Three Women in a Mirror by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt, Alison Anderson Page B

put on some long sleeves.”
    The makeup artists, like some therapists sharing a terrible medical secret, rushed over to help her hide her forearms.
    In the meantime, Johanna went out to tell the paparazzi that they would soon be able to come in.
    â€œWhat?” exclaimed Anny. “Here, in the trailer?”
    â€œYes, with the flowers.”
    Now Anny understood why her dressing room was swamped with bouquets. Perhaps the senders had been informed, while their card was being stapled to the wrapping, that their gift would be filmed . . .
    A horde invaded the vehicle. All the photographers were calling out, “Anny!” in order to get her to look at them. They pushed and shoved, there were so many of them, their shutters clicking with the spluttering of frying oil, and there were moments when the flash bulbs, gone wild, erased all color. Amid such tumult, it was like being in the eye of the hurricane. Even though she was already powdered and made-up, Anny sat back down in the chair and pretended to submit herself to her makeup people; then the director came in and she mimed an artistic discussion about the script; then she breathed in the roses and orchids with a blissful smile on her face; finally, she pretended to read the messages that had come with the bouquets, or at any rate the ones Johanna handed to her, according to her own priority.
    At a nod from the agent, the cameramen hurried away as quickly as they had come. An oppressive silence followed the uproar.
    Anny lay down, exhausted. Sessions like this drained her as though each click of the shutter had siphoned off a drop of blood; an attack of the vampires would have left her feeling similarly afflicted. Populations who refuse to have their photograph taken shared her unease: to take one’s picture is to steal a part of one’s soul. Anny felt she had just been abducted. Not only had these men dispossessed and diminished her, they had cut her up, fragmented her, shattered her into a thousand pieces. Now she would have to shut herself away to put herself back together.
    â€œHave a rest,” concluded Johanna, “you’ve got plenty of margin. Your lighting stand-in will be there to prepare the set and your stunt double can take care of the chase shots for you.”
    Johanna and the makeup people left the trailer. Anny sighed.
Lighting stand-in, stunt stand-in. Why can’t I have a life stand-in?
    Lying on her comforter with a cushion under her neck, she opened her script and began to memorize her dialogues for the day’s scene. When she knew all the lines by heart with an almost mechanical precision, she pictured the décor, saw herself standing opposite her co-stars, and tried to imagine what her character would feel; she worked out how she would play the scene, what the rhythm would be. When she had a clear vision of the ensemble, glued motionless to her goose feathers she ventured to act out the situation and say the words. She would only add her body once she was on set; there was no point wearing herself out ahead of time. She would keep a few surprises for the moment the camera was actually filming her.
    Someone scratched at the door. Anny let out a groan that might equally mean yes or no.
    David came in, swaying from one foot to the other.
    â€œHow are you doing?”
    His hands shoved halfway into his pockets, wriggling slightly, he gave a frown above his hangdog look and bit his lip.
    Anny very nearly told him that he looked like a cocker spaniel; she held herself back at the last minute when she realized that his pose was inspired by James Dean pretending to be shy.
    â€œAre you filming today, David?”
    â€œNo. I came to see you.”
    â€œThat’s nice of you.”
    If he wasn’t being filmed, why was he wearing all those new clothes?
    â€œI just want to be sure my little darling doesn’t freak out.”
    â€œFreak out? I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”
    The closer he