by Pema Donyo
Owen tried to press down memories that began rising to the surface. He had no claim to her anymore, hadn’t ever had one, really. Her desire to be in the pictures had eclipsed any illusion of their future together. And hadn’t he been the one to leave for Paris? He had made his choice with or without her.
He pushed past the thoughts as he stepped into the studio. Pierre’s set was on the upper floor of a whole building full of film sets. A crew member wheeled in a collection of fake trees set up on a rolling platform, while another behind him rolled in a massive painted backdrop of a forest. To his right, men in suspenders stood in front of giant panels of light shining onto their set. One man kneeled behind a camera, rolling its crank as he asked the actors to change where they stood. Another man held up a megaphone and commanded everyone to get in their places. To his left, an entire front of a building covered the studio floor to ceiling, complete with a staircase leading to an invisible upper floor and a doorway to nowhere. Extras buzzed about the set as the director gave them all instructions. He recognized the man.
“Pierre!”
Pierre looked around at the sound of his name. When he saw Owen, he smiled and held up a hand. Owen waited by the side of the stage as Pierre spoke to another crew member who followed Pierre as Pierre approached.
“Well, well, looks like you found time to visit our studio after all. I’m honored.”
Pierre had an unassuming manner that Owen always liked. There was something genuine about him, trusting even. For example, trusting Owen to write an entire screenplay.
“I was curious about this tour you wanted to show me.”
“Ah, I wish our timing could be better. I apologize; I must finish this scene. Alain here will show you around.” He gestured to the crew member beside him.
Alain was a stocky boy who looked around sixteen years old. He wore a newsboy cap and a dusty shirt that Owen suspected had once been white. When Pierre said his name, he grunted.
Couldn’t Pierre show him around? He held back a sigh. Coming to the studio had been a way to thank Pierre and perhaps ask if he needed any more writing done. And if the writing led to another job that paid enough, Owen wouldn’t turn it down. But before he could protest, the cameraman called out to Pierre and the director excused himself.
Owen cleared his throat and said in French, “And what do you do here?”
Alain squinted at him. “What do you do here?”
It seemed they were off to a neat start. “I write. I’m the writer for this film.”
He huffed. “And I’m the king of France. Follow me.”
Without turning around, he started down the main walkway separating the sets from one another. “To your right is where all the nature scenes happen. Forests, rivers—you name it, we bring it in. On the left are the street scenes. Fighting happens there, the good stuff. Ahead of us, you’ll see the indoor sets. I was an extra on the set to our left once. I had a whole thirty seconds. Sometimes we film outside, but it’s easier to keep it all in here because you can control the lighting. Plus, it would be a pain to carry all these cameras outside. I’d have to do it.
“And then all that back there—no, not there, to the right of that—is where we keep all the props. I work back there. We’re the most important part of the team, you know. Without us, the scene would just be people. Who wants to see that? Anyway, you’ll see a ton of rooms along the side of the walls. Those are the dressing rooms.”
Owen tried to take in everything at once and failed. The indoor sets looked about the same size as the outdoor ones but with brighter lighting and more props included. The set Alain had apparently blessed with his presence was being used by a team of three men crowding around a camera. One filmed the scene while two others called out directions to an actress. The woman lay on a brocade futon with her eyes closed. Pillows, a flower vase, lamps, a full floor rug, and a screen covered in gold foil also made an appearance around her. The room looked so convincing, he almost forgot he was looking straight into it; the entire other half of the room was missing. That probably allowed for easy access off and on the set.
Each dressing room in the row they passed was marked by a number and a name slipped into a slot on the door.
The boy stood up straighter as a new figure approached them. “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Wong.”
“Good afternoon to you too.” Her gaze lifted to meet Owen’s. “Nice to see you.”
Iris looked incredible. She wore a tight-fitting green dress with a slit up the front of it, revealing her long legs underneath. He tried to keep his gaze upward. “Good to see you too. He was just giving me a tour of the set.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, but I’ve got to get back to work soon. I was about to drop him off with someone else,” Alain said.
Oh, that would impress Iris. It sounded like he was being passed off from nanny to nanny. Who was the adult and who was the child, really?
“How about you get back to work and I’ll talk to him?” Iris asked.
Alain shrugged and walked away toward the prop department.
“What do you think?” she asked. She looked at the floor instead of at him.
“It’s nice.” His knowledge of studios was limited. He’d look like a fool in front of her if he said anything concrete. He gestured to the sets behind her. “It’s very . . . spacious.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t sound impressed.”
“Not my world.” He gestured to her dress. “You look nice.”
“Thank you. I have a scene in a few minutes.”
“You play a scullery maid, I assume.” He raised his brows. At least they could still joke with each other. He trusted her not to bring up the past, to dredge up those memories again.
She smiled. “Of course. No self-respecting maid would wear anything less than this.”
“The new type of maid for the modern era.”
“Oh, not that again. Everyone’s always talking about the modern woman now, the independent, free-spirited thinker. As if before we were somehow less.”
“I’d like to hear more about the modern man. The chauvinistic, backward-thinking modern man. That’s what this world needs more of.” He was talking nonsense. But judging by the twinkle in her eye, it was a hit.
“And would you say you fit this description?”
“Wholeheartedly. I aspire to nothing less. And would you say that you fit the description of a modern woman?”
“You go tell the press that Iris Wong is the definition of the modern woman. I expect to see it in the papers by tomorrow.”
He had forgotten how much self-confidence she exuded. She never doubted herself. The years had passed, and she had grown up to be a woman worthy of admiration, a woman with more determination and success than most. She still burned with a certain fire. He resisted the urge to step closer to her. Better to stay at a safe distance.
Alain emerged from the prop department, his steps quick. He hitched his thumb behind him. “Excuse me, mademoiselle, but Pierre is calling for you.”
“Thank you. Sorry, Mr. Matthews, I’ll have to excuse myself. It was nice seeing you.”
He couldn’t get out a clever response before she headed in the direction of her set. Alain propped up a foot behind him and rested his weight against the wall. Both watched her walk away.
“She’s something, isn’t she?”
Alain snorted. “But for you? No chance.”
Chapter Three
Cool air blew onto Iris’s face. Crew members had propped up giant electric fans throughout the studio, and more and more popped up each day. It wasn’t enough to stop her makeup from sweating off her face, despite her makeup artist’s valiant effort at touch-ups. She stared straight ahead at a rectangular mirror surrounded in light bulbs and sat back against her elevated chair while the professional worked.
Gabrielle Hallier, a French actress who starred in a supporting role, sat next to her. Her wavy blond hair gave her heart-shaped face an a
ngelic frame. Pierre had told Iris that Gabrielle had auditioned for the leading role, too, but the other actress seemed to hold no ill will toward Iris. She had given Iris recommendations about which streets to avoid walking down at night and which crew members were the best kissers, though Iris tried not to remember the latter.
Gabrielle was, however, not as friendly with the crew members. She huffed as the hairdresser brushed through her hair. “Stop, you’re hurting me. Can’t someone else do it?”
The hairdresser continued without hesitation. It wasn’t the first fit she or Iris had seen Gabrielle throw. When Iris had been in those shoes, all she’d be able to do was put her head down, do her job, and hope no one complained about her. Hairdressers were replaceable; the stars were not.
Once the hairdresser left, Gabrielle leaned in and caught her gaze in the mirror while the makeup artist applied rouge to Iris’s cheeks.
“Pierre’s looking at you again,” she said.
Iris wished she could turn around and verify the claim. “I doubt it.”
“Swear on my life.”
“Maybe he’s looking at you.”
“Please. He knows my attentions lie elsewhere.” She flipped back her locks over her shoulder like the man in question was watching.
The last she’d told Iris, her attentions lay with the film’s sixty-year-old producer. The film’s very married sixty-year-old producer. Such behavior had occurred among her friends back home, too. Iris knew better than to ask any questions.
Gabrielle craned her neck to get another glimpse of what was behind them. “Definitely still looking at you.”
Iris blushed. Her makeup artist clucked her tongue. The rouge on her cheeks made her look like a clown with the added flush. She couldn’t help it. No director had ever paid attention to her before. The ones in Hollywood treated her like an Oriental prop. Pierre recognized her as more. He trusted her with complex facial expressions or dramatic gestures. He believed in her ability to act as much as she did. The reassurance pushed her to perform better.
From behind one of the sets, Alain walked up to their chairs. He worked in her alma mater, the prop department, and as a general messenger boy on set. Her makeup artist stepped back so Iris could greet him.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselles.”
“Ah, aren’t you adorable,” Gabrielle said.
He flinched at her description. “Mademoiselle Wong, a package has arrived for you from Los Angeles. It is waiting outside your door.”
“Thank you,” Iris said. “And don’t listen to her. You look very handsome today.”
He winked at her. She forced herself to suppress the laugh rising in her throat. No one could flirt with more actresses at once than that boy.
As he had promised, the package lay outside her door. International postage stamps covered the box. Her friends and family had put it together, and her mother had sent her a telegram telling her to expect it any day. The moment she entered her dressing room, she opened the package. Inside was a little piece of home: a small parcel of recent notes from her sisters and parents, a bar of soap her mother had made, a small Buddha statue cast in bronze, a variety of dried snacks she missed, and a notebook. She brushed her hands over the worn leather of the cover. It was her diary from years ago. She couldn’t believe that her parents had found it.
The notebook’s contents were full of the nonsense she’d cared about when she was a teenager—who was kissing whom, which friends were fighting, who had gossiped about her behind her back. Most of it was embarrassing drivel. But she’d also used it as a folder. Inside the notebook was a collection of different items gathered over the years. A ticket stub to her first baseball game, a photo from when she took her mother to a movie palace, and letters. She flipped through the papers.
One note caught her eye, and she pulled out the wrinkled memo. It had Owen’s handwriting. She grazed her fingers over the date: 1919. He had given it to her on Christmas, and she had read it over and over for weeks afterward. It was from another lifetime. His script was cramped and slanted to the right.
My darling Iris. Thank you for bringing light to my day. I must have done something wonderful to deserve you in my life. I love you very much.
How young and sappy they’d both been. She remembered the passion that had held them together, all-consuming and full of hope. If only she could have those emotions back in their full intensity.
Being around him stirred some of those old feelings again. She recognized it all: the same quickness to his replies, the same tendency to slip into sarcasm, the same unspoken tension that made her stay at least a foot away from him. They had fallen back into a familiar rapport without trying. It wasn’t the same; not exactly. Not like before.
Yet her chest tightened as she placed his letter back into her notebook. She couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.
• • •
The smell of fresh loaves of bread wafted past Owen’s nostrils as he ascended the steel stairwell. He inhaled another whiff of buttery croissants, and his stomach grumbled. Living above a bakery had seemed like a swell idea when he first moved in, yet the location inspired more imagining of the taste of flaky brioche than imagining any characters.
Besides, it wasn’t the time to be distracted by his stomach. He had to change into something decent to wear. Pierre had sent him a note inviting him to a cabaret for that night. Judging by his pairing at the café the other day, Owen suspected Iris would be there.
As soon as he entered his apartment, he undid the buttons of his wool shirt and cast it aside on a loveseat. The green velvet had been in desperate need of upholstering even when he’d bought it. Both apartment windows stood reasonably close to the sides of two other buildings that blocked out the sun most afternoons. His oak desk stood against one of the windows to maximize the daylight for his writing. He didn’t have the slightest patience for interior decorating, but his apartment had a decent set-up. When he tired of clacking away at his typewriter, he wandered over to the menagerie of stories on his table. Half of the novels scattered across his dining table lay submerged in shadows, their spines sticking straight up to designate their bookmarked spot. The organized chaos matched the variety of artistic styles nailed to his walls. A feast of canvases littered the surfaces, all gifts from friends with a penchant for figures painted in different shades of blue, clocks floating in space, or sharp art deco motifs. Many of them were castoffs from a gallery or unfinished sketches. Just training for a masterpiece.
Owen scanned his wardrobe. A cabaret required a suit. His one suit, to be frank, and one that needed ironing at that. He glanced at his watch. No time. He managed to pull on one sleeve of the wrinkled Oxford shirt before someone rapped on his door.
“Yes?” he asked.
“The rent was due last week, Monsieur Matthews.” The landlord raised his voice. “This is the last time I will remind you.”
“It’ll be here by the end of this week, I swear.”
“Remember: I do not run a charity.” The footsteps outside his door padded away.
The bill’s tardiness hardly warranted anger. Owen prided himself on always coming through on rent payments, albeit one or two weeks late. The check for the screenwriting gig would be in his hands once filming wrapped up; Pierre had promised. The friendly devil had taken his word that he’d written screenplays before and bought this one for a sizable sum. One screenplay sure made a lot more money than selling sketches to magazines, and he needed the funds. His parents had stopped sending him money after a few years. By then, he didn’t want their help anymore. He could make it on his own.
Once he donned the wrinkled suit and made a futile effort to smooth it down, he wandered over to his desk. Half-finished drafts of sketches covered the space. His friend Gertrude thought they featured a phantom lady, a woman unseen in the story but lurking in the hero’s mind. Owen just used shadows a lot. Perhaps there was a recurring theme in there; Gertrude was often right. After all, Iris served as the model for all the he
roines in his work in some regard, whether it was her dark hair or her headstrong manner. No new girl filled the same role as a muse; no other woman came close to inspiring his dialogue. One would almost think it would be mundane for him to see Iris again in person after he spent such significant time with the fictional versions of her each day.
Beneath the drafts lay a stack of envelopes. Bills, mainly. He cringed at the one from his landlord. A reminder to not be late was scrawled in red ink beneath the return address. Well, he couldn’t win every battle on time. One envelope stood out among the others: a yellowed one, a bit worn from a journey, and with a “B&L” stamped in elegant typeface along the seal. The logo of the publisher Boni & Liveright.
He tore open the envelope and snatched out its contents. A thin letter stared back at him.
Dear Mr. Matthews,
While we appreciated the chance to read your manuscript, we regret to inform you . . .
Another rejection. He crumpled the letter and tossed the scrap of paper into a metal bin next to his desk. If he didn’t throw them all away, he could replace the paintings on his walls with rejection letters. Different manuscripts, different publishers, the same answer. The sting no longer left him reeling. He expected it, despite the words of encouragement from friends who found publication or writers who already made money from their advances. Paris placed him among other artists struggling to make a name for themselves. There was something hungry and wild about the city’s talent that he found nowhere else. Not in Prague, not in London, not even in the City of Stars.
But he was still taking odd writing jobs, just like in California.
And if he’d stayed in Los Angeles, maybe he and Iris would have never split up. He would be lying if he said he never imagined the alternate future that might have existed for them. Perhaps they would have moved to a house right out of the city, one not too far from her parents and one far enough from his. They would have gone to the cinema every Saturday and read together afterward. When she spoke to him, she would have done so in the same way that had always made him lean closer to her, like an opened gate extending an invitation to all who pass by.