We hadn’t seen Weber in ages. Besides being a full-fledged genius (I say that without any hesitation), he’s a genuinely good guy. Roland and I were so glad he was there. Too often, too damned often in those subsequent days, pauses and silences fell like heavy, deadening snow over our conversations with Arlen. Inevitably, Weber was the one to break them up with a funny story or an insight that brought us back to noise and made breathing easier. Arlen had grown so introverted that it was frightening. I could imagine her being silent for a week if no one was there.

She and Weber had been an item a few years before; surprisingly, not when they were working together, but after. She said he came to visit her on a set one day and that night they’d decided to move in together. I had always hoped the relationship would work because he was such a good soul, but Hollywood is not the best place to work on a relationship, much less its fine points. Not when the partners are high-strung and competitive, creative, and prone to mood swings as grand and terrifying as Tarzan’s through the vines. They stayed together almost a year (a record for Arlen) and parted amicably, sort of. Absence made their hearts grow fonder. In the ensuing years they became great telephone pals. They made a deal: either could call anytime, anyplace if they ever needed help or only a sympathetic ear. She’d never made a deal like that with me and I indignantly told her so. She answered reasonably that one makes deals with lovers one would never make with anyone else.

When her rising star began to level off, Weber’s continued to climb, but they remained close. He kept asking her to be in his films. At first she was still too busy. Later she took his concern for pity and refused. Weber went so far as to ask Roland to intervene, but we knew that would never work with Arlen. She piloted her own ship.

Now we were both excited to hear she was even considering going back to work on his new film. Yet each day went by without her saying anything about it. Finally Roland got fed up and dragged Weber and the dog outside, ostensibly for a walk. He grilled Weber on the project. When they returned from the great outdoors, my husband wore a smile I’d seen usually only in bed after good sex. “If she doesn’t take this role, so help me God—”

“So help you God what? What will you do, strong-arm her into it? Hire one of Don Corleone’s men to shoot her in the kneecaps?”

“Rose, what’s the matter? What’s with the sudden grumpiness? Wait till you hear about this movie!”

“While you were gone I sat on her sun porch looking at this whole thing—the river, everything. It’s the Danube down there; you know what I mean? It’s the Danube, and this is Europe… It’s really a delightful place, save the monk’s quarters. She has a good life here. It’s not our life, not what we want to do, but she’s happy. You can tell by the way she looks and how she talks. What good would it do her to go back and face all that junk? She has money and is fed up with fame. Guys gave her diseases; she took too many drugs; her last films were crummy and she knows it. She’s not even thirty-five but has already lived one whole life. As her friends, shouldn’t we encourage her to go on living here if that’s what pleases her?”

He shook his head. “Look, both of us love the woman and have never worked against her best interests. If she wants to retire here sometime to live out her days on the Danube, studying German and making tortes, fine. It’s not a bad life; I never said it was. But it’s obvious to me from what she’s been saying that she isn’t finished with acting yet. I honestly don’t think she’s had her fill. Remember what she said the other night about still wanting to work with Scorsese? Maybe she’ll get fed up after doing this one with Weber. But if she doesn’t do it, she’s crazy. It’s undoubtedly the best role she’s been offered in years. Oscar stuff. Let me tell you about the film. Your hair will stand up on your head.”

On our last day in Austria the four of us, plus Minnie, hiked from Weidling over the Wienerwald to Grinzing, where we spent most of the sunny afternoon in a Heurigen, one of Vienna’s famous wine gardens. The white wine was new and very strong, the food all delicious heart attack cuisine—roast pork, Schmalzbrot, deep-fried Camembert with Preisselbeeren. Minnie sat at stiff attention next to Arlen’s leg, her shiny black nose periodically rising up and over the edge of the table, periscoping where the good smells were. She must have gained three pounds that day from all the treats slipped to her.

After we’d eaten and sat like cats in the sun, we took a taxi back to the house. There, at long last, in her living room full of late afternoon sun, Arlen asked Weber to tell us the plot of his new film, Wonderful. We knew everything already because of the secret pow-wow between agent and director, but, described again so soon, the project still sounded irresistible.

For a while.

The problem was Weber. He was a superb director and a bona fide artist, but a lousy describer. Clearly his talent was in his eyes and imagination—not on his tongue. Because he told the story so badly and dully, I was dying to tell him to jump up and dance around, act it out! It’s a great story, so tell it great! Give it its due. I looked at Roland and could see from the unhappy set of his mouth that he felt the same. As far as the unsuspecting Arlen knew, this was our introduction to the movie too. But the way the creator-writer-director described it, this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity sounded like a training film for shoe salesmen in Idaho.

Naturally I’d thought a good deal about the story since first hearing it and, as Roland has prophesied, feeling my hair stand on end at the possibilities. Now I was bursting to interrupt with ideas and suggestions, clarifications, adrenaline. But I forced myself to hold back at least until Weber was finished. Otherwise, the target of our affection would realize that the three of us were in cahoots.

Silly me. Stupid me. What we don’t understand, we condemn. Halfway through Weber’s monotone, Arlen interrupted and began to talk. Starting with “No, no, Weber! It’s better than that!” she impatiently took over the telling as if he weren’t even in the room. Her voice began to dip and soar with excitement. She brought this magical story to life with the energy and talent of a person who could hold the attention of a room whenever she wanted. It was a star telling a story she loved, a story as great as her ability to tell it. Unable to do it right sitting down, she stood and began moving around in a growing fever of accents and actions, dialogue and camera angles, fade-outs and back stories that brought it all roaring to life. She made Wonderful wonderful.

I was so caught up in her magical account that it took some time to tear my eyes away from her grand performance to see how Weber was taking it. He sat back on the couch with hands locked over a knee, wearing a smile of total triumph. He’d tricked her! Set her up! He’d purposely bored us so as to lure Arlen into taking over and telling his story the way he knew it deserved to be told: with the enthusiasm and delight of a zealous convert, of someone thrilled to see the light and committed to being part of the design.

His scheme worked perfectly. When Arlen was finished, she was the most excited person in the room. She could see the future and it was hers. She ended by describing her role. From the tone of her voice, if the film had been a house for sale, she would already have bought it, moved in, and been reading a magazine in the den.

We sat in charged silence, the three of us in thrall to her performance. Roland was the first to speak. Arlen was still so into what she’d been doing that her head jerked slightly at the sound of his voice.