It was spring of 1969. Rome was packed with Easter week pilgrims, and the warm weather had brought the Romans out of winter confinement and back into their outdoor living rooms: the piazzas designed by Bramante, Michelangelo and Bernini. In crowded sidewalk cakes, people gossiped, discussed politics or just relaxed while scrutinizing the parade of beautiful women and the varied fauna of tourists.

I was engrossed in the spectacle at Piazza di Spagna when I suddenly saw an old friend, the film producer Franco Rossellini, director Roberto Rossellini's handsome nephew. We hadn't seen each other for over a year. During our conversation, Franco mentioned his next film project.

"I'm planning to do a film version of Medea. Pier Paolo Pasolini will direct it and . . . guess who is going to play Medea?"

I suggested Anna Magnani and Irene Papas.

"No, the star is going to be Maria Callas. How about that for a great coup! It will be her first film - and she'll be acting in it, not singing. Listen - seeing you has given me an idea. Why don't you do the public relations for us? Would you be interested? You could help Matteo Spinola with the foreign press when we get to Turkey."

Typical Italian approach to a job, I thought. This would never happen at home. Yet, hat strikes me now was that I found it perfectly natural way to conduct business. I had become a true Roman.

But work with Callas? In Turkey? During my career I had worked with a number of difficult celebrities, at times in uncomfortable circumstances, but Callas and Turkey seemed too much to contend with simultaneously. Her press coverage over the years was anything but encouraging. Most of the unflattering adjectives in any language seemed to have been applied to her. She was depicted as temperamental, ill-humored, demanding, spoiled - in short, an egocentric monstre sacré. Would I willingly tie myself down to several months of shooting in an inaccessible area of Turkey with such an impossible woman?

"Thank you for thinking of me, Franco," I answered, "but I'll be working at the Spoleto Festival in May and June as usual, after which I must be around to keep an eye on my P.R. accounts . . . I can't just drop everything and vanish for three months even for Maria Callas. Anyway, she's not going to sing, so what's the interest?"

"Nadia, you don't seem to realize the unique opportunity I am offering you. Listen, after this job with Callas, your accounts will double. Besides, think of the exotic places you will have a chance to visit . . . This is a prestige job. I can't just hire anyone. It has to be someone with your experience and savoir faire. I can't think of anyone who could do this job as well as you. I'll tell our administrator that you'll be by to sign the contract. Okay? That's wonderful!"

Franco, like many Italians, can convince one of just about anything with his charm alone. I had to admit, the project intrigued me even though the thought of disrupting my summer was unsettling.

The following week we met at Piazza del Popolo's Caffè Canova. "Well, Franco," I told him, "your proposal is titillating, but there is a 'however.' I won't sign a contract until I've spent two working weeks with Callas. If I don't like her, I'll feel free to leave. I'm not going to work with her if she's a monster."

Franco was laughing. "Listen to the way you are carrying on. One would think you were the diva!" We baptized my unsigned contract with a Campari soda in the Roman sun.

My first encounter with Callas occurred on an evening in May. She was expected in Rome for costume fittings and screen tests. Franco and I went to the airport to meet her in a chauffeur-driven Cadillac hired for the occasion. The production office had obtained permission for Franco to greet Callas on the runway, before the press descended on her. I watched him disappear into the air terminal clutching an immense bouquet of red roses and speculated on what was to follow.

The wait in the car seemed endless [until] suddenly, without warning, an untidy group of screaming paparazzi materialized from nowhere. Shoving each other and shouting, they ran backward so as not to lose sight of their prey for an instant.

Intrigued by the clamor, I stepped out of the car. Only by standing on tiptoe was I able to see the Diva in the midst of this frenzied knot of people. Her image appeared and disappeared, her features a chalk mask under the flash of lights. Eyes open, mouth shut. Eyes smiling, mouth open. Profile. Full-face, pouting. The battle and the voices grew more intense as they approached the car. They had little time left.

"Signora Callas, is it true you are here to make a musical?" "Hey, Maria, give me a smile. Over here, Maria. Look over here!"

"Have you seen Onassis since he got married? How come he left you for that American?"

"When are you going to come back to sing at La Scala?"

"Signori, basta, basta. That's enough, now. Thank you all for coming, but the Signora is tired."

With great patience and ability, Franco waved his long arms to separate the crowd of newsmen and stepped out of the group with Callas at his side.

First of all, she was taller and slimmer than I expected. She wore a navy blue pantsuit with gold buttons down the front and on the pockets and cuffs, and matching gold earrings. Her hair was brushed away from her face, knotted in a thick double chignon. Her features were too pronounced and heavy to be considered pretty or beautiful. She was handsome. She had style, presence and great nobility of carriage. Her dark eyes were her striking feature. They were questioning and penetrating, yet a certain reserve made it difficult to tell what lay behind them. Of course I could not have a fresh opinion, influenced as I was by the many articles and photographs I had seen. I had come prepared to dislike her, but my animosity was replaced by a sense of curiosity and perhaps a touch of clemency.

During the drive into town, Callas chatted with Franco about her life in Paris and the various friends they had in common. She ad not addressed me since the initial introduction at the airport. Once or twice I caught her looking at me through oversized horn-rimmed glasses, which she'd put on the minute the paparazzi were out of sight. Seeing that I noticed her glances, she smiled faintly and turned to resume her conversation with Franco. She talked endlessly and besieged Franco with questions regarding the professional appointments planned in the days that were to follow. Her chatter exasperated me. If she's always like this, I thought, she'll drive me around the bend in no time.

"Franco," she said, turning to face me, "my secretary, Signora Stancioff, is very quiet. By the way, why wasn't she allowed to enter the inner sanctum of the airport with you? Don't tell me you waited in the car all this time, Signora Stancioff?"

Franco laughed uncomfortably and mumbled something about my not minding, and changed the subject. Her concern surprised me, but I found it strange that she had addressed me as her secretary. I gave the incident little weight. After all, I new that I'd been hired to do public relations.

The arrival at the Grand Hotel was perfectly timed. We were met by the hotel manager, Natale Rusconi. Madame Callas seemed flattered by his welcome, appreciative of the proficiency of one of Europe's great hoteliers. He had chosen a spacious top-floor suite to assure her privacy. The apartment was furnished with antiques and decorated with precious silks. The Empire furniture was set off by the soft hues of Aubusson carpets. Above a sideboard, flanked by ornamental vases, the dazzle of the crystal chandelier was reflected in a period mirror. There were flowers everywhere, mostly roses and gardenias, which I was soon to learn were Maria's favorite. Friends and admirers had filled the room with fragrance.

Callas was visibly pleased with her accommodations. She walked around from room to room inspecting cupboards and admiring knickknacks. Having finished her tour, she turned to the manager and asked, "And where is Bruna sleeping?"

Rusconi looked puzzled. "Bruna?" he repeated.

"Bruna Lupoli, my maid. She always has a room near me when I travel . . . and what about my chauffeur, Ferruccio?"

"Oh, of course, of course," Rusconi broke in, "we have taken care of their rooms, Madame Callas."

"Could I see them?" Callas asked.

"See the servants' quarters?" Rusconi said incredulously, deep color rising to his cheeks.

"Yes, I'd like to see them now." She spoke gently, but her gloved hand waved impatiently in the direction of the door.

We left the elevator at the attic level and walked up a flight. On either side of a narrow corridor was a row of small mansarded rooms. Each had an iron bed, a rudimentary table and chair and a glorious view of Rome's rooftops. Though clearly not to be compared with the apartment from which we had just come, the rooms were functional and cozy.

Callas's graceful hand movements abruptly became robot-like, chopping the air as she pointed at the furniture. She turned on the manager, her eyes flashing. Rusconi blushed again. He placed his right hand inside the jacket of his dark suit, a la Napoleon. Having worked with him in the past, I knew that gesture well. It accompanied the blush whenever he was ill at ease.

"You expect my servants to sleep up here?" Callas exclaimed. "Where is the bathroom? . . . And look at this tiny bed! My servants are to get the same treatment I do."

"The production company assured us these rooms would be fine," Rusconi ventured. "These are the only rooms we have at the price they are willing to pay. Many of our guests have their staff stay in these quarters."

"I'm not interested," Callas snapped. "The film company will have to make up the difference. I want my maid and chauffeur on my floor. They are to have comfortable rooms with a private bath. Kindly call the accounting department and inform them of the change." Her voice had risen slightly to underline her point. Her eyelids narrowed. The meeting was over. She opened her bag and her hand impatiently searched for her glasses. Unable to locate them, head lowered, blindly groping for the next step, she stomped down the stairs in her high-heeled shoes.

As we followed in silent Indian file, avoiding further discussion, I surmised that my new boss was as difficult as she had been made out to be. It was not the time to dwell on my doubts, however. Other arrangements had to be made.

I was not present for the follow-up of the story and only learned it years later, when I told Rusconi I was writing about Callas.

"I didn't tell you? Oh, you must add that to your book, Nadia. The day after our 'eventful meeting,' I was in my office signing the afternoon correspondence, sipping a cappuccino. There was a knock at the door. 'Avanti,' I said without looking up.

"'I'm sorry to disturb you,' Callas said from across the desk. 'I just want to thank you for the servants' new rooms.'

"There was Callas, rested and smiling, all dressed in turquoise. I jumped to attention, coffee cup in hand. The cappuccino splashed out all over my trousers. It was boiling! The penetrating heat took me back to a sitting position. Again, I tried to get up but only made it halfway. I could feel the spot spreading, so I bent my knees and tugged at my jacket in the hope that the desk would hide the increasing damage. Her visit was so unexpected, I couldn't think straight. What a sight I must have been: a beet-red jack-in-the-box with coffee dripping down my leg! I can tell you it didn't do much for my dignity. You know what? Callas solved my predicament. She grabbed a wad of Kleenex and, with care, dried me off. By then we were both laughing at the absurdity of the situation. We became good friends after that episode and she always stayed with us, at the Grand, whenever she visited Rome."

The rest of my first evening with Callas was occupied by the splendid champagne party Franco Rossellini and Pier Paolo Pasolini had organized in her suite. In terms of such affairs, it was slightly out of the ordinary for two reasons. First, it was to be the introduction of a great opera singer to the film world. But for Callas herself, the event also marked a reconciliation with Rome and the Roman press.

The scandal was common knowledge. On January 2, 1958, during a gala performance of Norma at the Rome Opera in the presence of Giovanni Gronchi, president of the republic, Callas refused to continue singing after the first act. She said she had a high fever and a throat infection, but the press and her fans were unconvinced. She was violently attacked for her "unprofessional" and "capricious" behavior. The incident caused a political ruckus and brought about a lawsuit that lasted thirteen years. For her part, Callas had at one point sworn she would never sing in Rome again.

Now she was back in a new guise. At eight o'clock approached, she retired to her room to prepare herself for the party. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes," she said. She looked flushed and nervous.

The guests began to arrive. An interesting mixture of celebrities, government officials, a few personal friends of Maria's and a half dozen handpicked journalists crowded into Maria's suite. Italian actors and directors such as Anna Magnani, Gina Lollobrigida, Mauro Bolognini, Frederico Fellini and Michelangelo Antonioni had come to pay their respects to their new colleague.

Three quarters of an hour passed before an apprehensive and beautiful Callas in a simple black silk dress and costume jewelry made her entrance. She was immediately flanked by Rossellini and Pasolini. The warm and outgoing Rossellini made the introductions while Pasolini, who was known for his reserve, filled her in on who was who.

After a tense beginning, the beneficial effects of the champagne were felt. I walked around the crowed, smoke-filled room curious to discover the guests' reactin to Callas's new career.

"Pasolini and Callas! What a combination. I can't see it working, can you? . . . "She's desperate, poor thing. She lost her voice and now she's lost Onassis." . . . "But what makes her think she can become a movie star overnight? Opera singer one day, movie star the next? Just like that? . . . You've got to hand it to her, she's got guts." . . . "Give her a chance." . . . "I can see the headline now: THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL DIVA." . . . "Well, from what I've read, she brought most of her troubles on herself."

Aside from the press, those most interested in Callas were the ladies. Their eyes were glued to her. I could hear the fashion-conscious Romans commenting on her dress, which was conspicuously long and severe for the miniskirt era. They also disapproved of her costume jewelry.

During most of the evening, Pier Paolo Pasolini stayed by Maria's side. He was very protective of her. His low, smoothing voice seemed to reassure her. One felt she was at ease in his company, and he in hers. Although Maria was visibly weary toward the end of the evening, her performance was flawless. I was pleased to note that she greeted everyone graciously, took time to answer often repetitious questions and acknowledged the endless "good luck" toasts for her new career. Still, I was exhausted and relieved when I saw that the last guests were leaving.

Maria accompanied her director and producer to the door. In typical Roman style, they kissed each other repeatedly on the cheeks and said endless good-byes. They were to meet for dinner an hour later.

I was preparing to leave when I found myself face-to-face with Maria Callas. We looked at each other and smiled, but we were both silent. The room, saturated with gardenia perfume and smoke, was stifling. The embarrassment increased. Someone had to say something. I took the initiative.

"Could I open the window?"

"Of course," said Callas, ". . .and . . . do sit down, Signora Stancioff. By the way, when I receive flowers, I like to tank those who were kind enough to send them, as soon as possible. Could you please collect all the cards and make a list of the names? When you come in tomorrow, I will dictate a few notes - you do take shorthand, of course - and then I will sign them in the afternoon."

Before I could utter my surprise, she had vanished into the bedroom, still talking. I was no longer listening, but thinking about this new predicament. I seemed to be involved in a situation of mistaken identity.

Callas reappeared with a handful of letters and sales slips.

"This is something I would like you to take care of tomorrow. Look these over and make sure everything is clear, just in case I am still asleep when you come in the morning. I wake up quite late."

"Madame Callas, I believe there must be some misunderstanding. Franco Rossellini hired me in a public relations capacity. I'm not a secretary. I don't even know how to type" - a white lie. "If you are in need of a secretary, I'm sure the production office will find you a good bilingual assistant. I'm afraid I do not fit the requirements."

It was now Callas's turn to be astonished. "My contract calls for a maid, a chauffeur, a hairdresser and a secretary. I asked Franco to find me a secretary. I must have a secretary. This is ridiculous. Had I known, I would have brought one with me from Paris. Please call Franco at once. I must speak with him."

She didn't raise her voice, but her annoyance was evident. When I got Franco on the phone, he seemed unperturbed.

"What are you talking about! What difference does it make if she calls you her secretary or her public relations agent? It's just a matter of terminology. What do you care? A job with Callas is not an everyday occurrence. You'll see, it will all work itself out. Just be patient and keep Maria happy. She's very nervous about the venture she has embarked on, so don't upset her."

For once Franco's nonchalance and Latin charm did not touch me. I felt I'd been duped and had no intention of wasting my time any further. I was furious.

"Listen, Franco, Madame Callas wants and needs a secretary. Since that is what she wants, that is what she should get. I won't . . ."

Callas took the phone out of my hand. She was calm but firm. She informed Franco of her displeasure. It was an unfortunate and unprofessional beginning, she said, and was sorry she turned down the secretary Mr. Gorlinsky, her agent, had offered her.

"Have the production office send me a choice of girls for interviews. I am indignant at the way I am being treated." She replaced the receiver and slowly walked up and down the room. Her walk was regal, her expression tense and distant. She was the diva I had so often seen in photographs.

"You realize, don't you, that you are talking yourself out of a job with Maria Callas?"

"I do," I replied, "but I very much doubt that Maria Callas would put up with a bad secretary. Being as professional as she is, it wouldn't take her long to discover my inadequacies in that domain. I think she'd be happier if she picked one out herself. I too am professional, Madame Callas. That's why I'm bowing out. Besides, I'm not always comfortable working with women."

"You don't like women?" Callas asked with surprise.

"Of course I like them. Don't misunderstand me, but given the choice in a work situation, I prefer men."

Callas looked me over very carefully. "I think you have a point there . . . I really do too."

She poured two glasses f champagne.

"Cin cin. To our good health."

The tension had vanished. The reserve was still apparent, but her voice had lost its authoritarian edge. She questioned me about my life in Rome, my work, my friends. Having lost the job, or rather, never having it, I sipped my champagne and relaxed.

"Since our business relationship has ended, do you mind if I call you Nadia?" She didn't wait for my reply. "Could you do me a favor, Nadia? Could you stay a few days to help me choose a secretary? I really would appreciate it. Just a few days. . . . Okay?"

The telephone rang. The concierge announced Pasolini's and Rossellini's return.

On the way home, I wondered why I had agreed to do a favor for someone I hardly knew. Was it the champagne?

The days that followed brought a stream of terrified secretaries in their Sunday best. During the interviews, their voices were hardly audible and their fingers froze at the typewriter. Since they had been screened by the best secretarial agency in town, there was no reason to doubt their capabilities, but their awe of the great Diva was such that their talents and personalities would forever remain unknown.

By the fourth day, Maria had lost interest. "Let's forget it, Nadia. None of these girls will do. They'd bore me to tears. Anyway, they are terrified of me. I couldn't work with someone who is frightened of me. Do I frighten people? What about you? Why aren't you frightened of me like the others? You know, I don't really need a secretary," she said with an impish smile. "I insisted on this point with the production people because they promised me that I would have a secretary. It was a matter of principle. I hate having wool pulled over my eyes and I loathe unprofessionalism.

"You see, what I really need is someone to help me out with the public relations and foreign press, and I understand Matteo Spinola won't always be with us when we are on location. So, in Turkey it will be your job to keep the journalists at a safe distance while I'm working. I'm told you speak several languages; besides, I think you understand me and can be a friend." Maria was laughing. "I know you don't want to work with me, but please come to Turkey with us. You'll see. Callas is not the tigress she is made out to be."

That afternoon I called Franco Rossellini and signed my contract.

. . . On June 2, we left Ankara [in Turkey] at about 6:oo a.m., and reached Goreme, our destination in Cappadocia, at midnight. . . . Goreme and Uchisar, the villages in the heart of Cappadocia, where we spent four weeks, dominate a lunar landscape the likes of which I had never seen. It kindled the imagination: the hand of a child or a neurotic sculptor could have created the strange rock formations that seemed to grow in the parched valley. Cappadocia is a realm governed by the wind and sun, a voyage into the remote past of mankind.

On June 4, the eve of the first take, the telephone rang in Maria's room [of the Club Méditerranée in Uchisar]. The operator announced, "The United States calling. Mr. Lupoli on the line." Knowing [Maria's maid] Bruna's last name was Lupoli, I handed her the receiver.

"It must be one of your relatives, Bruna. A Mr. Lupoli."

Hearing the name, Maria remained motionless. Her expression hardened. Between clenched teeth she uttered a slow determined "No! I will not take that call. The call is for me, Nadia, but tell Mr. Lupoli that Madame Callas does not wish to accept the call."

I complied and replaced the receiver, mystified. Bruna's sott-voce explanation was interrupted by another ring. The overseas operator was insistent, as was a husky male voice that interrupted her at intervals.

By now Maria was extremely agitated. Bruna managed to make me understand that the caller was none other than Aristotle Onassis, who often used her last name so as to discourage eavesdropping telephone operators.

Overhearing our conversation, Maria flew into a rage. "Yes, it's that dirty little Greek. That pig of an Onassis. Why doesn't that old man leave me alone? He's got what he wanted. He got the social status he was itching for. What more does he want? He's not happy? Bored with the First Lady? That's too bad. One pays for everything in life. The gods will make sure he pays."

Before our eyes Onassis' call had transformed Maria - the charmer and good sport - into a preview of Medea.

It was past midnight. Maria had to be on the set at nine the following morning, which meant rising at six to be coiffed and made up. It was evident that the telephone call had prepared her for a sleepless night. She was worked up and wanted an audience. Bruna made some chamomile tea, in which she took no interest. Instead, as we watched, she paced up and down the room calling upon the "gods" to punish the "dirty little Greek."

The lateness of the hour aggravated the situation. By 2:30 a.m., a sleeping pill seemed the only answer. Frustrated and exhausted, Bruna and I finally said good-night.

"You are going to abandon me now? You are just like him. None of you care!" she yelled.

As we still made our way to the door a frightened voice pleaded. "Stay a little longer. Please don't go . . . not yet. . . . Vi prego."

"Maria," I finally said firmly, "tomorrow is your first day. You need your sleep. You have to look beautiful. Come on, drink your chamomile and take your pill. We must get some sleep too." I realized I might be stepping out of line. My bossy behavior might threaten our relationship, but I also knew that indulging her now could not be to her benefit.

I expected another outburst, but to my surprise she obediently took her pill and bid us good-night.

"Does she often get into such a state?" I asked Bruna as we made our way to our rooms.

"The Signora is highly strung. She has a sensitive character," said Bruna, choosing her words carefully. "Mr. Onassis' marriage has been a terrible shock to her. She is often irritable these days."

"You are a saint to put up with it. I wouldn't. How long have you been with her?"

"A long time. Sixteen, eighteen years. . . . I'm used to it now. In the past, when it got bad, I sometimes thought of going back to my village in Italy, but now I know I couldn't leave her. She is like my family. She is difficult because she is so talented, so extraordinary. But you know, she is kind."

Maria's recuperative capacities and professionalism were astonishing. The following morning, a beautiful and regal Maria in full costume and makeup was ready on location at 8:45. The rage of the night before was replaced by evident tension at meeting the cast and technicians, professionals in a field she knew nothing about. What she was unaware of was that most of the actors and crew were equally awed by her.

"Here she comes. God help us!" whispered a grip as Callas, the legend, walked past.

A silent semicircle formed around her. Pasolini introduced Giuseppe Gentile, who was to play Jason, and called out everyone's name in an informal introduction.

Where is the champagne? Bring the champagne!" Franco cried out. "Even if we are in the wilds of Turkey, we must have the traditional champagne christening for good luck."

Corks popped. Franco and Pier Paolo raised their glasses. "A toast to success and good health. To Maria. To Medea."

Everyone joined in. "Cin cin. Auguri. To Medea!"

Christening Medea - June 5, 1969. Left to right: Pier Paolo Pasolini, Franco Rossellini, and Maria Callas.

Pasolini took Maria aside. "Let me explain what I'd like you to do in the first scene. As Medea drives by in a cart with her brother, she sees Jason, her future lover and husband, for the first time. This priestess, sorceress, is instantly smitten. The impact of that encounter changes her life. I want you to show what Medea feels, just with your eyes, your expression. Va bene? Let's try it."

The clapper boy announced, "Medea, scene one, take one."

"Camera, action," said Pasolini.

We all held our breath. In a matter of seconds, Maria's features were transformed. Her expression was that of a wild animal until she saw Jason. As she observed him, her eyes reflected a startling range of emotions: freedom, pride, strength and sensuality.

"Cut. Good," said Pasolini almost inaudibly.

No one moved. All at once, spontaneous applause broke out. Maria had completed the scene in one take, quite a feat for a newcomer.

Filming in Cappadocia was arduous. The stifling heat, shortage of water and indigestible food made for uneven tempers. Ninety-eight percent of us suffered from chronic stomach problems, but Maria carried on without a rumble. I marveled at her physical resistance.

"The reason you are all sick," she said, "is because you eat that exotic Turkish food. I eat only yogurt, apricots, and drink a bit of vodka to kill the bacteria."

To protect Maria from the severe heat, occasional sandstorms, and to save her energy, the production staff built a special portantina like those used by the doges in Venice. It was quite a sight to watch her being transported over the hills, a black Turkish scarf wrapped around her head to prevent her makeup from melting, clutching her cassette recorder on her lap. As we moved from place to place, Maria listened to taped music. She sang along wth the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, or harmonized to Mexican ballads. Her favorite songs were "Stormy Weather" and Hernando's Hideaway." The latter became the Medea theme song. We became so accustomed to her impromptu concerts that we forgot it was Callas singing.

Most of the costume changes and hairdressing on location took place in rock caverns hollowed out by the inhabitants of ancient settlements. They had once been the hideouts and churches of early Christians. A number of them were adorned with breathtaking wall paintings dating from the ninth to the fourteenth century. Cool, beautiful, but not the Ritz. Maria didn't complain; she thought it adventurous and fun.

During breaks, Maria clung to Franco and to me. As we relaxed in the cool caverns, the conversation would revolve around Maria's Medea. "Franco, how did I do? Was that gesture too much? Tell me, Nadia, did you watch the scene? Was my makeup all right?" After she had asked us, she would turn to Bruna and get her opinion as well. She needed constant reassurance. When it wasn't shoptalk, the general gist was love and food. She greatly enjoyed discussing everyone's romantic life and could talk about a plate of pasta (even someone else's plate) with more passion than any Italian chef. Aside from her outburst the night of Onassis' call, however, she hardly mentioned her own private life.

Filming was progressing. Pier Paolo was pleased with his newly created movie star, and Maria was growing more relaxed and confident. But in spite of the uncomfortable working conditions, she would not allow a stand-in. No one had understudied Callas at the height of her career. She saw no need for someone now.

Even at a distance," she said, "the understudy looks and moves differently from me."

"You have low blood pressure and anemia," argued Per Paolo and Franco. "Be reasonable. You still have two months of hard work ahead of you in Italy."

Hardheaded as she was, she was finally convinced.

Throughout the shoot, Maria followed every scene of the film, even those she was not involved in, in rder to maintain a sense of continuity. On one of her days off, she wanted to watch the "fire scene" the newly hired stand-in was going to act in. During this ritual, Medea crosses through fire and comes out unharmed because of her occult gifts. The cameras were placed on a hill, and two fires were built with a passage between them wide enough for the stand-in to pass through without danger. The scene was announced, followed by the familiar sound of the clapboard. As instructed, the stand-in rushed between the fires screaming and shielding her face against the flames.

"Once more, please," Pasolini called from the hilltop.

The girl positioned herself for the second take. Clack. "Action!"

As she reached the heart of the fire, she tripped on her long muslin gown. She swayed for a second and went down screaming.

"That's not bad acting," said Maria approvingly.

From where we were watching, none of us grasped the seriousness of what had taken place until the Turkish extras started to gesture frantically. The girl's gown had caught fire. Paralyzed with panic, she remained crouched in the flames, screaming. By the time one of the technicians reached her, her hands were severely burned. Our efforts to apply first-aid ointment on her burns were rebuffed. Between screams and sobs, she explained that she belonged to an Oriental sect that does not believe in doctors or medication. She finally consented to fresh tomato pulp suggested by the peasants, which seemed to relieve her pain if not our concern.

Although no press or photographers - with the exception of our official set photographer, Mario Tursi - were allowed to be present while we were shooting, somehow news of the "burnt Callas" spread rapidly. A blurred photograph of the accident even made the front pages of several Turkish and foreign papers. The articles stated that Maria Callas had been seriously burned. We were mystified as to how this rumor had spread and who had taken the photograph.

It turned out that an ingenious Turkish reporter dressed as a veiled peasant woman had snapped the falling figure from an adjacent hill. He had evidently been unaware that the burned Medea was a stand-in.