Dusk and Other Stories by James Salter

of him would peel from the sides of buildings more and more remote, the resemblance fading, his name becoming stale. He would smile across alleys, into the sour darkness. Far-off dogs were barking. The streets smelled of the poor.
    III.
    There was a party for Anna’s birthday at a restaurant in the outskirts, the restaurant in which Farouk, falling backward from the table, had died. Not everyone was invited. It was meant to be a surprise.
    She arrived with Guivi. She was not a woman, she was a minor deity, she was some beautiful animal innocent of its grace. It was February, the night was cold. The chauffeurs waited inside the cars. Later they gathered quietly in the cloakroom.
    “My love,” Iles said to her, “you are going to be very, very happy.”
    “Really?”
    He put his arm around her without replying; he nodded. Theshooting was almost over. The rushes, he said, were the best he had ever seen. Ever.
    “As for this fellow …” he said, reaching for Guivi.
    The producer joined them.
    “I want you for my next picture, both of you,” he announced. He was wearing a suit a size too small, a velvet suit bought on Via Borgognona.
    “Where did you get it?” Guivi said. “It’s fantastic. Who is supposed to be the star here anyway?”
    Posener looked down at himself. He smiled like a guilty boy.
    “Do you like it?” he said. “Really?”
    “No, where did you get it?”
    “I’ll send you one tomorrow.”
    “No, no …”
    “Guivi, please,” he begged, “I want to.”
    He was filled with goodwill, the worst was past. The actors had not run away or refused to work, he was overcome with love for them, as for a bad child who unexpectedly does something good. He felt he must do something in return.
    “Waiter!” he cried. He looked around, his gestures always seemed wasted, vanished in empty air.
    “Waiter,” he called, “champagne!”
    There were twenty or so people in the room, other actors, the American wife of a count. At the table Guivi told stories. He drank like a Georgian prince, he had plans for Geneva, Gstaad. There was the Italian producer, he said, who had an actress under contract, she was a second Sophia Loren. He had made a fortune with her. Her films were only shown in Italy, but everyone went to them, the money was pouring in. He always kept the journalists away, however, he never let them talk to her alone.
    “Sellerio,” someone guessed.
    “Yes,” said Guivi, “that’s right. Do you know the rest of the story?”
    “He sold her.”
    But half the contract only, Guivi said. Her popularity was fading, he wanted to get everything he could. There was a big ceremony, they invited all the press. She was going to sign. She picked up the pen and leaned forward a little for the photographers, you know, she had these enormous, eh … well, anyway, on the paper she wrote: with his finger Guivi made a large X. The newsmen all looked at each other. Then Sellerio took the pen and very grandly, just below her name: Guivi made one X and next to it, carefully, another. Illiterate. That’s the truth. They asked him, look, what is the second X for? You know what he told them? Dottore .
    They laughed. He told them about shooting in Naples with a producer so cheap he threw a cable across the trolley wires to steal power. He was clever, Guivi, he was a storyteller in the tradition of the east, he could speak three languages. Later, when she finally understood what had happened, Anna remembered how happy he seemed this night.
    “Shall we go on to the Hostaria?” the producer said.
    “What?” Guivi asked.
    “The Hostaria …” As with the waiters, it seemed no one heard him. “The Blue Bar. Come on, we’re going to the Blue Bar,” he announced.
    Outside the Botanical Gardens, parked in the cold, the small windows of the car frosted, Lang sat. His clothing was open. His flesh was pale in the refracted light. He had eaten dinner with Eva. She had talked for hours in a low, uncertain voice, it was a