He was smiling. "Saboteurs! You're fired--all of you! You're through in this business! Next time I work with Tuesday Weld."

Everyone laughed, but soon the laughter subsided as quickly as it had begun. Nora's smile faded and she was now standing silently, her long red hair falling below her shoulders, her brown eyes cast downward, her mouth blank. Tim and Eric adjusted the equipment some more, working in their shirtsleeves. I was cold, in a heavy overcoat.

Conversation of all but an essential kind ceased. It was four and beginning to get dark. The oppressive silence was broken only by the sounds of geeese and wolves, and by Tim's one or two whoops to test out the echoes.

As the filming was about to begin, Nora spoke. She talked with an angelic softness, a softness that matched her beauty. But not exactly. There was a slight shakiness underlying the musical quality of her speech. As if, throughout her life, she had shuddered to the slammings of a thousand different doors and now had permanently assimilated a barely perceptible tremor into her very expression.

"Tim," she said.

"Yes, love."

"Do ghosts take themselves seriously?"

"Yes, love."

There was a breeze and, temporarily, some of the mist cleared. I could, at last, se the deep quarry. I could see the quarry wall opposite us, and the trees on the land above it. Looking to the newly revealed landscape on my left I found the cabin, perched on the brink of another wall of the enormous white pit. Smoke was coming our of the chimney. Tommy, who had stayed behind in the cabin, had started a fire.

PHOEBE smoked a cigarette. She is a smallish girl with long dark hair, bangs, blue eyes, freckles. She looked up and spoke to no one in particular.

"Today's the first day of spring."

"Is it really?" asked Tim.

"Yeah," said Phoebe.

It was night and we were in the cabin's living room trying to keep warm and getting ready to make our way through a back-breaking schedule set up for the evening. Outside the glass walls was sheer blackness, transforming the doors into mirrors of black glass. Reflected in them were the powerful lights, the fire, and the faces of those who were illuminated. Everyone had been sitting quietly on the couch by the fire, trying to dry their feet, trying to escape the cold of the rest of the room. ("AS least we have not succumbed to roasting marshmallows," said Tim.)

Nora was looking over lines. Tim was drawing out the night's shots with a felt-tip pen (He tries to draw out every shot in advance, and usually the actual takes look amazingly close to his scribbled sketches.) Phoebe sat quietly, smoking a cigarette. Tommy had driven into town to get some supplies: a deck of cards (which he ultimately forgot), a bottle of bourbon, pizza, and, for Nora, a pear. Eric fiddled with equipment for a bit, but mostly just stood, staring at the fire.