“I do not need mountain climbers. I need actors.”
“I am an actor who only sometime climbs. You understand?”
Hitchcock caught the eye of the middle-aged woman in charge of the refreshment cart who he’d described as being built like an avenging Carpathian peasant. “This cheese is off,” announced Hitchcock in a sad stentorian voice.
“Where off?” asked the woman, whose English was as inadequate as her pastries.
“It’s rancid.” Hans Meyer translated into German and the woman stood back in horror and clutching her breast. To Hitchcock she looked like an inflated Lillian Gish. The woman remonstrated, but Hitchcock persisted. “Take this pastry back to the baker and demand a refund.” He dropped the pastry back on the tray, and the woman scooped it up and bit into it. Hitchcock watched her ruminating with distaste.
“Is good!” said the woman. “Is good, you I tell!”
Hitchcock snorted and said to Hans Meyer, “The woman suffers from an inferior palate.” To her he said, “Is bloody awful and I shall select something else.” Which he did with a gesture befitting royalty, paid the woman, and then slowly walked to his director’s chair, with the young actor trailing in his wake. He saw Fredrick Regner, the scriptwriter, approaching him carrying a script.
“Good morning, Herr Hitchcock,” said Regner, his smile displaying what appeared to be a perfect set of teeth.
“Good morning. In fact, I’m glad you’re here. That strange-looking man—”
“Which one? There are so many here.”
Hitchcock settled into his director’s chair while Regner and Meyer stood staring down at him.
“The one you said you directed to Stage Three yesterday. Surely you remember him. Nobody could forget that face once they’ve seen it, the poor bugger.”
“Oh, him. Of course. What about him?”
“Well, if you directed him to Stage Three, what was he doing slinking around ours?”
“I have no idea.”
“Alma Reville saw him peeping from behind a piece of scenery. Skulking, I suppose, is more like it. Do you know if he’s an actor?”
“I don’t know him at all. I’ve never seen him before yesterday, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Most peculiar.” He turned to Meyer. “Do you know as much about actors as you do about mountains? What did you say your name was? This is Freddy Regner.…”
“We’ve met before,” said Regner.
Hitchcock bit into his pastry and munched with a preoccupied expression. He swallowed and asked Meyer, “Have you run into a person with a magnificently disfigured face?”
“I do not recall, no.”
“No,” echoed Hitchcock.
“Herr Hitchcock,” said Regner anxiously, “this script…” Hitchcock looked at it suspiciously, as though the script might be wired to explode. “I wonder if you could find the time to read it.”
Hitchcock sighed. Rudolf Wagner and the violinists were halfheartedly playing “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls” and Hitchcock wished he dwelt among them too. “I could find the time to read it,” said Hitchcock, “but if I like it, I don’t know when I’ll find the time to direct it. You see, I’m set to do this blasted mountain picture.…”
“Very majestic, mountains.” Which won Hans Meyer a look of distaste from Hitchcock and one of irritation from Regner.
“I would be content just to have your opinion,” persisted Regner.
“Aren’t you under contract here?” asked Hitchcock.
“Oh, no. Not at all. I am a freelance.”
“But I always see you about on the lot, dancing attendance on no one in particular.” Hitchcock was bored with his pastry and flung it into a convenient wastebasket.
“Please, but they are filming a scenario of mine on Stage Two. It is a spy thriller.”
Hitchcock’s face lit up. “A spy thriller! I’d love to do a spy film, one with lots of MacGuffins!”
“Please?” asked the perplexed writer.
“Oh, yes, I’d be pleased.” He took the script from Regner and flipped through it. “Is this a spy thriller?”
“It is a thriller, yes. You will read it?”
“I will read it. Now go away and take this mountain actor with you. I have work to do.” He was looking around for Alma and Anna Grieban.
“Please, Herr Hitchcock. You will consider me for your mountain film?” Hans Meyer sounded desperate enough to make Hitchcock suspect he was being pursued by the police.
“I will consider you. Leave your name, your phone number, and your credits with my script girl, Miss Grieban—that is, if you can locate her. And if you do, please tell her I would like to see her at my side ready to begin a day’s shooting on this misbegotten mess I’m involved in. Alma!” He had spotted Alma chatting with Miles Mander, one of the film’s leading men. Alma acknowledged Hitchcock with a wave of her hand and crossed to him as Hans Meyer and Fredrick Regner departed in separate directions.
“The actors are getting restless,” said Alma. “When do you start your first setup?”
“The actors are fortunate they are employed, and you may quote me.” Hitchcock made no effort to disguise his annoyance. “And as for getting started, I’m not ready for that until the bloody script girl arrives to confer with me so I can confer with the bloody camera operator. The bloody pastries were bloody awful this morning.”
“Other than that, dear, what’s your mood?”
“My mood is one of gratitude that you are here with me”—his voice was softening— “helping to make this ill-starred adventure bearable. And if your good behavior continues, I shall demand we set a date for our wedding, at which point I’m sure we’ll both be delighted to rid ourselves of our virginity. “
“Oh, hush up, Hitch. Rosie! You there, Rosie!”
Rosie Wagner was looking more than usually unattractive that morning. She had been chatting with the actor Hans Meyer when Alma hailed her, and she turned with a start like a child caught raiding a biscuit box. Rosie hurried to Alma and Hitchcock. “Good morning, Miss Reville. Herr Hitchcock. Is something?”
“Is something indeed,” said Alma briskly. “Where’s Anna Grieban this morning?”
“Oh? She is not here?” She looked like a fawn at bay. “She is not.
