I sat in my dressing room—actually, my dressing closet, for it was tiny—when von Sternberg arrived at the door.“Paramount wants to sign you to a two-picture deal,” he sneered. “The rats have spies on my set. They cabled Hollywood to say you are sensational, a rival to Garbo.” He eyed me. “I suppose you’ll accept. It must be trumpets in your ears, the idea that you can depose her.”“Since when has Garbo been my rival?” I asked, refusing to take his bait, even if I wanted to shout in joy. “But of course I’ll accept—if you will be my director.”He grunted, pretending indifference when he felt anything but. “I can ask. I have to return to that miserable town in any event and have nothing new lined up. Why not?”Paramount’s agent in Berlin drew up my contract. The UFA made a ruckus. I was under contract to them; to release me, they insisted Paramount must pay for an early termination clause. Von Sternberg didn’t stay for the negotiations. He was running late, over budget and out of time.
