interesting day….
Win breakfasted early with Martha, and listened with half an ear as she read over the crowded schedule for the second day of the Festival. This was the Russians’ day, and there would be a dinner following the screening in the afternoon. Though the picture was shown again in the evening for the general public, at Feru the judges, officials, and studio representatives always attended the afternoon performance.
“You’ve got something on your mind, Win,” Martha commented as they were finishing coffee.
“Not really. Just the excitement of it all.”
“Hear any more from that Falconi?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I thought he might have brought you more news about Betty Ainsley’s marriage.”
“That sounds like a bit of jealousy to me.”
“Not at all! I just worry when you’re so quiet.”
“I’m conserving my energy for this afternoon.”
Someone slapped him on the back and boomed out a greeting. He turned to see Ed Baine and a press agent named Wren just coming in for breakfast. “How’s it goin’, boy?” Baine asked him. “Miss Hollywood yet?”
“Haven’t missed it in five years.”
Baine and Wren sat down uninvited and ordered toast and coffee from the English-speaking waitress. “You should come back. Tell him he should come back, Miss Myers.”
Martha stayed pleasingly silent, with her best Anglo-American smile frozen to her lips. Baine was being his most American this morning, and even the press agent was looking distasteful. He cleared his throat and shifted subjects. “Where are your stars, Mr. Chambers? I expected you’d do big things with that pic of yours.”
“Martha, this is Sam Wren, in case you didn’t meet him yesterday. New York press agent type.”
“Thanks for nothing!” Wren ate a piece of toast.
“To answer your question, my girl is shooting a film back in Paris. Couldn’t get away. And Georges broke his leg skiing. The life of a producer, I guess. Tell him how it is, Baine.”
Ed Baine nodded. “He knows how it is. Goin’ to the Reds’ party tonight?”
“Why not?”
“I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it, at something like this. I passed up one at Cannes a couple years back and the State Department was on my neck.” He downed his coffee without a pause. “Come on, we’ll give you a ride over.”
The afternoon’s activities went about as planned. The Russian film, a sombre affair about a collective farm worker dreaming of the horrors of a Third World War, was more propagandistic and thus less successful than a number of fine Soviet films Win had seen the previous year. He was certain at this point that the judges favoured the previous day’s Italian entry.
At the dinner which followed, Win found it easy to place himself next to Tonia Dudorov. She wore the Lenin Award proudly on her bosom, and talked gaily of the old days before the war as if she were a woman of middle age. “Are you going to the British affair later?” she asked Win as the dinner neared its end.
“What’s that? I lost my schedule.”
“I thought your secretary kept you up on such things. They are showing a two-reel short subject out of competition, and this will be followed by cocktails. Will you be my date, Win?”
“If you don’t mind being seen with a thirty-six-year-old man.”
“In Moscow I am sometimes seen with men twice your age. Politics, you know.”
Her invitation simplified the rest of Win’s plan. He knew she couldn’t be seen at two gatherings in the same dress, and as he expected she invited him up to her hotel room while she changed. When she stepped into the bathroom for a moment, he opened the bedroom door, walked quickly to the bed, and removed the small red star from her dress. The duplicate went on quickly in its place. It was so easy he couldn’t quite believe the thing had been done. All of Falconi’s talking and planning had gone towards this—five seconds in Tonia’s hotel room. Somehow he didn’t yet feel like
Win breakfasted early with Martha, and listened with half an ear as she read over the crowded schedule for the second day of the Festival. This was the Russians’ day, and there would be a dinner following the screening in the afternoon. Though the picture was shown again in the evening for the general public, at Feru the judges, officials, and studio representatives always attended the afternoon performance.
“You’ve got something on your mind, Win,” Martha commented as they were finishing coffee.
“Not really. Just the excitement of it all.”
“Hear any more from that Falconi?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I thought he might have brought you more news about Betty Ainsley’s marriage.”
“That sounds like a bit of jealousy to me.”
“Not at all! I just worry when you’re so quiet.”
“I’m conserving my energy for this afternoon.”
Someone slapped him on the back and boomed out a greeting. He turned to see Ed Baine and a press agent named Wren just coming in for breakfast. “How’s it goin’, boy?” Baine asked him. “Miss Hollywood yet?”
“Haven’t missed it in five years.”
Baine and Wren sat down uninvited and ordered toast and coffee from the English-speaking waitress. “You should come back. Tell him he should come back, Miss Myers.”
Martha stayed pleasingly silent, with her best Anglo-American smile frozen to her lips. Baine was being his most American this morning, and even the press agent was looking distasteful. He cleared his throat and shifted subjects. “Where are your stars, Mr. Chambers? I expected you’d do big things with that pic of yours.”
“Martha, this is Sam Wren, in case you didn’t meet him yesterday. New York press agent type.”
“Thanks for nothing!” Wren ate a piece of toast.
“To answer your question, my girl is shooting a film back in Paris. Couldn’t get away. And Georges broke his leg skiing. The life of a producer, I guess. Tell him how it is, Baine.”
Ed Baine nodded. “He knows how it is. Goin’ to the Reds’ party tonight?”
“Why not?”
“I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it, at something like this. I passed up one at Cannes a couple years back and the State Department was on my neck.” He downed his coffee without a pause. “Come on, we’ll give you a ride over.”
The afternoon’s activities went about as planned. The Russian film, a sombre affair about a collective farm worker dreaming of the horrors of a Third World War, was more propagandistic and thus less successful than a number of fine Soviet films Win had seen the previous year. He was certain at this point that the judges favoured the previous day’s Italian entry.
At the dinner which followed, Win found it easy to place himself next to Tonia Dudorov. She wore the Lenin Award proudly on her bosom, and talked gaily of the old days before the war as if she were a woman of middle age. “Are you going to the British affair later?” she asked Win as the dinner neared its end.
“What’s that? I lost my schedule.”
“I thought your secretary kept you up on such things. They are showing a two-reel short subject out of competition, and this will be followed by cocktails. Will you be my date, Win?”
“If you don’t mind being seen with a thirty-six-year-old man.”
“In Moscow I am sometimes seen with men twice your age. Politics, you know.”
Her invitation simplified the rest of Win’s plan. He knew she couldn’t be seen at two gatherings in the same dress, and as he expected she invited him up to her hotel room while she changed. When she stepped into the bathroom for a moment, he opened the bedroom door, walked quickly to the bed, and removed the small red star from her dress. The duplicate went on quickly in its place. It was so easy he couldn’t quite believe the thing had been done. All of Falconi’s talking and planning had gone towards this—five seconds in Tonia’s hotel room. Somehow he didn’t yet feel like
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