Jill Churchill: A Knife to Remember

Maisie pointed to a rattled rabbit of a man speaking into the set telephone with his hand over the receiver so he wouldn't be overheard. "Sometimes the money people like to stay in the background and run things from there," Maisie went on. "Not often, but it happens."

“But you told the person in your office that you were going to be talking to the producer soon," Jane said, then regretted this proof that she'd been eavesdropping.

Maisie didn't seem to mind. "I lied," she said cheerfully. "But it got me what I wanted in a hurry."

“I've always wondered what a producer does. You always see that on credits," Jane said.

“Oh, the producer's everything," Maisie replied. "The producer acquires the property — the story, that is — hires everybody from the scriptwriter to the janitor, and, most important, rounds up the money to make the film in the first place. That's a huge undertaking. It costs millions and millions to make a film. Even a television movie costs three or four million these days.”

Jane was only half listening. Her eyes had strayed from the producer's representative to Jake, who had reappeared and was having an intense whispered conversation with the young woman Jane had noticed him speaking to earlier — the pretty girl in the sweat-stained, scorched dress. He was looking pleased and smug, but this time the girl was obviously mad as hell. She had her hands on her hips and her pretty face was drawn into an unattractive scowl. She snapped something at him_ and tried to walk away, but he grabbed her elbow roughly and pulled her back. She looked down at his hand with an indignant expression, and he reluctantly turnedloose of her. But now he was angry, too. His fair face flushed and his handsome features were pinched. Jane nudged Shelley and pointed discreetly. Shelley, in turn, whispered to Maisie, "Speaking of the devil."

“Our little Angela doesn't seem exactly happy to have him leering over her," Maisie said in an undertone. "I'm glad. She seems like a nice girl. I wonder how she got herself tied up with him."

“Is she?" Jane asked. "Tied up with him, I mean."

“Good point," Maisie said. "Maybe not. He pays a lot of attention to her and acts possessive. But now that you mention it, I don't recall seeing any signs of his interest being reciprocated."

“Who is she, this Angela?" Jane asked.

“Just an extra," Maisie answered.

Their conversation was cut short by the entrance of the director into the craft service area — and "entrance" it was. Roberto Cavagnari was a stocky little tractor of a man with dark, flashing eyes, designer jeans, and a flamboyant green velvet poncho that would have looked effeminate on anybody less aggressively male. He didn't walk; he strutted. He didn't speak; he proclaimed. Underlings schooled around him like minnows around a handsome, glittering trout.

“Call the weatherman," he ordered in what sounded to Jane suspiciously like a fake Italian accent. "I won't have overcast sky today." Jane wondered if he really supposed that weathermen ordered the weather rather than merely reporting it. A toady ran to do his bidding.

“Mister Cavagnari, if I could just have a word wi—" somebody said.

But the underling's request was lost in the next declaration. "I will have coffee. Mocha. Extra sugar," Cavagnari announced. Another assistant rushed to do the maestro's bidding, but he stopped her with an authoritative snap of his stubby, beringed fingers. "No, I will prepare it myself so it's done correctly," he said in the tones an empress might have used to say she'd do her own mending. Underlings fell back, nearly bowing, as he approached the snack table.

“ Ja, mein herr," Shelley said under her breath.

“I think you've got the wrong country," Jane whispered. "I think we're supposed to be chanting, `Duce! Duce!' “

Shelley laughed and Cavagnari whirled and glared at them for a moment before turning back to the preparation of his mocha coffee.

A second later he bellowed, "Jake! Jake! Here she is, my watch! I told you to look here.”

Jake materialized at his side. "I did look for it here. Not half an hour ago."

“You did not use your eyes, Jake. It was here, beneath a chip wrapper."

“I am very good at seeing objects! I searched thoroughly," Jake said firmly. "It was not here."

“But you see? Here. . just here before my eyes." He slipped the watch on.

“I tell you it was not—"

“Enough, Jake! I have spoken. It is done.”

Jake subsided, obviously furious at having bothhis judgment and his eye for details questioned, but apparently unwilling to anger Cavagnari further. His eyes narrowed and he looked around the group as if daring anyone else to criticize him. Then his expression turned deeply thoughtful.

Cavagnari discoursed briefly on the proper way to prepare his coffee, most of his audience pretending rapt attention. Then, when it was done to his satisfaction, he sipped and said, kissing his fingertips and offering them to heaven, "Perfect! Now, we will do the close-ups of scene fourteen, then luncheon.”

He swept away, underlings trailing like the train of a coronation gown.

“Wow!" Shelley breathed. "That's an extraordinary display of ego run amok.”

Maisie nodded. "Yes, but would you cross him? Or insist on your own interpretation of a role? You've got to be pretty ostentatious to intimidate actors."

“Jake stood up to him pretty well," Jane said.

“Jake's a fool," Maisie said dismissively.

But Jane was still looking at Jake and was thoroughly chilled by the sight of the small, secretive smile on his face.

Shelley followed Jane's preoccupied gaze and said quietly, "He's scary, isn't he?"

“I don't know whether to be scared of him or for him," Jane said, involuntarily shivering.

6

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, at least for the moviemakers. For Jane, every new discovery was an event. She started out by prowling carefully through her neighbors' yards. In her own was the craft service setup and the "location office," which consisted of a table covered with stacks of paperwork and a phone. Two "honey wagons," which was what the trailer-type dressing rooms with bathrooms were somewhat obscenely called, were parked on Shelley's property. These were divided into tiny cubicles with doors along the long side, on which were written the principal actors' names. Jane was dying to get a glimpse of the inside of a cubicle, but nobody was around them just then and she couldn't peep through any open doors.

The house to the other side of Jane's had the wardrobe changing tent and the meal tent. Both were crude arrangements. The meal tent just had long trestle tables and wooden folding chairs. There was an odd piece of equipment at one end that she discovered was a kerosene heater, used at breakfast when it was still cold outside. The changing tent had a men's entrance at one end, a women's at the other,and a sheet hung between. There were lightweight wardrobe racks standing around the perimeter and everybody changed in the center of each section.

The wardrobe truck itself was in the yard beyond. This contained more substantial racks and a desklike arrangement where a young man was intent on updating the apparently meticulous records kept on each article of clothing. There was a minuscule washer and dryer in the truck as well as a sewing machine and a setup for ironing. Jane had once been "backstage" at a circus and this looked much the same: all the necessities of life made miniature and portable at a moment's notice.

Jane wandered into the next yard where another young man was sitting smoking and knocking back a soft drink on the metal steps leading up into the back of another truck. "Hi! Can I help you?" the young man said in a friendly manner.