cameraman.
“Some of it looked very nice, although I won’t know for sure until I see it later.”
“What, tonight?”
“Have to be – can’t leave until I’m sure we got everything Mr Fflytte needs. I can give it a squint, just to see there aren’t any major boobs.”
“Do you want some help?”
“You don’t need to.”
“What can I do?”
“Come to my room tonight and give me a hand with the developing.”
* * *
It did cross my mind that Will might intend something other than film to develop within his room. However, I knocked on his door just after dinner, and although he answered in a state of relative dishabille, the stink that wafted out was in no way suggestive of romance.
Some of the odour was the film itself. But when he crossed the room again to the inner door, I could see why he had demanded the luxury of a large bath-room when we checked in: This was his developing room. I eyed the carboys of various noxious liquids, and rolled up my sleeves.
We finished shortly after midnight. My back ached, my hands were raw, my head spun from the unrelenting stench of the developing fluids. But when at last Will switched off the dim red lamp under which we had been working and held the strips of negative up to the strong light, he pronounced the film usable. He told me he would polish and pack it away in its tins after it had dried. We could return to Lisbon, triumphant.
“Want a drink?” Will offered.
“I think I’ll take myself to bed,” I told him. I said good-night, let myself out into the hallway, and came face to face with Annie and Celeste.
“What are you doing out here?” I demanded.
They looked at each other, and giggled.
It would seem the girls had discovered that Cintra did, after all, possess young males.
I sent these two to their rooms and patrolled the hallways for a couple of hours, just in case.
* * *
No catastrophes spoilt the film during the night. The hotel was not struck by lightning, earthquake, or pestilence. None of the girls disappeared from their rooms (or if they did, they had found their way back by morning). The charabanc came soon after breakfast, and we loaded ourselves and our precious film inside. We were back in Lisbon in time for a late lunch.
To be greeted by the information that the
With everyone on board.
Sailing for Morocco.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
PIRATE KING: When your process of extermination begins, let our deaths be as swift and painless as you
