“Alain, you’re exaggerating wildly. Man, it’s just a woman; you’ll get over it,” said Robert in his friendly, direct way. I was aware that my pain was making me exaggerate, but what use was that to me? It was no consolation at all.
Every afternoon, I went to the Cinéma Paradis, and when evening came, I stared out at the street. Madame Clément and François exchanged concerned looks. I ran into my office to get away from their questions.
The more time passed, the more unlikely it became that I would ever see Mélanie again. Every Wednesday, my turmoil increased out of all proportion. Wednesday had been her day. Our day! And it was only five days till the filming, which I’d totally lost sight of in the interim.
Deciding to send a signal, I changed the film for the late show at short notice. Instead of The Passerby, Cyrano de Bergerac would be shown in the Les Amours au Paradis series. For one short, senseless moment I imagined that I could cast a spell on the universe that would tempt Mélanie into the cinema. Oh, how you grab at straws when you want something so much!
The show was sold out that Wednesday evening, too. No woman in a red coat. She’s probably no longer wearing it, I thought bitterly. May had just arrived, and the weather was far too warm for winter coats.
When I stepped out of the cinema that evening to smoke a cigarette, the air was mild and those arriving at the Paradis were strolling over the cobbles in spring clothing. Skirts blew up, delicate scarves in pastel colors waved in the breeze, and pullovers were thrown loosely over people’s shoulders. Their steps were lighter than before, and their eyes were smiling.
I looked longingly down the street as a couple walked up to me arm in arm. I almost failed to recognize them. It was the woman with the dark curls, who had always looked so unhappy before—this time without her daughter—and beside her, floating on air and without his briefcase, walked the tubby little man who’d always arrived late in the foyer, looking harassed. It looked as if they were really looking forward to Cyrano de Bergerac. Possibly—or even probably—they were just happy. They walked past me without a care in the world, and didn’t even notice me.
I don’t know what it was, but the woman with her red lipstick suddenly seemed much less miserable and the man, who had exchanged his suit jacket for a light blue pullover seemed a great deal less fat.
I took a last puff and threw the cigarette butt into the gutter. That first Wednesday in May, I was probably the only unhappy person around.
Eighteen
As is so often the case in life, help came from an unexpected direction. It was to be Allan Wood who provided the decisive pointer, because he recognized the obvious link, the connection that Robert and I had missed and which took the whole thing in a new direction.
“My idea may seem a little offbeat at first glance, but you must admit there could be something in it.” Allan Wood sank into the cognac-colored leather sofa and contemplated the strawberry that had been elegantly stuck to the rim of his strawberry daiquiri.
I nodded. It was Sunday evening, and I’d been sitting with the New York director in his favorite bar for quite some time.
That morning, I had been surprised by a call from Solène Avril, whom I hadn’t seen since that walk around the place Vendôme. “We’re going to take a trip to Montmartre with the whole gang. Would you like to come along, Alain?” she said. “That way, you’ll get to meet everyone at once.”
Everyone—that meant the most important members of the film crew, who would be invading the Cinéma Paradis the following morning. The cameramen, the lighting crew, the makeup artists, the director and his assistants, Solène Avril’s personal assistant, and, of course, the actors. You can read the credits at the end of any film, but you seldom think how many people are necessary to make a film—or even just a couple of scenes.
At the very beginning, and in the comfortable atmosphere of a dinner with Allan Wood and Solène Avril, the filming had seemed a great idea, but now it was upon us I was somewhat apprehensive about all the hassle—just as I was always apprehensive about anything that disturbed my normal daily routine. Unlike Robert, Madame Clément, and François, who were anticipating the event with excitement and the most varied of expectations, I had decided to stay away from my cinema as much as possible for the next few days.
FROM MAY 3 THROUGH MAY 7 THE CINEMA WILL REMAIN CLOSED FOR FILMING. Even as I hung the sign on the entrance with very mixed feelings, a few passersby had stopped to look, but even without the sign you would have noticed straightaway that things were different from usual. A part of the narrow street had already been cordoned off, there was a trailer parked on one side, looking very alien among the old buildings, and behind that sat the catering truck and the production trailer.
I was definitely going to look in on Monday to get to know everyone—Solène had insisted on that—but the idea of spending several hours with the whole crew on Sunday—and in Montmartre, of all places—made my stomach churn.
From a distance, the sugary white church on its hill high above the city—which can also be reached by the funiculaire, a little cable car—is just about bearable. But when you’re there, especially during the daytime, Montmartre is very dreary. At the foot of the hill, there are rows of cheap stores, and dubious characters can be seen rummaging in the mountains of underwear that are on sale on the tables in front of them. Farther up, tourist buses that are far too big squeeze their way through the narrow streets and past the restaurants. In each one of them, at least one great painter has eaten, painted, or drunk, as you can read on the notices outside. On the steps beneath the church sit necking student couples and camera-toting tourists from all over the world—a little disappointed that you can’t see the Eiffel Tower from there.
Hordes of Gypsy girls descend, like the pigeons in the Piazza San Marco, on everything that moves, trying to read your palm, or steal your wallet, or get you to sign a petition, perhaps all three at once. Most of the people who wander around here as if they were looking for something they don’t quite understand are tourists, and that is nowhere more noticeable in Paris than here. Here, within the magic circle surrounding the church of Sacré-Cœur, you might easily get the impression that the waiters in the bars and restaurants are the only natives—and you wouldn’t be far wrong.
On the picturesque place du Tertre, painters try, with more or less successful pictures, to maintain the old traditions. Around the square crowd both visitors and little restaurants.
At night, in the flattering light of the old street lanterns, Montmartre indubitably has, even today, something of its old picturesque magic, which seems indestructible. But in the bright light of day, it reminds you of a woman with her best years behind her, wearing too much makeup.
Montmartre by day depresses me, and I was already in a melancholy mood. So I said no to Solène and wished her a lot of fun.
Half an hour later, Allan Wood called to ask if I really didn’t want to join them. It was such a perfect day for Montmartre. They’d hired three cars and drivers to explore the artists’ quarter, and were all really excited at the prospect.
I couldn’t imagine that there was any such thing as a perfect day for Montmartre, but after all, I wasn’t an American tourist. So I politely said nothing.
“Solène has been waxing lyrical about how beautiful it is there,” said Allan Wood. He seemed to have been totally overcome with excitement, and I could only assume that ten years in the United States had made the lovely actress’s memories not only tender but also highly sentimental.
“We’re going to look at the Musée Montmartre and then we’re going to take a little snack in Le Consulat—Picasso painted there once.”
I grinned, not sure if that was right, but I knew Le Consulat well. It was quite high up in the acute angle of two cobbled alleyways and had a little terrace, where I had sat and eaten onion soup. I must admit the soup was really good.
“Good choice,” I said. “Have the onion soup.”
“And you’re really not coming with us?
”
“No, I really am not.”
Allan Wood was not the kind of person who insisted; he was too clever for that. “Okay, Al-lang. Then you’ll join me at the Hemingway Bar this evening and we’ll drink a strawberry daiquiri together. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
And so it came about that I was sitting in the Hemingway Bar with Allan Wood on Sunday evening, with jazz music playing softly in the background. Among the fishing rods and hunting rifles, a confidential conversation “between men” developed.
At first, we’d just discussed a few organizational things about the filming, but then Allan suddenly leaned over toward me and gave me a penetrating look. “You are so blue, Al-lang,” he said. “What’s the matter? You seem kind of delected.” He waved his hands in the air, looking for the word. “Is delected the word?”
“Dejected,” I said, and took a large gulp of my daiquiri with an embarrassed smile. But it didn’t change anything. I was indeed dejected. “Oh, well,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I’m a bit tired, that’s all.”
“No, no, you’re defected, Al-lang. I can see these things.” The director shook his head. “When I was with you last time at our amusing dinner at the Ritz, you were so cheerful and happy. And now you’ve totally changed. I feel very familiar with you, Al-lang. Really, I like you.” He looked at me with concern. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Perhaps I can help you.”
“I don’t think so. It’s rather complicated.”
“Let me guess. It’s about a woman.”
I nodded dumbly.
“A very beautiful woman?”
I sighed my agreement.
“You’re in love?”
“I’m totally smitten.”
“But your love is not returned?”
“No idea.” I flipped the strawberry from the edge of my glass and watched it sink in the third daiquiri of the evening.
“At first, I thought that she returned my feelings. Everything seemed perfect. Once in a lifetime. I’ve never felt like that before.” I laughed bitterly. “And it was once in a lifetime. After that, she didn’t turn up for our date, and she hasn’t been in touch since. Sometimes I think I imagined the whole thing. It’s as if it never happened. You understand?”
He looked at me sympathetically. “Yes,” he said simply. “I understand exactly what you mean.” He sighed. “Oh boy, I was afraid of that. It’s so typical. She can be so enchanting. So thrilling. And then she suddenly changes her mind and just drops you.” He snapped his fingers. “She did the same with Carl.” He took a mournful sip of his drink.
“Carl?” I asked. “Who’s Carl?”
Carl Sussman was the cameraman. He had a full black beard, his family had come from Brazil, and he’d had a short but passionate affair with Solène Avril before she dropped him in favor of a major Texan landowner called Ted Parker. According to Allan Wood, Carl was a real man. But where the lovely actress was concerned, he was like wax in her hands. He was still suffering. And now he had his hopes up again, since Ted Parker had remained on his ranch in Texas.
Fascinated and slightly tipsy from the alcohol, I listened to Allan Wood’s profuse explanations, which were meant to console me. “For God’s sake, don’t take it personally, Al-lang,” he told me. “Solène is a very seductive woman. And doesn’t she know it! She is what she is. But she likes you, Al-lang; I know that. At least she was very disappointed that you didn’t come with us today.” He looked around the bar. “Well,” he said. “How odd! This is where everything began a couple of weeks ago. Oh boy!” He shook his head. “I’m really sorry, old man.”
I stared at him in shock. What on earth was he talking about?
“Listen, Allan,” I said. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick … Solène and I …”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be as silent as the grave. Solène has no idea that I know about it.”
“But Solène has nothing at all to do with it,” I said. “I’m in love with Mélanie.”
Allan Wood opened his eyes wide. “Mélanie?” he said. “Who is Mélanie?”
I told him everything—from the very beginning. The director kept picking at his corduroys and interrupting me with little interjections. “But that … that’s really funny. And I thought you’d fallen in love with Solène,” he said. “What a story!” When I finally told him about my list and the unsuccessful search for a little antiques store, he gave me a sympathetic look. “Oh boy,” he said. “That really is complicated.” He waved to the waitress and ordered two more daiquiris. “What are you going to do now?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” I sank back into the soft leather sofa and stared vacantly into space. Allan Wood was silent, too. And so we sat on the sofa together for a while. Two men in a bar, drinking in silence, lost in thought, yet understanding each other without saying a word. I’m sure Hemingway would have liked it.
“Have you ever thought that there might be a connection between the filming in your theater and the disappearance of this woman?” Allan Wood asked, suddenly interrupting the dying strains of Ella Fitzgerald’s “I Got the Spring Fever Blues.”
“What?” I was startled out of the comfortable serenity that had enfolded me.
“Well, I mean, isn’t this all very strange? We appear … and a short time afterward this woman disappears without trace. Perhaps there’s some connection there.”
“Hmm,” I said. “What kind of connection might that be? Fortune smiles on a little cinema proprietor and as a result he loses the love of his life? Is that it? Lucky at cards, unlucky in love?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Am I being punished by the Fates because I’m starting to make money at last?”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean. No Fates. I’m not talking about retributive justice or nemesis.” Allan Wood tried to think how he could explain it to me. “What I’m trying to say is, could there possibly be a connection between the two things? Some kind of link? Or do you think it’s just a coincidence?”
“Hmm,” I said again. “I’ve never looked at it like that. I mean, things happen simultaneously all the time—good things and awful things—and as a rule they have nothing at all to do with each other. That’s the way the world works.” I was starting to talk like my friend Robert. “Someone has a birthday … and his father dies the same day. A car is stolen … and its owner wins the lottery the same day. An American director comes to Paris to make a film in a little cinema … and a girl named Mélanie, whom the cinema owner has just fallen head over heels in love with, disappears without trace.” I leaned forward and ran both hands through my hair. “There may be a connection, but I can’t see it.” Then I smiled wearily and made a stupid joke. “Unless the director turns out to be the young woman’s great love, thought to be lost forever, and they have now found each other again and don’t know how to tell me.” I laughed. “Although I would find the age difference a bit questionable.”
Allan Wood looked at me for a long time without saying anything, and I began to worry that I’d offended him with my off-the-cuff remarks.
“And if the director was her father? What then?” Allan said.
At first, I thought it was a joke. I thought Allan Wood was in an inventive mood. It’s not unusual for creative people to let their imaginations run away with them. But as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once so elegantly put it, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Exactly what I said.” Allan Wood took off his glasses and began to clean them laboriously. “Your Mélanie could be my daughter.”
“Purely theoretically, you mean?” I had no idea where his remarks were heading. He’d obviously fallen into a state of elderly sentimentality of the “Oh my God, she could be my daughter” kind. But Allan Wood shook his head.
“No, seriously. I mean it!”
I looked at him in disbelief. “Is that meant to be a joke?”
He put his glasses back on. “No joke.” Lost in thought, he leaned back in the sofa, dangling his arm over the side. “My daughter must now be twenty-five. As far as I know, she lives in Paris. When I said recently that she’d never forgiven me for leaving her mother, I was understating matters. She hates me. I tried to visit her once—at the stud farm that her horse-obsessed mother ran on the Loire—but she just ran away. She vanished for four weeks. Unbelievable, right? She was sixteen at the time. After that, we only met once more—here in this bar. But the evening ended in disaster.” He sighed. “She takes right after Hélène—just as stubborn and self-righteous. And just as pretty! Those big brown eyes!”
Allan Wood became lost in his memories and I began to wonder if all those daiquiris had been a little too much for this rather slight man.
“Yes … and?” I asked a little impatiently. “What has all this to do with me? And Mélanie?”
“Oh,” he said, looking at me in surprise. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m sorry, I’m getting a bit confused myself. Her name is Mélanie. But we always just called her Méla—that’s why I didn’t hit on it right away. But my daughter’s proper name is Mélanie. Mélanie Bécassart.”
It ended up being a long evening, because Allan Wood told me a story from his past that—it turned out—was definitely connected to my story.
When he was in his prime—I guessed he meant that he was about forty at the time—and after his first marriage broke up, he had met Hélène Bécassart during a vacation in Normandy. Hélène, a wild girl with flowing chestnut curls, had literally fallen at his feet when a white horse threw her as she rode along one of the broad sandy beaches of the Côte de Nacre.
The Secret Paris Cinema Club Page 13