Standing Room Only

by Heidi Mastrogiovanni

  The little bistro was full, and Lala was surprised to see that the concierge of her building was also the host of the restaurant. He shuffled over to her and made what might have been an attempt at a smile, or possibly just a facial indication of a sudden and quite dreadful attack of gout.

  “Bonsoir, Madame,” he said in an utterly uninflected tone.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur. Avez-vous des plats végétariens?”

  The concierge/host responded with an extensive, muttered monologue, none of which Lala could understand, but he was speaking as he was shuffling toward the only empty table in a far corner, so Lala decided to assume that somewhere in all those rushed words there was a “Oui.” She followed him and beamed when he handed her the menu.

  “Merci mille fois!” she said with extra gratitude.

  Lala instinctively—really, since she was a toddler—had never been able to abide it when people were grumpy around her. She either removed herself from cranky people, or she mounted a sustained attack.

  I swear, I will win over this crotchety old chap, she silently declared.

  She cheerfully regarded the menu and decided almost immediately on a small green salad and penne with pink sauce.

  Lala scanned the room. It looked like a nice group of people; a few families with children, couples on a date, one other single person . . . a young man in hiking shorts and a turtleneck. What looked to be the only waiter in the restaurant, also a young man, was having a spirited debate in French with the solo diner. Lala listened attentively to the discussion and was quite pleased with herself when she managed to understand a complete sentence.

  “Tu es complètement fou ou quoi?”

  Okay, unless I’m way off on this, he just said the other guy is totally nuts. Delish! Lala thought. She watched the two men high-five each other and watched as the waiter walked over to her table. He was maybe in his late 20s and he had the muscular grace of a ballet star. His head was shaved and there was a small red heart tattooed on each earlobe.

  “Bonsoir, Madame,” the waiter said. “Vous désirez?”

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” Lala said. “S’il vous plaît, je souhaiterais—”

  “Oh, hi. You’re an American. Cool. Welcome,” the young man said in a native Brooklyn accent so thick, Lala imagined it could function quite nicely as a doorstopper to one of the massive portals leading into Notre Dame itself.

  “Wow,” Lala said. “You’re not French. You’re from New York?”

  “Sure am,” the young man said. He held out his hand and shook hers. “Kenny.”

  “Lala.”

  “Ahh, you’re our new guest in the building! Pleasure to meet you.

  “Ditto. How . . . your French accent. Is it me, or is it superb?”

  Kenny nodded toward the concierge, who was sitting behind the small bar and was reading Le Monde.

  “That’s my grandpa. We visited him every year. I learned French when I was two years old.”

  “Sheesh. Do you ever have an ear for accents. Wow. And I think you got my share of that talent because rumor has it that I was born totally without any.”

  “That’s not true,” Kenny said. “Your French accent is—”

  “You are so sweet,” Lala chuckled. “My French accent is appalling. Who knew? Okay, no more lying, however kindly intended. Which red wine do you recommend, truthfully?”

  Kenny brought her a lovely glass of Bordeaux, and when she finished that, he brought over a bottle and another glass. Between serving the other customers, Kenny sat with Lala and they shared the bottle while Lala ate. At the end of the evening, when the restaurant was empty, Kenny’s grandfather, Maurice, still scowling, came over with three apple tarts.

  Now’s my chance, Lala thought. Get ready to smile, mon cher Monsieur. Of course, there is that language barrier. I’ll just have to flirt with my eyes and enchant him that way.

  “Are you okay?” Kenny asked.

  “I’m great!” Lala said, winking spastically at his grandfather and then at him.

  Maurice rather quickly proved to be surprisingly chatty. He started telling a story that involved different voices and many elaborate gestures and facial expressions.

  Lala was able to follow the first sentence of the speech. “Chère Madame, écoutez, je vous prie.”

  Ohhh, boy, Lala thought. I . . . Wait . . . What did that teacher tell me? Just nod and say, “You find?”

  Lala smiled and nodded at Maurice.

  “Vous trouvez?” she asked.

  Maurice stopped his narration and stared at Lala. He abruptly stood and went into the kitchen.

  Uh oh, Lala thought.

  “Did I just misremember and say something unforgivably rude?” Lala asked Kenny. “Like, ‘Shut your pie-hole, Napoleon’? I think I’m really drunk.”

  “Did you have a French teacher who told you how to get through a conversation and not sound like an idiot, even if you had no idea what was going on?” Kenny asked.

  “Yes,” Lala said. “Yes, I did.”

  “Vous trouvez. You find? You got it right.”

  “Thank goodness,” Lala said.

  Maurice marched back carrying a bottle of champagne and three flutes. He popped the cork and giggled. And then he started on a fresh monologue. Lala looked at Kenny helplessly. Kenny gave her a thumbs-up and whispered, “He says the young lady speaks excellent French. And that deserves a special toast.”

  Lala scrunched her shoulders up in delight. The old man handed her a glass of champagne.

  “Vous êtes très jolie,” Maurice said.

  Okay, that I understand, Lala thought.

  She patted Maurice’s hand and smiled.

  “Vous trouvez?”

  Kenny escorted Lala upstairs to her apartment.

  “My grandpa is actually quite a fluff ball when you get to know him,” Kenny said at the door to the apartment.

  “Fluff ball,” Lala repeated. “That’s a comforting image. I think maybe next time someone is making me nervous, I’ll imagine that they’re a large ball of fluff with a nose and eyes and a big smile and little spindly legs. Thank you, Kenny.”

  “Glad to be of help,” Kenny said. He kissed Lala on both cheeks and told her he looked forward to seeing her at the restaurant again soon.

  Lala had another long shower and wrapped herself in her thick robe. She was surprised that she wasn’t a bit tired. She turned on the small television in the bedroom and was ecstatic to find, after flipping through only a few channels, that there was a dubbed version of The Young and the Restless playing. In French, the title was Les Feux de l’Amour.

  The Fires of Love, Lala thought. She propped herself up against the headboard of the bed with all the available pillows against her back, and balanced her computer on her lap.

  Lala watched the episode and realized it was one she had seen many months earlier. She was very happy to also realize that the script sounded even more overwrought in the language of the Gauls.

  Mon Dieu. C’est superbe, ça. God, my accent really is for shit, even in my internal voice.

  Lala opened her laptop and checked her e-mails. There were a bunch from David. He had arrived in Davis and was happy with his studio apartment just off campus. He missed her already and he wanted to Skype with her as soon as possible.

  Lala tried to subtract nine from the time on the digital clock on the nightstand next to the bed.

  2 a.m.. Okay, so, it’s . . . 5 p.m. in California. Merde. He’ll be awake.

  Lala slammed her laptop shut, as though it were somehow communicating to David that Lala was awake and could Skype with him at that moment, but she was choosing not to.

  I just can’t. Maybe I’m realizing that I have to get used to being without him? Because life is so fragile, and there are absolutely no guarantees, and we’re all going to die, and it’s just a question of
how and when? Maybe that’s what I’m doing? Maybe I’m protecting myself? Or maybe I’m just out of my fucking mind?

  Lala tried to distract herself by watching the impassioned shenanigans on Les Feux de l’Amour.

  Catherine would agree with me, she thought. Jeez, she’s buried how many husbands already? Not to mention all those divorces, which I’m sure are in the double-digits by now.

  Lala fell asleep with the television on and the computer still on her lap. She woke up the next morning because someone was knocking on her front door.

  Is that the Grim Reaper, she thought. God, I have got to get off this death thing. Having been a young widow can only excuse so much obsession.

  Lala shuffled over to the door, assuming it was Kenny or Maurice. She opened it to find Clive standing there.

  “Merde. What time is it?”

  “It’s not too late. I made allowances for jet lag,” Clive said. He handed her a coffee and a small paper bag. Lala opened the bag and inhaled the incredible scent of a fresh croissant. A fresh, warm croissant. A fresh, warm croissant in Paris.

  “Ohhh,” Lala sighed.

  “You’ve got time to shower,” Clive assured her. “I drive really fast.”

  Or Maybe You Can?

  “My god, do you drive fast.”

  Lala had been trying to send David a message during the 80-kilometer trip from Paris on one of those international-doesn’t-cost-a-cent thingies on her phone, but she couldn’t type coherently because Clive was driving so fast. Plus, the countryside was far too beautiful to ignore. They were headed to Villers-Cotterêts to film on a farm just outside the small town where Alexandre Dumas, père, the author of Lala’s favorite classic novel, had been born and was buried. Lala had reserved a room in a charming small hotel that had once been a monastery so she could spend the next morning touring the town.

  She put her phone in her bag and concentrated on the lovely fields and scattered towns that were warming under a strong sun. And she concentrated on not freaking out over Clive’s driving.

  “The studio lets you drive this fast?”

  “I’m not going much above the speed limit.”

  “Is it like it is on the Autobahn here?”

  “Not quite.”

  Okay, I sound like a grandma, Lala thought. Enough.

  When they got to the farmhouse, Lala grabbed a minute before she got out of the car to send David a quick text saying that she had overslept (darn that darn jet lag!), and she was going to be on-set all day (darn that darn movie making magic!), and she couldn’t wait to Skype with him as soon as they could coordinate a time when they would both be awake (darn that darn nine-hour time difference!).

  Clive popped his head back in the open driver’s side window.

  “Oh, I should mention one thing before you meet the director. He brought his brother here to work with you on adding a new scene. We think it would be a good idea for Terry to have more of an edge.”

  What the FUCK? Lala thought.

  “Cool!” she said. “Anything for the project!”

  Okay, I do actually mean that, because I will do whatever it takes to get this movie made, but fuck you, Clive, you cute, sneaky British bastard.

  Lala had a smile plastered on her face as she and Clive walked past the extras and the crew, who were taking a break around the outdoor craft services table. She had to use all her restraint not to trip Clive and send him flying into what she hoped was a mound of natural fertilizer.

  I guess it’s not cow poop, she thought. It doesn’t smell like cow poop. In the movie version of our madcap behind-the-scenes adventures, it will be cow poop. And in the movie, I will trip him. And he will land in cow poop.

  “Helllloooo, my friends!” Clive trilled. The crowd of actors and tech people applauded. “No! Stop that! Look who I’ve got with me. It’s Lala Pettibone! The screenwriter! She’s the one who deserves your applause!”

  The crowd started clapping again, and Lala halted her internal revenge scenario to quite suddenly and quite genuinely feel very touched by their warm welcome.

  “Omigosh, thank you so much. Thank you all for being here. I’m so thrilled. Thank you.”

  A very compact young man wearing what looked to Lala like a unitard made of camouflage material came striding out of the tall open doors that took up an entire side of the barn next to the craft services area. A slew of assistants followed him, one looking more nervous than the next.

  The young man grabbed Clive in a bear hug and they kind of danced around together in a circle of ostentatiously heterosexual embrace. The young man just as abruptly broke it off and barreled toward Lala. She had to stop herself from lunging out of the way in fear of being flattened by him, because she didn’t want to come across as a big baby in front of everyone.

  “Hi!” Lala said. “You must be Matthew!”

  “Get over here!” Matthew Finch, the director, yelled. He grabbed her hand and pumped it vigorously. “Lala! Lala! LALA! MAY I HUG YOU?”

  “Sure!” Lala said.

  Why has everything suddenly gotten so loud? she thought.

  Matthew wrapped his arms around Lala’s waist and swung her around so that her feet were flying off the ground.

  “Lala PETTIBONE!” Matthew yelled. “I love your name, and I love your work!”

  Matthew put her back down and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “I’m getting to be really French here!” he announced at a reasonable decibel level.

  Oh, thank goodness, Lala thought. We’ve stopped shouting.

  “I love your work, too,” Lala said. “Tooters was so much fun.”

  Another young man exited the barn and made his way over to Lala and Clive and Matthew. His genetic connection to Matthew was unmistakable in terms of his looks, but he moved with all the exuberance of a tree sloth who was looking to conserve his energy.

  “ATTICUS, GET OVER HERE AND MEET LALA!” Matthew shrieked.

  Is Matthew having difficulty with his ears? Lala thought. Can he not hear his sound levels? Wait a minute, what name did he just say . . .

  “Hi,” Matthew’s brother said. He gave Lala a sweet, lazy smile.

  “Hello . . . Atticus. Is your last name also . . . Finch?”

  “My parents have a really twisted sense of humor,” Matthew said.

  Okay, now we’re suddenly back to normal decibels, Lala thought. What the classic fuck?

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to try to order a pizza?” Atticus asked glumly. “Let alone subscribe to Hustler?”

  “BERNADETTE!” Matthew screamed. A nervous young woman came rushing over. “PLEASE GET MY HEADSET CHECKED! I CAN’T HEAR MYSELF THINK!”

  Matthew ripped his headset off and handed it to the young woman, who ran to a tent on the other end of the small field that had technicians and tables of equipment at the ready.

  Matthew shook his head and then stuck an index finger in each ear, for some reason choosing to use the finger of the hand opposite each ear and ending up with his arms awkwardly crossed around his neck. He vibrated his fingers in his ears and hummed. For quite some time. Lala stared at the ground, not knowing where to look. Finally, Matthew stopped.

  “Okay, that’s better,” he said. “Lala, I have to tell you that my brother is your biggest fan. He loves your script. Would you consider maybe taking him under your wing? I can say with all objectivity that he is an excellent screenwriter, and I’d love to see what you two could come up with for a new scene? Something for right when Terry gets to Paris. To give him a little more of an edge? Maybe?”

  Fuck this noise, Lala thought. Though Matthew is considerably more diplomatic than Clive. Whose name is mud right now in my book. Mud mixed with cow poop.

  “Clive already told me about the new scene,” Lala said.

  “Cool!” Matthew said. “Thanks, Clive! So, Lala,
whaddya think, huh?”

  “Absolutely!” Lala said. “Anything for the project!”

  Lala was given a chair next to Matthew’s when they began shooting again. She was thrilled to be watching the scenes in her script unfold before her, and she loved the actors’ work. Even Clive, whose name continued to be mud in her book, was superb as Terry. She smiled at him and gave him a joyous nod whenever he caught her eye, while, in her mind, slapping him around for springing that shit about the new scene and her new writing partner on her. Lala didn’t move from her seat until the assistant director announced that it was a wrap for the day, because she was too happy to go anywhere.

  The next day’s shooting would take place in the same location, starting in the afternoon. Clive bounded over to where Lala was standing at the craft services table eating fistfuls of peanuts because she was so excited about the project. Other than that part where she had to add a new scene and up the conflict. Her Terry character didn’t like conflict. Neither did she.

  “You were great!” Lala trilled. Clive grabbed her and hugged her.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah!”

  Dickhead, she thought.

  “Let’s celebrate! I want to take you to my favorite restaurant, right by the Hôtel de Ville. We better hurry. Traffic might be a bit of a bitch.”

  “I’m staying overnight here,” Lala said.

  “You are?”

  “Dumas, père was born here. He’s buried here. No way I’m not spending all of tomorrow morning reveling in his brilliance.”

  Lala said “Dumas, père” with an exaggerated French accent that would have made Maurice Chevalier sound like a hillbilly.

  Clive nodded sagely.

  “Until the day when god shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words, ‘Wait and hope’.”

  Awww, man, Lala thought. Now I have to like you again. Merde.

  “Yup,” Lala said. “I like to add, ‘and take action.’ You know, while you’re waiting and hoping.”

  “Good point.” Clive agreed. “I don’t have any reason why I have to go back to Paris tonight.”