I found his question downright ridiculous. “Me?” I asked, pointing to myself with an elaborate gesture. “Not at all. For God’s sake, do I look like that sort of guy? I’m alone. Je suis tout seul. Like all idiots.” I laughed at my own brilliant joke and took a great gulp from the big balloon glass. “Would you like to join me? You’re invited. But only if you’re an idiot, too.”
The waiter declined with thanks and went away, looking irritated. He seemed to walk straight into one of the pictures on the wall. I shook my head a couple of times and then I saw him leaning back on the counter with his colleagues. They looked over at me. La Palette gradually began to fill up.
A tall, portly man entered the bistro, his coat flapping in the wind, and shook his umbrella out vigorously before shutting it, exclaiming, “What lousy weather!” My waiter rushed forward and—totally unlike his normal habit—took his coat and umbrella.
I looked over curiously. Every movement the chunky man with the black hair made oozed self-importance. Who did he think he was—the emperor of China? I had a sudden fit of dizziness as he dropped loudly into a chair in the rear of La Palette, not far from my table, and ordered steak frites.
He opened a newspaper and looked around with an air of self-satisfaction. I narrowed my eyes and tried to think where I knew this show-off from. And then I remembered. It was Georges Trappatin. He owned one of the biggest multiplex cinemas on the Champs-Elysées. I had once had the dubious pleasure of sitting beside him for a whole evening at an event at the cinémathèque française, listening to his dumb pronouncements. “You small cinema owners are just fooling yourselves,” he’d said with a shake of the head. “Films are all fine and dandy for tempting people out of their homes, but the turnover comes from advertising, popcorn, and drinks. Nothing else makes a profit.”
I took a sip of wine and noticed, to my horror, that Monsieur Trappatin had seen me, too. He got up and came over to my table with heavy tread. Then his reddish face hovered over me like a Chinese lantern.
“Well, if it isn’t Monsieur Bonnard!” he said. “That’s what I call a surprise. Long time, no see, har-har-har!”
I watched his fleshy lips carefully as they opened and closed like the movable jaw of a puppet and he uttered an incomprehensible growl.
“Though I have been thinking of you recently, no joke. Little old Cinéma Paradis …” He shook his head. “Things are really buzzing at your place, aren’t they? Read it in the paper. That’s a shot in the arm, isn’t it!” His mouth twisted into an appreciative grin.
I stared hard at my bottle of red wine, and he followed my gaze.
“Well, as I see, you’re already celebrating hard, har-har-har!” Georges Trappatin clapped me chummily on the shoulder and I nearly fell off my chair. “A bit of press attention like that is half the battle, eh?” This was followed by another booming laugh, which rang strangely hollow in my head. I twitched painfully. Monsieur Trappatin obviously took this for agreement.
“Well, anyway, I’m happy for you, that your little smalltime outfit is getting a slice of the cake for once,” he said with condescension. “I personally don’t believe there’s a future for small cinemas.” He leaned heavily on my table and I collapsed back in my chair. “They’ve had their day, that’s clear. You have to move with the times. Nowadays, people want action. Event cinema with all the bells and whistles.” He straightened up again. “I was recently at a fair in Tokyo. The Asians aren’t really my thing, but I must admit they’re miles ahead of us in terms of technology. And they’re far from having reached the end of the road; you don’t need to be a prophet to see that.” He snorted with enthusiasm. “I’m using four-D now. That’s the killer, I tell you! Sensory seats and smells—yeah, you have to have a vision in our business. You have to invest.”
I must admit that I was having some difficulty following the visionary Georges Trappatin on his journey into the fourth dimension. In my head, the space-time continuum was merging with a kind of Andromeda cloud, where the cinema mogul’s words seemed not to make any sense.
“Sensory seats?” I repeated with some difficulty, and filled my glass once again. “Sounds super. Can you fly in them, too?” For a moment, I imagined the audience at the multiplex cinema flying happily to the moon with their buckets of popcorn, and I chuckled slyly into my wineglass.
Georges Trappatin gave a surprised look, and then burst out laughing. “Har-har-har, very good,” he said jovially, pointing at me with his index finger. “I appreciate your humor, Monsieur Bonnard, I really do!”
Then he explained the incredible advantages of his new seating. Pearls before swine: I didn’t understand a word. So I nodded from time to time and just let him babble on.
Georges Trappatin was known for his monologues. But after a while, even he noticed that the conversation was a little one-sided. “Ah! Here comes my food!” he said finally. “Well then, Monsieur Bonnard, be seeing you! I hope you’ll invite me to the premiere in your little cinema. Tender Thoughts of Paris doesn’t exactly sound like a blockbuster, does it? When I think of that story with the wheelchair … I was flabbergasted to see how the thing took off. The Intouchables—I would have bet my boots that it would be a flop. But then, I’m not Jesus, am I? Har-har-har.” He grinned at me. “I’m no friend of Allan Wood films; there’s too much blathering. But I wouldn’t mind seeing that Avril from close-up. Quite a woman!” He made the appropriate gesture with his hands and flicked his tongue obscenely between his fat lips.
I gave him a hostile stare. All at once, I was convinced that I had the devil from The Witches of Eastwick standing in front of me. I had to warn Solène—it was obvious that this loathsome guy had her in his sights.
When Monsieur Trappatin, somewhat unnerved by my hostile stare, returned to his table, I swore that he would never step over the threshold of my cinema. Let him burn in hell!
After another glass of wine, I’d forgotten the devil in the shape of Monsieur Trappatin and begun to think of Mélanie, who always came to the Cinéma Paradis when she was looking for love. It looked as if she’d found love someplace else since then. Even Allan Wood had found his daughter. They’d all found what they were looking for. I was the only leftover.
Depressed, I sank forward, leaned my elbows on the table, took hold of my glass, and watched the red wine swaying in it. Suddenly, I saw Mélanie’s hands, which I’d held in mine only a few weeks before, and pain washed over me like a huge wave. I put the glass down again, feeling miserable.
On Monday, the Cinéma Paradis would reopen, but Mélanie would not be coming again. She would never come again. It was as if the woman in the red coat had never existed. She might just as well have been dead.
“What a sad, sad story,” I murmured gloomily, and my eyes became wet with self-pity. “Poor, poor Alain. It’s a shame, old man, it’s such a shame.” In sympathy, I nodded a couple of times, no longer sure who the “old man” actually was—me, or another tragic figure who was also called Alain. In any case, it seemed to me best that I should go on drinking. “A tes amours!” I slurred. “To love!” The red wine swayed dangerously as I picked up my glass once more with a clumsy movement. But perhaps it was the ground that was swaying.
I waved the waiter over to me. “Tell me,” I said, making an effort to speak clearly. “You noticed it, too? The ground moved. Think issan earquake?”
The waiter looked at me suspiciously. “No, monsieur, I’m sure you’re just imagining it.”
His ignorance made me mad. “What nonsense you’re talking, monsieur! You don’t just ’magine sothing like that. I feltit clearly. That was an earquake. You!” I pointed to him. “Don’t try and puller wool over mize.” Enraged, I stood up from my chair a couple of inches and then fell back again. A little tune interrupted what I was saying. The monotonous notes pierced my ears. “An switch ’at racket off. It shturbs me when I’m thinking.”
The waiter was very patient. “I think your cell phone’s ringing, monsieur,” he said, and moved discreetly aw
ay from my table.
I fished the stupid thing out of a raincoat that was hanging over the chair beside me. Had I put it there? I couldn’t remember. “Yesh?” I said with some effort. Speaking was quite demanding. “Whozzat shturbing me?”
“Alain?” said Robert. “What’s up? Are you okay? You sound so strange. And—did you find Mélanie?”
“My friend,” I said. “I’m fine, butchasking too many questions twonce. We foun Méla. But Méla znot Mélanie. Mélanie’s dead, dinja know? Poor Alain. Ev’thing sucks for him. We’re sitting here, drinking a glash tgether. Dyou want to come, too?”
“Good God, Alain!” My friend’s voice sounded concerned, and I couldn’t understand why. “You’re completely drunk.”
“Mnot drunk, jusht drinking,” I explained emphatically, and felt the restaurant beginning to spin around me.
“Where are you?”
“Inlaffalette,” I babbled, then keeled over and fell peacefully asleep on the table.
After an omelette and three double espressos, La Palette had stopped spinning. A trip to the toilet did the rest. Robert held me up and worked the flush.
“Better out than in,” he said as I swilled my mouth out with water. I leaned on the washbasin and looked at my pale face, framed by disheveled dark hair. I’d definitely looked much better that morning.
“I need to go to bed,” I said.
Robert nodded. “The first sensible thing I’ve heard you say all evening.” He gave me an encouraging clap on the shoulder. “Get some sleep; then you’ll really feel better. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
I nodded without really being convinced. By then, I was sober enough not to share Robert’s optimism. I felt anything but great. Still, what he said did me good, even if it was a bit banal. “Oh, well,” I said, grinning bravely. “I suppose you’re right.”
“You’ll see. In a couple of weeks, you’ll be laughing about the whole thing. And then I’ll introduce you to Melissa’s friend. She’s exactly your type. Dark blond and drop-dead gorgeous. She also likes going to the cinema. Just recently, she dragged me and Melissa to see a film about an old folks home in India. The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel,” he said proudly. “A good film. I really liked it.”
He was obviously doing everything he could to cheer me up. “Great,” I said. “I know that film.”
“And the main advantage is”—Robert pulled his eyelid down with his finger—“this girl is a real flesh and blood woman, not just a figment of your imagination in a red coat.”
Robert was really good to me that evening. He paid my bill, and insisted on taking me right to my own front door.
As we left La Palette, I noticed a big beefy man leaning against a lamppost. He glanced quickly over at the entrance; then, in the best Marlboro Man fashion, he lit a cigarette and threw the match to the ground. Other people were lonely in this world, too.
As he left me that disastrous evening, Robert couldn’t resist a parting shot: a quote from a film that he’d probably been saving for just such an occasion.
“Don’t take it so hard, Alain, and call me if there are any problems, okay? And if you have to drink, let’s do it together. It’s never been good to drink on your own.”
I nodded. My friend was absolutely right for a change. I was still a bit sleepy, but at least I could stand up now. I leaned on the door frame and watched Robert heading for the stairs. He turned once more.
“What did that nice young Indian in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel say? ‘Everything will be all right in the end … if it’s not all right then it’s not yet the end.’ ” He gave me a meaningful wink, and I shut the door. What he’d said was very interesting. In India, where they believe in reincarnation, it had a very particular resonance. But here in the West, we just have to live with unhappy endings.
And yet Robert turned out to be right. We hadn’t reached the end of the story, not by a long shot.
When my doorbell rang a few minutes later, I thought my friend had come back because he’d forgotten something. With a muttered curse, I got up and went to the door in my striped pajamas. On the way, I almost tripped over Orphée, whose curiosity always led her to hang around the front door whenever the doorbell rang. She leaped aside with a reproachful meow. I shooed her away and opened the door.
But it wasn’t Robert. That day was obviously Astonished Face Day—and this time, it was my turn. Before me stood a man I’d never seen before in my life. He pushed his hat back a little, and that was when I recognized the Marlboro Man who’d been leaning on the lamppost outside La Palette.
“Sorry,” he said in a broad American accent. “Are you Alain Bonnard?” He had a good-natured, weather-beaten face and small, watchful eyes.
I nodded in surprise. And before I had time to say anything, I felt his fist in my face. I fell straight down. The world was spinning around me again, but this time I was seeing little dancing stars. Strangely, I felt no pain, just a pleasant dizziness that prevented me from getting up.
The man with the hat looked down at me, cool as a cucumber. “Keep your hands off Solène, snail eater,” he said.
I heard the door slam shut. And then I heard nothing more.
When I came around again, I was looking straight into two green eyes that were staring piercingly into mine. I felt a light pressure on my chest and blinked in the harsh light, confused. There was a continuous ringing in my ears, and the mattress was very hard—although strictly speaking, it wasn’t a mattress. I was lying on my Berber carpet in the middle of the hall; on my chest sat Orphée, meowing fearfully. The ceiling light was shining in my face, and my head was aching like mad. I felt as if a truck had driven over my face, and the damned ringing in my ears just wouldn’t stop.
I sat up with a groan and pulled myself up using the bureau. A look in the mirror confirmed my worst suspicions. The man in the mirror was finished with this world—and he really looked the part. Tentatively, I touched my left eye, which was bruised and swollen. Then I remembered the big man with the big punch who’d stood at my door the previous evening and called me a snail eater. And I don’t even like snails! His fist in my face was the crowning conclusion to a day that had begun so hopefully and then, following the laws of classical tragedy, headed straight for its catastrophic ending. But at least I was still alive. Even though I’d gone deaf.
When the penetrating ringing in my ears stopped for a short time and then began again, I realized that it was my telephone. Unusually, it was where it should be—on the charger on the bureau in the hall. I reached for the handset. It was probably Robert, calling to see how I was feeling. But that early on a Sunday morning, my friend was still asleep. It was Solène Avril’s anxious voice that I heard on the line.
“Thank God I’ve reached you at last, Alain,” she said with relief. “Why don’t you answer your cell phone? I was trying to warn you.”
I nodded, feeling, as so often in the recent past, that I had totally lost the plot.
“So?” I replied expectantly.
“Ted’s in Paris, running amok. He somehow came across that article in Le Parisien and saw that picture of us—you know, the one in the place Vendôme. I tried to explain that we’d just been taking a walk, but he wasn’t having any of it.” Solène sighed. “He’s going wild with jealousy. Anyway, he’s out to get you. I don’t know what he intends to do, Alain, but you must be careful, do you hear? He could just turn up at your door. I’m really worried.”
I smiled. “You can stop worrying, Solène,” I said. “He’s already been here.”
Twenty–two
The scallops were taking their time. We were sitting at a long table on the terrace of the Georges. The day had been unexpectedly warm, people were wearing their summer clothes, and over the restaurant, which was on the roof of the Centre Pompidou and was well known for its spectacular view of Paris, the indigo blue evening sky was unhurriedly darkening.
Unhurried also seemed to be the motto of the waitstaff. For half an hour, we had been tryin
g in vain to attract the attention of the long-legged waitresses, who had obviously been trained more for a modeling career than for serving at table. They stalked past us with flowing hair and beautiful but impassive faces, totally ignoring us.
Solène smiled at me and raised her champagne glass. It was her birthday and she was determined not to let anything spoil her good mood. I tried to do the same.
In the past few sunny days of May, normality had once more taken over—in the Cinéma Paradis, where François had removed the CLOSED FOR FILMING sign from the door the previous Monday, and in my own life. Apart from the fact that the gigantic chandelier was still hanging in the auditorium and that the old cinema was still basking in the glory of the famous names who’d been there, there was nothing to remind us of the turbulent week when the film crew had turned everything upside down. The trailers had vanished from the street and the filming of Tender Thoughts of Paris was nearing its end. It would be only another four weeks until the last scenes that were to be shot in Paris would be in the can.
Allan Wood was beaming broadly. He was sitting diagonally opposite me with his arm around a young redhead with massive earrings hanging down her neck in a cascade of golden disks. It was Méla, his daughter, who was in the process of discovering the nicer side of the father her mother had so demonized.
I hadn’t seen Allan Wood’s daughter since that day—so black for me—in the rainy Marais. And though I was glad to grant him his happiness, my heart grew all the heavier as I thought of that wonderful moment when we were standing outside Méla’s with our bouquets and I believed I had found Mélanie.
That evening was also the first time that I’d seen Carl Sussman since the filming. He had sat down next to Solène with a satisfied air and winked at me—as far as that was possible. The bearded cameraman’s left eye—like mine—shone a beautiful blue. We grinned meaningfully at each other. Ted Parker had done a good job.
The Secret Paris Cinema Club Page 16