Chapter 5

           RosemarywenttoMonteCarlonearlyassulkilyasitwaspossibleforhertobe.SherodeuptheruggedhilltoLaTurbie,toanoldGaumontlotinprocessofreconstruction,andasshestoodbythegrilledentrancewaitingforananswertothemessageonhercard,shemighthavebeenlookingintoHollywood.Thebizarredébrisofsomerecentpicture,adecayedstreetsceneinIndia,agreatcardboardwhale,amonstroustreebearingcherrieslargeasbasketballs,bloomedtherebyexoticdispensation,autochthonousasthepaleamaranth,mimosa,corkoakordwarfedpine.Therewereaquick-lunchshackandtwobarnlikestagesandeverywhereaboutthelot,groupsofwaiting,hopeful,paintedfaces.

           Aftertenminutesayoungmanwithhairthecolorofcanaryfeathershurrieddowntothegate.

           "Comein,MissHoyt.Mr.Brady’sontheset,buthe’sveryanxioustoseeyou.I’msorryyouwerekeptwaiting,butyouknowsomeoftheseFrenchdamesareworseaboutpushingthemselvesin—"

           ThestudiomanageropenedasmalldoorintheblankwallofstagebuildingandwithsuddengladfamiliarityRosemaryfollowedhimintohalfdarkness.Hereandtherefiguresspottedthetwilight,turningupashenfacestoherlikesoulsinpurgatorywatchingthepassageofamortalthrough.Therewerewhispersandsoftvoicesand,apparentlyfromafar,thegentletremoloofasmallorgan.Turningthecornermadebysomeflats,theycameuponthewhitecracklingglowofastage,whereaFrenchactor—hisshirtfront,collar,andcuffstintedabrilliantpink—andanAmericanactressstoodmotionlessfacetoface.Theystaredateachotherwithdoggedeyes,asthoughtheyhadbeeninthesamepositionforhours;andstillforalongtimenothinghappened,noonemoved.