Walking into his suite, Louis found a Japanese-made upright piano, whose metallic sound was rather pleasant. There was also an incongruously large bouquet of roses and a bottle of California champagne in an ice bucket. The room was huge, immensely pretentious, with a balcony overlooking a pool. Louis felt depressed at the idea of having to stay here fifteen straight days. Reluctantly, he unpacked and fished the screenplay out of his bag. He thought that after a good shower he should get to work, without waiting and without thinking too much.
He enjoyed the hot water for a moment, then the cold, hoping to relax a little. He felt so tense. He wondered what Frédéric was up to back home. It was night time over there. And the time difference was going to make it hard to phone home, an added constraint.
Dressed in a clean shirt and jeans, Louis opened the champagne even though the thought of drinking alone was depressing. He took his glass over to the balcony and watched the folks in the pristine turquoise pool two floors down. A blonde woman tanning on a deckchair reminded him of Francine so much he sighed. Of course she was upset last night. And she’d gone home before he decided to go back up to the bedroom. And when he called her before leaving for the airport, she didn’t even pick up the phone. Sleeping or angry, he didn’t know. Maybe she’d even gone to see someone else, or…
“What in God’s name am I doing here?” he muttered between his teeth.
He left the balcony and sat at the large desk in the suite. He grabbed a piece of paper with the hotel’s letterhead, drew staff lines, and opened the screenplay to the first page.
“Okay, come on, let’s do this...” he urged himself. “For the psycho killer hero, I can’t go with a minor key… And what am I supposed to do for that charming little ghetto where all these upstanding characters are killing each other?”
Syncopated rhythms, strident sounds, techno beats—sure… If he didn’t come up with something truly original, the studio would wonder why they’d hired him instead of some local musician.
“I won’t be able to do this! Okay, calm down… Actually, what if I went all out with brass instruments? Or maybe just a trumpet? Something retro, noirish… Or maybe some sort of dark, jazzy… Some reggae riffs that…”
He sighed, dropped his pen, and balled up the paper. He had to face the facts: he had no clue was he was going to do.
* * *
Appalled, Francine gave Frédéric back his paper. It was the worst he’d ever handed in. Being as lenient as possible, Francine still had to give him a pitiful D. His jaw dropped when he saw his grade.
“Awful,” she whispered to him. “It’s like you intentionally botched it.”
She gave the rest of the students their papers, along with a scant few positive comments. Having returned to her desk, she expressed her disappointment to the class.
“I can’t say that I’m impressed,” she said. “Not at all. In fact, when I think that—”
Annoyed, she stopped speaking. Frédéric had his back turned to her and was now talking to his buddy Richard sitting behind him. Obviously, Frédéric was indifferent to what Francine had to say.
“Neuville! If you’re not interested, you can get out of this classroom. Now!”
There were two Frédérics in this class, and in order to differentiate them, she used their last names. At this very moment, though, doing so felt odd. Astounded, she watched the teenager get to his feet, pick up his stuff, and head for the door. Normally, she would’ve tossed a scathing comment his way. But, she hesitated because he was Louis’s son. When she composed herself, the kid was out the door. A few laughs rang out in the room. Francine never tolerated rowdiness in her classroom. It wasn’t going to be any different today. She glared at her students until there was complete silence.
“Anyone else want out?” she said with a frigid tone.
At the back of the classroom, Élise wished she could find the courage to follow Frédéric’s. She turned to the window. At this time of day, the campus was deserted. Then she saw Frédéric walking toward the administration building.
“… and now Élise will explain to us how this poem perfectly illustrates the hatred Victor Hugo felt for Napoleon III.”
The girl was startled. She swallowed hard. Even though people said she was lucky to have someone as competent as Ms. Capelan as a French lit teacher, Élise wasn’t crazy about Romain’s mother.
“I have no clue,” she said defiantly.
“If that’s the kind of response you come up with for the final,” Francine snapped back, “I’ll be seeing you again next year.”
She didn’t push the subject and went back to her lecture as though nothing had happened. Enough excitement for one morning. Frédéric’s behavior warranted punishment, or at least a serious explanation—something unpleasant in any event. She shouldn’t have confronted him like that. She should have given him the opportunity to express his resentment. It was obvious that he had trouble with her spending time at his house, even though Louis pretended not to notice anything.
Louis! What time was it now in Los Angeles? Was he out with a bunch of Hollywood types or sleeping in his hotel bed? Why had she thought that it was such a good idea to slip out of his house the other night and go home to unplug her phone? It was oversensitivity, dumb vanity. If he wanted to put an end to their relationship, he now had the perfect excuse: she was too capricious. What had she hoped for? For him to take her with him to California, to change his mind about the trip, to promise to call her night and day? She had no right demanding anything after just three nights together. All she’d gained by skipping out on him was uncertainty and silence. And it wasn’t as though she could ask Frédéric how his father was doing!
The bell’s ringing abruptly put an end to her lecture. She was right in the middle of a sentence. Her students politely let her finish before rushing to their next class.
* * *
When Frank James enthusiastically asked what he thought about the movie, Louis answered that not only was the story detestable, it made no damned sense. The director’s howling laughter was followed by a great slap to the back, and Louis almost choked on his whisky.
They were at the hotel bar, where the production team had come to get him. They had to shout when they spoke thanks to the jazz band going wild onstage.
“I adore French humor, Lou-iss!” Frank screamed. “But don’t put that in the movie, right? It’s no comedy. Have you written anything yet?”
“No.”
“Good. I know exactly what I need and I don’t want you to work for nothing! I’ll make you listen to stuff… Billy, make a note of this. We have to send him CDs tomorrow. And make sure there’s a good stereo in his room. And a DVD player. We’re going to give him a few things to watch.”
The assistant with the shaved head nodded and took a notepad out of his pocket. As weird as they looked to Louis, these people acted like professionals, noting to every detail. Frank was an odd guy, tall and skinny like a greyhound, dressed eccentrically, with beautiful eyes set in an alcohol-ravaged face.
“It’s getting late,” he said with a wink, “and I have to turn in. I have to be on set at eight in the morning.”
The production director Marvin was now the one assigned to take care of Louis. Frank got up from his bar stool and put his hand on Louis’s shoulder.
“Say, you want my guys to find you a guy or girl for the night? You know, to celebrate your arrival...”
The offer was made with a smile so cynical that Louis couldn’t help but wince. On his guard, he replied, “I’m all right. It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”
Frank’s eyes seemed to evaluate Louis for a moment, as though the man was trying to decide whether he’d be okay with such an ambiguous response.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Have a good rest…”
His fingers mashed Louis’s shoulder before he left. Marvin ordered another round and then took out a huge roll of cash.
“Let’s go to the Lingerie Club,” he said. “And then we
can head out to Simply Blues. Since you’re tired, we can end the evening at the Roxy. You’ll love the music there, it’s the best. Cheers!”
Louis wondered if this wasn’t some sort of rite of passage. The very idea of drinking until dawn made him sick to his stomach. Getting out of it wouldn’t be easy so he politely finished his drink. Billy looked ready to go, psyched at the idea of club-hopping.
“Anyway,” he said in that odd accent of his, “we’ll make sure you make it back to your room in one piece. One last drink before we head out?”
* * *
“She sleeps with your father?” Richard said, blown away. “Well, if that’s how it is, I can’t see how anything bad could happen to you, dude. She’ll pass you whatever happens. That’s awesome!”
They both were waiting in the school parking lot, Richard for the bus and Frédéric for his uncle.
“And Romain knows about it?” Richard asked.
“Of course he does,” Frédéric shot back. “And he’s into it.”
“Into it? I don’t know… He’s said nothing to me.”
“It’s a good deal for you all. Your band, I mean…”
“You mean the gig? But I thought it was only because she knew your father, you know, because she’s tutoring you… To tell you the truth, I can’t imagine Capelan in bed with your old man! You’d think he could do better than her, right?”
“No shit, Sherlock!”
“I mean, she’s not bad looking or anything. But with his job, you’d think he’s got all kinds of women around him, actresses, babes… I don’t know… Know what I mean?”
He hesitated to insinuate anything further, waiting for Frédéric’s reaction.
Still, he went on, “And your dad is a freakin’ genius, you know. And to think he’s in Hollywood right now. Imagine the chicks he’s going to meet there? Especially since, like Gérard de Nerval would say, “he’s a ‘dark, handsome stranger.’”
Richard’s habit of quoting poets was seriously getting on Frédéric’s nerves. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “He’s kind of clumsy with women, at least that’s what my aunt says. Before Capelan, he was pretty low-key. I’ve never met any of his girlfriends.”
Hugues’ station wagon pulled up, interrupting the boys’ conversation.
Frédéric gave Richard a shove and said, “See you tomorrow, man.”
He climbed into the station wagon and slammed the door.
“Is my scooter fixed?” he asked.
“Good afternoon to you, too,” his uncle said. “The answer to your question is no. But the good news is that since having your scooter fixed would be so expensive, Alix decided to buy you a new one.”
“Really?”
“You know her. If it were up to me, we’d wait until your father got back. But I know that two weeks is a long time for you…”
Embarrassed, the young man remained silent for a while, lost in his thoughts, before he asked, suddenly, “Did he call?”
“Yes, just before I left the house. It’s ten AM over there, and he sounded tired. He was on his way to the studio, and he’s going to try to reach you a bit later. He says hi.”
“I hope he loves it in Los Angeles. And if it will make him forget about that woman…”
“Francine? What do you mean?”
Hugues was driving slowly, the exact opposite of Louis, and he threw a sideways glance at his nephew.
“Something the matter?” he asked.
His question remained unanswered, and they rode in silence for some time.
“I like Francine,” Hugues finally said in a neutral tone. “You can’t be keeping your dad all to yourself, you know? Not at sixteen.”
“No. I don’t give a crap about that!”
“Really? Come on, Frédéric, it’s me you’re talking to…”
Hugues’ warm voice was totally devoid of reproach or mocking. As he got on the highway, he continued, “You know he cares about you above everything else, it’s normal, and it would be easy for you to make him feel guilty. So I hope you’re not going to do that. Your father is a pretty fragile guy.”
“Him? More complicated than fragile. Screwed up even! Alix didn’t tell you? He almost turned down that trip to California, can you believe it?”
“What’s so wrong with that? It’s his life, his career. He doesn’t need to go to the other side of the world if he doesn’t feel like it. Besides, he’s doing very well in Paris.”
“Yeah, maybe…”
“We’re not all alike, you know. In your head, Hollywood is an amazing place, but it’s not like that for your father.”
“No, the reason he didn’t want to go was because of her.”
“Francine? Again with her? If he’s happy with her, why would he want to go away? Have you ever been in love?”
Once again, Frédéric took refuge in silence. No doubt, his father enjoyed Francine’s company. At least in his bed, judging by the sleepless nights he’d had with her. But that didn’t mean that he had met the woman of his life! As for him, he still hadn’t fallen in love, no, but he had no intention of admitting that to his uncle. Especially since he and Élise were getting closer these past few days. In class, their eyes had met a few times and she’d congratulated him for walking out of French Lit. He’d laughed, surprised that she hadn’t defended her “almost mother-in-law”! They’d even sat at the same cafeteria table until Romain showed up and she felt like she had to go over to his table.
“I have to go back to Paris tonight,” Hugues said, “but Alix is taking over with Tom. Is that okay with you?”
“I could stay by myself one night, you know. It wouldn’t kill me.”
That being said, he was happy that Alix would probably take him to a restaurant rather than cooking up something.
“And when are you going to be back, Uncle Hugues?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Good. I like chatting with you.”
Frédéric’s uncle smiled broadly. He liked to think that he and Laura helped the kid not be some withdrawn teenager—in spite of its mother’s death. Of course, Louis had been exemplary. He showered his son with tenderness, and was always available and attentive. But each time he’d needed assistance or guidance, Louis had turned to Hugues and his wife. He was afraid he was doing too much or not enough, of being clumsy in his role as a dad. For a while, he was calling for advice almost every night. Often Hugues had reassured him. Love was most important for a child. He shouldn’t worry about being perfect--his little boy needed affection more than lectures. And today, Frédéric was doing fine. Apart from his jealousy towards Francine, which was expected after lived alone with his father for such a long time, but that needed to be stamped out as soon as possible. Otherwise, Louis would suffer, and that would be unfair.
“Looks like a tornado hit your bedroom,” Hugues said after the car had made its way up the driveway. “I wouldn’t have noticed if you’d kept the door closed, but really...”
“I’ll clean up, promise.”
He had no intention of doing that, and he knew that his uncle didn’t really care.
Hughes really cared about how much Frédéric was going to oppose the permanent introduction of a woman into the Neuville family.
* * *
During the first three days, Louis familiarized himself with the crew, actors, and technicians. He watched them film a few scenes in the hopes of finding a hint of inspiration before visiting Universal Studios. When he wasn’t on set, he stayed in his hotel room to listen to the stack of CDs that Frank James had recommended. All of the music was wildly avant-garde. At night he went to clubs, mostly jazz, and he came back to his room at dawn, ears buzzing.
On Thursday, he took a break so he could go to Disneyland. He went on the Indiana Jones and Space Mountain rides, bought all the items that his nieces had put on their list, and picked up a few souvenirs for Frédéric. Back at the Marmont, he decided to spend a quiet evening alone so he could go to bed early and get some sleep.
On Friday, Frank began to pounce on him, demanding to hear anything--and it was indeed anything--that Louis resigned to play for him. Frank figured that Louis was messing with him because he was angry, so he apologized and announced that they were going to spend all weekend together, including Sunday, working on the score. This man was an insane workhorse. Never satisfied, he could demand twenty takes of the same scene, without no objection. Louis knew it would be the same with the score.
In a few days, they’d gotten to know each another. Proudly out of the closet, Frank loved gay bars and didn’t hide his attraction to violence, danger, and cocaine. He did have a certain talent, his last two films proved that, but he remained deliberately on the fringe, cultivating his image as a rebel. With his collaborators he would be either overbearing or charming, always unpredictable. With Louis, he kept a courteous attitude. He seemed to be waiting for that one mistake, the faux pas that would allow him to treat him like the others.
Saturday was abominable. Frank had summoned Louis at 8:00AM to a recording studio owned by Universal. A top-of-the-line synthesizer was the only piece of equipment, along with two chairs and a stool. In the morning, they tried to find common ground, but by early afternoon they were almost at each others’ throats. Frank began to scream, livid with rage because Louis was sticking to a classic style of composition that he did not want.
“Deconstruct!” Frank shouted, apoplectic. “Create! Free yourself! You’re giving me B-movie shit. You’ve got to be kidding me! I want something that will blow people’s minds, something that’s going to attack their nervous system, that will make them want to put their hands over their ears!”
At the end of the afternoon, something finally came out of their head-bashing, the draft of an aggressive piece that Louis, on edge, had angrily improvised on the synthesizer.
“Now you’re talking!” Frank exulted. “See, when you want to you can do it!”
The Man of Their Lives Page 12