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shouldn't be rid of it all。 If there's sufficient profit to be made it can be distributed amongst the poor。〃
〃There are certainly plenty of people in need of help；〃 Zeffer said。 He had been appalled at the primitive conditions in which many of the people in the locality lived。 The villages were little more than gatherings of shacks； the rocky earth the farmers tilled all but fruitless。 And on all sides； the mountains…the Bucegi range to the east； to the west the Fagaras Mountains…their bare lower slopes as gray as the earth； their heights dusted with snow。 God knew what the winters were like in this place： when even the dirt turned hard as stone； and the little river froze； and the walls of the shacks could not keep out the wind whistling down from the mountain heights。
The day they'd arrived； Katya had taken Willem to the cemetery； so that she could show him where her grandparents were buried。 There he'd had proof aplenty of the conditions in which her relatives lived and died。 It was not the resting places of the old that had moved Willem； it was the endless rows of tiny crosses that marked the graves of infants： babies lost to pneumonia； malnutrition and simple frailty。 The grief that was represented by these hundreds of graves had moved him deeply： the pain of mothers； the unshed tears of fathers and grandfathers。 It was nothing he had remotely expected； and it had made him sick with sorrow。
For her part； Katya had seemed untouched by the sight； talking only of her memories of her grandparents and their eccentricities。 But then this was the world in which she'd been raised； it wasn't so surprising； perhaps； that she took all this suffering for granted。 Hadn't she once told him she'd had fourteen brothers and sisters； and only six of them were left living？ Perhaps the other eight had been lain to rest in the very cemetery where they'd walked together。 And certainly it would not be unmon for Katya to look coldly on the business of the heart。 It was what made her so strong； and it was her strength…visible in her eyes and in her every movement…that endeared her to her audiences； particularly the women。
Zeffer understood that coldness better now that he'd spent time here with her。 Seeing the house where she'd been born and brought up； the streets she'd trudged as a child； meeting the mother who must have viewed her appearance in their midst as something close to a miracle： this perfect rosebud child whose dark eyes and bright smile set her utterly apart from any other child in the village。 In fact； Katya's mother had put such beauty to profitful work at the age of twelve； when the girl had been taken from town to town to dance in the streets； and…at least according to Katya…offer her favors to men who'd pay to have such tender flesh in their bed for the night。 She had quickly fled such servitude； only to find that what she'd had to do for her family's sake she had no choice but to do for herself。 By the age of fifteen （when Zeffer had met her； singing for her supper on the streets of Bucharest） Katya had been a woman in all but years； her flowering an astonishment to all who witnessed it。 For three nights he'd e to the square where she sang； there to join the group of admirers who were gathered around to watch this child…enchantress。 It hadn't taken him long to conceive of the notion that he should bring her back with him to America。 Though he'd had at that time no experience in the world of the cinema （few people did； the year was 1916； and film was a fledging）； his instincts told him there was something special in the face and bearing of this creature。 He had influential friends on the West Coast…mostly men who'd grown tired of Broadway's petty disloyalties and piddling profits； and were looking for a new place to put their talents and their investments…who reported to him that cinema was a grand new frontier； and that talent scouts on the West Coast were looking for faces that the camera； and the public； would love。 Did this child…woman not have such a face； he'd thought？ Would the camera not grow stupid with infatuation to look into those guileful yet lovely eyes？ And if the camera fell； could the public be far behind？
He'd inquired as to the girl's name。 She was one Katya Lubescu from the village of Ravbac。 He approached her； spoke to her； told her； over a meal of cabbage rolls and cheese； what he was thinking。 She was curiously sanguine about his whole proposal； practically indifferent。 Yes； she conceded； it sounded interesting； but she wasn't sure if she would ever want to leave Romania。 If she went too far from home； she would miss her family。
A year or two later； when her career had begun to take off in America…she no longer Katya Lupescu by then but Katya Lupi； and Willem her manager…they'd revisited this very conversation； and Zeffer had reminded her how uninterested she'd seemed in his grand plan。 Her coolness had all been an illusion； she'd confessed； a way in part to keep herself from seeming too gauche in his eyes； and in part a way to prevent her hopes getting too high。
But that was only part of the answer。 There was also a sense in which the indifference she'd demonstrated that first day they'd met （and…more recently…in the cemetery） was a real part of her nature； bred into her； perhaps； by a bloodline that had suffered so much loss and anguish over the generations that nothing was allowed to impress itself too severely： neither great happiness nor great sadness。 She was； by her own design； a creature who held her extremes in reserve； providing glimpses only for public consumption。 It was these glimpses that the audience in the square had e to witness night after night。 And it was this same power she would unleash when she appeared before the cinematrographic camera。
Interestingly； Katya had shown none of this quality to Father Sandru the previous day。
In fact； it was almost as though she'd been playing a part： the role of a rather bland God…fearing girl in the presence of a beloved priest。 Her gaze had been respectfully downcast much of the time； her voice softer than usual； her vocabulary…which often tended to the salty…sweet and pliant。
Zeffer had found the performance almost ical； it was so exaggerated； but the Father had apparently been pletely taken in by it。 At one point he'd put his hand under Katya's chin to raise her face； telling her there was no reason to be shy。
Shy！ Zeffer had thought。 If only Sandru knew what this so…called shy woman was capable of！ The parties she'd master…minded up in her Canyon…the place gossip…columnists had dubbed Coldheart Canyon； the excesses she'd choreographed behind the walls of her pound； the sheer filth she was capable of inventing when the mood took her。 If the mask she'd been wearing had slipped for a heartbeat； and the poor； deluded Father Sandru had glimpsed the facts of the matter； he would have locked himself in a cell and sealed the door with prayers and holy water to keep her out。
But Katya was too good an actress to let him see the truth。
Perhaps in one sense； Katya Lupi's whole life had now bee a performance。 When she appeared on screen she played the role of simpering； abused orphans half her age； and l