“Really? I thought she was much older.”
“That’s because she is so dough-faced and pudgy and her hair is so stringy and brown. Rosie disapproved of me from birth. Her birth, not my birth.”
“Is she an only child?”
“Gott, yes. After Rosie, all further procreation was discouraged. When I was away in the war and I heard Munich was bombed, I had this wonderful fantasy that my wife and Rosie had disappeared. No such luck. I came home, every house on the street was in devastating ruins. But not ours. There it stood, with my wife and Rosie in the doorway, frowning.” Alma laughed. “Shall I tell you why Rosie is frowning now? I don’t even have to turn and look at her. I can tell you what she is doing. She is holding her pad and pencil trying to look less unimportant; she doesn’t like being a script girl’s assistant. Rosie does not like unimportance. So she doesn’t like me. I am unimportant. I play atmosphere music for actresses who could use a lot of atmosphere, instead of being a world-famous musician and composer. Rosie once said to me when she was still a child and I couldn’t find a job, ‘Better your hands should have been blown off in the war than to waste your talent as a lowly pianist.’”
“How awful!” Alma hoped Rosie couldn’t overhear her father.
“Oh, she’s very awful. Just this morning she was crossing the street ahead of me and she didn’t see a truck bearing down on her. For the first time in weeks, I smiled. Then some damn fool shouted at her and she leapt out of the truck’s path and now she stands behind me frowning. She’s also a virgin.”
Rosie joined them. “Must you keep repeating this melody over and over again, Father?”
“It’s such a lovely melody,” remonstrated Alma.
“You do not find it boring that he repeats it over and over again?” Rosie stared at Alma as though she had just arrived from outer space.
“Not at all. I’ve memorized it.” She la-la-la’d along with Wagner, who was immensely pleased, not noticing the strange expression on Rosie’s face. It was no longer a frown; it looked more like a suspicion.
“Alma!” Hitchcock sounded annoyed.
“My master’s voice,” said Alma, and left them to join Hitch, who seemed to be in the midst of a problem with the camera operator.
“Miss Reville is very pretty.” Coming from Rosie’s mouth, the statement sounded like a death sentence.
“Very,” agreed her father, now having switched to a Viennese waltz.
“You fancy her?”
“She’s not so fancy. She’s quite down to earth.”
“You know what I mean. You would like to sleep with her.”
His hands crashed down on the keyboard. Heads turned, and he quickly resumed playing the waltz. “Go away, Rosie. I see enough of you at home”
They were joined by Anna Grieban, the script girl.
“Rosie, I have some changes for Miss Valli.” She held out a sheet of paper to the girl. “Would you please give them to her?” Rosie took the paper and began reading it. Anna said to Wagner, “What was that lovely melody you were playing a few minutes ago? It’s enchanting.” Smiling, Wagner returned to his original composition. Frowning, Rosie went in search of Virginia Valli.
“Rosie doesn’t like this melody,” Wagner told Anna.
“There isn’t very much that Rosie seems to like.” She began to hum along with Wagner. “How lovely. How really lovely. “
“Miss Reville likes it too. She memorized it.”
“Has she really.”
“Yes.”
La-la-la-la… la-la-la…
Fifteen minutes later, Hitchcock was ready for his first setup. The camera was placed exactly where he wanted it, and Virginia Valli and Carmelita Geraghty were summoned to the set. Though neither was a major film star, both had enviable reputations for beauty and acting ability, Virginia Valli being especially gifted. In their chorus-girl costumes, they were provocatively sexy. They greeted everyone with a warm friendliness, and Hitchcock was grateful the ladies were liked by the crew and the other members of the acting company. Hitchcock embraced both women and then began to explain the action. He led them onto The Pleasure Garden stage where, with the choreographer, he began to line them up and illustrate where the camera would follow the simple dance routine devised for them.
As Hitch dealt with his principals and the chorus line, the assistant director gave instructions to the extras and supporting players at the tables portraying music-hall patrons. Many were smoking, and the air was growing heavy with cigar and cigarette smoke. Alma began to wonder if their meager film budget could cover the cost of a gas mask. She asked one of the assistants if it was possible to find an electric fan, and as he went off in search of one, she heard Rosie Wagner say to her, “You think my father has talent for composing melodies?”
“He does. And you shouldn’t be so pessimistic about him. He’s a very nice and a very gifted man.”
“You think this, yes?”
“I think this, yes.”
“That is why you memorize his melody?”
“Is there something wrong with wanting to learn it by heart?” She hummed it. “I wish it had words.”
“Perhaps it has words.” They heard Anna Grieban shouting for Rosie, who, before leaving Alma, favored her with an enigmatic expression.
What a strange, unattractive, po-faced little creature she is, thought Alma. Then her face lit up. Rudolf Wagner was playing his composition again. Alma turned toward the trio and saw Hitch’s MacGuffin half concealed behind a scenery flat just past where the trio was situated. She hurried to Hitchcock.
“Hitch, he’s here on the stage.”
Hitch was not in the mood to be interrupted. “Not now, Alma. This is a very difficult shot.…” He added under his breath, “… considering that none of these ladies knows the first thing about chorus dancing.”
“Your MacGuffin is here.”
Hitch turned to her. “That face? Here? Where?”
She pointed past the trio.
