One time, many years ago, I spoke to Jeanne Moreau on the phone. I was working for a photographer who was doing a project with her, and he asked me to call her. From the depths of her apartment in Paris, she answered in French, her voice deep and husky.
“‘Allo?” she said.
The rest of the conversation was brief. I was arranging for a car to pick her up, to take her to a recording studio. She was angry that I was bothering her, and made no motions to hide it. For Jeanne Moreau was an icon, and I was a lowly assistant speaking in barely passable French. At the end of our exchange, she hung up without saying goodbye.