He sighed. “Then they defy description,” he said, in feigned lamentation.
Marianne pushed him away, playfully. Eleanor rescued the gravy bowl of sauce which was in his path. The makeshift picnic was scattered by this motion, a tumble of mismatched cloth napkins and scarcely-used utensils clattering from stoneware plates as Will scrambled to his feet and began collecting them.
She left them in this condition almost a half-hour later, when none of the lunch had been cleared away and nothing had been talked about except the future of the online poetry community and the freedom of expression in art. Marianne had offered to walk with her to the subway station, but Eleanor had preferred to be alone.
A long ride gave her time for reflection. For solitude and melancholy in a metal seat, where she was surrounded by strangers and only her own thoughts to occupy herself. It was almost the same as life in her apartment, she realized, in her plane of sparse furnishings and soothing white, the perfect blankness of its walls.
Eleanor walked the final two blocks to her apartment, her hands in the pockets of her blazer despite the summer heat and the blistering orange light of the day’s final hours. She had no plans for this evening. She supposed it would be a good time in which to make revisions in chapter nine and beyond.
She saw a man across the street from her vantage point, walking along in the opposite direction. He held two shopping bags dangling along either side of himself, his glanced directed at the business windows along his left side. It was Edward Ferris.
Eleanor’s steps slowed, then ceased. She watched him continue on, his bangs brushing low against his forehead and his lean figure outlined by a smooth grey t-shirt beneath his open button-down.
He did not notice her standing there. With this distance and the movement of traffic, he didn’t notice anything which wasn’t part of his immediate surroundings, it seemed. Allowing her to observe him without fear – the fear of being recognized or censured in any way for it.
She liked his face. She liked the appearance of his form in these casual clothes, far different from the suits and the business coat of their two previous meetings. She liked the shy manner he had of meeting the face of the pedestrian who brushed past him with an oversized cardboard box in their arms. Even the firm manner his fingers gripped the handles of the shopping bags.
She could imagine those fingers as strong and gentle. If they were brushing aside a strand of her hair, for instance. Or helping her into her coat after an evening out, lightly brushing against her sleeves and shoulders afterwards. If Marianne could see inside her mind and see these thoughts, perhaps she wouldn’t believe Eleanor was without any concept of romance or desire.
A moment later, he was gone from sight. And Eleanor began walking again in the direction of home.
Chapter Thirteen
She was stalking him. Yes, she was. There was no calling it an accident or a coincidence, no matter how she wished it.
Eleanor was sitting in the fourth row of the theater, expressly for the purpose of not seeing him enter. She had glanced around for him in a quick manner upon entering, then chosen a seat before she could feel ashamed of herself for doing this.
She didn’t feel ashamed, however; she felt adventurous, eager – ambitious might be a better word, had Eleanor imagined herself crossing the line into the realm of hopeless romantics and obsessive admirers. Instead, she adjusted her eyeglasses to see the screen more clearly, then dug her fingers into her popcorn.
The Silverscape Theater was showing a retrospect of early French cinema. A Trip to the Moon, followed by a noir-esque drama of intrigue which did not sound familiar to Eleanor in her knowledge of classic films. She loved French cinema; she loved black and white film, and early, struggling, post-Vaudevillian performances. There was no reason why she shouldn’t come and enjoy herself, regardless of who else might be attending this evening. Regardless of the meticulous internet search she had done of upcoming Pittsburgh film retrospects taking place this weekend, which she could easily justify as a personal recreational choice.
The lights dimmed. She did not glance over her shoulder to see who was sitting behind her; who was arriving late and shaking out an umbrella dampened by the rare summer showers, or whispering to a person a few rows back. Her eyes were focused forwards on the screen, the black rectangle framed by faded red velvet curtains and set deep in a purposeless stage without steps.
She had worn a grey sweater, something slightly bulky and cotton for the sake of the outdoor temperatures. It would be cold in the theater; and she resisted the urge to select anything sleek, sophisticated, or sensual, in her limited selection of such items in her wardrobe. Messy hair piled high with a clip, scuffed leather shoes – what did it matter? What did she care if anyone saw her?
Now her sweater was dampened with the summer rain from her exit from the cab. Clinging to her with an uncomfortable chill, fitted to her shoulders and arms in a manner which might have been sultry had this not been such a loose-formed garment.
A white strand of static snaked across the screen as the film image flipped into place. The shaft of light from the projector barely visible as it descended along the aisle, the half-filled auditorium of shifting, soft, whispery human bodies.
Eleanor dug her fingers into the popcorn, popping one piece delicately between her lips, then another. A few seats away, a young woman sat down and removed a rain slicker. Ahead, three people crouched low as they slipped into the second row.
The screen flashed to black as a narrative placard appeared, then grew brilliantly white with action again. Eleanor sneaked a glance in the direction of the seats across the aisle, where a family of four was sitting. Two college students near the back, an unidentified figure seated on the fringes, a woman sitting alone, like herself, near the exit.
A piece of popcorn fell from Eleanor’s fingers and landed on her sweater. She collected it and popped it in her mouth, feeling a slightly fuzzy strand clinging to her, to her distaste. She popped a fresh one in to follow it.
The screen reached its brightest zenith with the trip to the moon. A polite and affectionate laugh followed in the auditorium, a response to the surreal rendering of the human imagination in the form of the human-faced moon’s grimace.
A Trip to the Moon was the teaser. The main production The Dark Heart was cued afterwards, flipping twice so that the bottom appeared at the top momentarily before it grew steady with the projector’s adjustment. A film of high contrast in traditional noir fashion, judging from the darkness of the opening scene. A lone figure in a white trench coat – glaringly so – moving across the screen.
It was a slow-moving feature, its plot difficult to understand. There were no English translations for its dialogue cards, which Eleanor only understood slightly from her fleeting recollection of college French.
A moody vamp, impossibly thin and flat in the fashion of the 1920’s, her black dress resembling a sheath. A man whose lips were too dark, in the fashion of early cinema makeup. The woman languished on a sofa and smoked a cigarette in a holder as the gentleman suffered some form of torment over their conversation.
The screen grew brighter at the moment the woman fainted into his arms. It was then that Eleanor spotted Edward’s seat in the theater. He was near the front, a row ahead of her on the opposite side. He was shrugging off his jacket, his face turned upwards towards the screen as he sank into his seat.
Eleanor glanced away from him towards the screen, where the scene had changed to a heavily-shuttered cafe, where two unknown men appeared to be smoking in this dim atmosphere. They had not appeared in the movie until now; she could only imagine what purpose they served in the previously-undefined plot.
Shifting her position in her seat, Eleanor obtained a slightly better view of the third row on the opposite side. Edward’s profile briefly visible as the screen turned white with a window shade raised by one of the strangers. A dead body in a hotel room, a gasp from someone in the audience, and Eleanor turned her attention away f
rom Edward again.
There was not much left to this film, probably. The woman in the dark dress wore a hat with strange black feathers, walked along the street. Cut to a motorcar, and then a white-sheeted figure in a seeming hospital environment. The tormented gentleman whirling away from it in anguish as one of the strangers caught him by the shoulders.
The dialogue card appeared onscreen.
Vous appelle?
Je m’appelle, Monsieur? Je m’appelle? No! No!
Her fingers dug in the bottom of the striped popcorn box, where the final few pieces eluded her. The young man on the screen had broken away and run through the corridors of the hospital, apparently. The strangers pursued him – to where? It was all darkness and she was uncertain until the distant shot of a supposedly-human figure diving from a bridge, a white shirt moving against a night-like atmosphere.
The screen went dark. A moment later, the house lights came on. Eleanor blinked against the brightness, her fingers reaching to remove her glasses. The empty popcorn box tumbled forwards on her lap – at the same time, she became aware of Edward rising from his seat.
He turned as if to go, then saw her. A grin split across his face.
“Eleanor,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here –”
“French retrospects,” she said. “I love them. I confess it.” She folded her glasses and tucked them into her bag in what she hoped was a graceful movement. “I come often, actually. To the classic film showings, I mean.”
It was not entirely untrue. A few years ago, Eleanor had been a regular patron, seeing part of the Marx Brothers’ festival and a stage revival of Harvey by a community theater troupe. She couldn’t claim anything more recently, however, as if it had all suddenly ceased to have a point for her.
She smiled. “And you – you must be a fan also?” she ventured.
“Of French cinema? Not so much, actually. More the semi-contemporary variety. Hepburn, Grant, Stewart –”
“Harvey?” she suggested.
“Harvey. Exactly. Great film. But the noir piece tonight – that was new to me. I read about its U.S. release somewhere online, I think. I love classics in general, so I thought, why not kick off my activities as a native Pittsburgh dweller with a little culture?”
“Why not?” echoed Eleanor.
She was standing now, her empty popcorn box in hand and her bag slung over her shoulder. He tucked his hands in his pockets. There were only two or three other people remaining in the theater at this point.
“Are you far from here?” he asked. And she realized that he was asking where she lived.
Her heart beat quickened. “Six blocks,” she said. “I took a cab because it was raining.”
“Good idea,” he said. “I walked from a restaurant and got caught in the downpour. But I don’t think it’s raining now.” He peered towards the open doors leading from the auditorium to the theater lobby.
They moved in that direction together. She tossed her popcorn box in the trashcan near the concessions stand, noting the almost-empty dispenser and the bored-looking concessions worker who was now wiping down the counter. Outside, the sidewalk was shiny, slick with rain, but there was no sign of a downpour or mist against the cars parked along the curb.
Steamy air from the outside world struck Eleanor’s face as Edward pushed open the door, allowing her to exit first. Humid droplets clung to her sweater, making it a bulky, suffocating weight she would undoubtedly regret shortly.
She felt him exiting behind her, the door’s gentle swoosh as it swung closed on its controlled hinges. He lingered there, too, for a moment, his fingers touching her sleeve, lightly.
“If you’re not hailing a cab, then I’ll be chivalrous and walk you home,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that,” said Eleanor. “Elliot Hills is far from here.”
“I’ll hail a cab afterwards,” he said. “But in the meantime, it’s a nice evening, the rain has stopped, and you are going in roughly the same direction as me, so it all makes sense.”
He was walking alongside her now; although his fingers no longer touched her sleeve, Eleanor felt a small wave of exhilaration stealing over her.
“Are you a fan of all classic film?” he asked. “Or a select few?”
She considered this question for a moment. “I like silent and foreign films,” she said. “I like silly comedies from when the actors still overacted by habit. I like the Hitchcock films that no one likes because they were big and bold in a limited way compared to his later films. And – I like his later films, too.”
“A fan of all genres,” said Edward. “As for myself, after – let’s say, 1970 – I lose interest in who made it and who was in it and whether I should bother seeing it at all.”
“You don’t think you miss some of the better films?” asked Eleanor. “The ones that span, let’s say, from 1970 to 1989?”
“Do you?” he asked. The smile on his face was gentle but wonderfully warm to her eye.
“I’m only playing devil's advocate here,” she answered. “My opinion on post-classic cinema hardly matters.”
“I think it does,” he answered.
They debated Chaplin versus Chase, then the science of early film special effects. At the corner, they turned left as the subject turned to whether modern classics like “Star Wars” ought to be considered truly classic yet or wait another decade – how old should the generation who made them famous be when the film was considered sealed in the cinematic canon?
The streetlights became a different shade to Eleanor’s eyes, the general darkness around them increased with fewer store lights and marquees. The breeze shifted, fanning cooler air from the waterfront. The subject shifted to something more personal, gradually, slowly. Edward was talking about his job. An attorney who researched moral and ethical clauses for a legal department, for the use of children’s advocates, family attorneys, victims of divorce, crime, corporate theft, or government strong-arm tactics.
“Law wasn’t really my preference, you see,” he explained. “It was more my mother’s. My sister’s, too. She’s a little bossy, my sister,” he added, playfully. “She makes it hard to refuse her when she presses an idea. Hard to escape the women in my family.”
“How unfortunate,” answered Eleanor. She had climbed upon the edge of a concrete barrier, a wide shelf just above street level which followed the line of the railing dividing the steep slope below from the street above. Walking it one foot in front of the other like an imaginary childhood tightrope, her hands in her pockets.
“So what did you want to do?” she asked.
He sighed. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Nothing came to me at the time, I’m afraid. But I liked the idea of helping people in some form or other. In the end, I split the difference between the two – what I wanted and what everyone else wanted for me.”
She put out her hand and touched the edge of the rail. The black metal spikes were wet from the rain.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you a bossy older sister? Or are you the softhearted one who gives in?”
“Maybe neither,” she answered, with a faint smile. “Marianne would justly point out that I’ve never convinced her to do anything. My advice falls on deaf ears; and try as she might, she’s never quite managed to convince me that she’s perfectly fine the way she is.”
“Is she?” he asked.
She hesitated. “No,” she answered. “No, I don’t think so. But what do I know?” She shrugged her shoulders, suddenly feeling that it did not matter. Her advice, Marianne’s messy life, the trembling edges of her career – what did any of it matter, really? A hundred years from now, even a hundred days, perhaps, would be an outcome she couldn’t control no matter how she tried.
He was asking her about her work now.
“So what does a freelance writer write about?” he asked. “Whatever you want? Or do you write about thematic subjects?”
“I’m writing about love,” she answered.
&
nbsp; “Love?” he repeated. “What kind?” He glanced up at her; in his eyes, she could not be sure what emotion she was reading, other than that of interest in her reply.
“The romantic kind,” she answered. “I’m doing a long piece on it. A book, actually. About all kinds of relationships, but especially that involve two people being in love.”
“Is it about what goes right – or goes wrong?”
“Both,” she answered. “But mostly about what goes wrong, I’m afraid.” She was at the end of the barrier now. She hopped down, landing in front of him and feeling his arm reach out and touch her, as if to steady her, although she did not need it.
“Can I read it when you’re finished?” he asked. “Or buy it. Or be your editor if you need a spare one lying around.” He was teasing her, which she could see from the change in his eyes. Their color was different when he was being humorous, something she hadn’t noticed before.
“Any of the above – no, I’m afraid not,” she answered, equally teasing in her turn. They drifted to the left and her building came into view.
“Here’s me,” she said. Her steps had slowed, as had his own. She was facing him, hesitating a few yards from her door.
This was it. In a moment, he would go home. She would go inside and it would be as if she had never taken the leap and gone to the theater at all. Her sweater was weighing against her skin heavily, her consciousness aware of each hair escaped from her plastic clip, the damp air fanning across her face, the first signs of stubble on his chin and cheeks.
She hesitated. “I’m having a party,” she said, “Here, Tuesday night. It’s a sort of celebration for my newspaper work. Only a few friends will be there, but I would like very much for you to come.” She moved aside a strand of hair blocking her eyes momentarily, trying hard not to look too closely into his eyes.
He might not come. He might think it was brazen of her – or let her down gently, as an uninterested party.
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