"Action!"
He opened his fingers and peered through them at the scene.
This time, he could hear Dunbar speaking to Rina in a low voice.
"That's right, that's right, now you walk out. You look down and see them.
First at Paul, then at Joseph.
You see the gun in Joseph's hand and you know what has happened.
Now you begin to look up.
You're thinking, they're dead.
Maybe you didn't love them but you lived with them, you used them.
Maybe for a moment one of them brings back a piece of your memory – the memory you lost and never recovered.
But for a fraction of a second, the veil lifts. And it's your father, or your brother, or maybe the child you never had, lying there in the sand at your feet.
The tears start up in your eyes." Slowly Norman's hands slipped away from his face. He held his breath as he moved toward the side away from the camera, which blocked his view.
Rina was crying.
Real tears.
Dunbar was still whispering. "The tears have come but the veil has dropped again and you can't remember why you are crying.
The tears stop and your eyes are dry. Now you turn and look out into the desert.
Out there in the lonely sand someone is waiting, someone with your memory.
You will find that person out there. Then you'll really know who you are.
You begin to walk out into the desert… slowly… slowly… slowly."
Dunbar's voice faded as Rina began to walk away, even the proud, straight shape of her back calling for pity.
Norman looked around him.
The crew were staring at Rina. They had forgotten everything on the set except her.
He felt a moisture in his eyes.
The damn scene had even got to him.
"Cut!" Dunbar's voice was a hoarse, triumphant shout. "Print it!" He slumped back into his chair, exhausted.
The stage turned into bedlam, with everybody applauding.
Even the hard-bitten veterans of the crew were grinning.
Norman ran out onto the stage. He grabbed Rina's hand excitedly.
"You were wonderful, baby!" he said. "Magnificent!"
Rina looked at him.
For a moment, it seemed as if she were far away, then her eyes cleared.
She looked toward Dunbar, seated in his chair, surrounded by the camera crew and his assistants, then back at Norman.
"Do you really think so?"
"Would I say it if I didn't mean it, baby?" he replied, smiling.
"You know me better than that.
Now, you take a good couple of weeks' rest. I got Scheherazade all set to go."
She turned away from him and watched Dunbar, who was approaching them slowly, the lines of exhaustion showing clearly on his thin, forty-year-old face.
"Thank you," she said, taking Dunbar's hand.
He smiled wearily.
"You're a great actress, Miss Marlowe," he said, formal once again, now that their work was over. "It was a privilege working with you."
Rina stared at him for a moment, a new vitality flowing into her. "You're out on your feet," she said, concern in her voice.
"I'll be all right with some rest," he said quickly. "I don't think I've slept a night through since the picture began."
"We'll soon fix that," Rina said confidently. "Ilene."
From somewhere in the crowd, Ilene suddenly appeared.
"Call James and have him prepare the guest room for Mr. Dunbar."
"But, Miss Marlowe," the director protested. "I can't put you to all that trouble!"
"Do you think I'd let you go back to that empty hotel room the way you're feeling?" Rina demanded.
"But I promised Mother I'd call her the moment the picture was finished."
"You can call her there." Rina laughed. "We do have telephones, really."
Norman clapped Dunbar on the shoulder.