“In California everything’s gigantic, you know. The pizzas, the ice creams, the stores, the people, the friendly smiles of the waitresses—it’s all XXL. It gets on my nerves. And the weather is always the same. Sunshine every damn day. Do you realize how boring it gets when you have no seasons anymore?”
I thought of the atrocious February weather that had plunged the majority of Parisians into deep depression and shook my head.
“There! A taxi!” Allan stopped and waved. Seconds later, a car pulled up beside him with its indicators flashing.
Solène planted a good-bye kiss on my cheek, while Allan held the rear door of the cab open for her. Then he turned to me again.
“Well, Al-lang … It was really nice meeting you.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket and then handed me—for the second time that evening—his card. “If you have any problems, just call me. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the Ritz on Sunday evening. Then we can discuss the whole chose, okay?” He took my hand and shook it. For a man of his size, he had a surprisingly firm handshake. “Think my proposal over, my friend. If you make your cinema available to us, it will bring in loads of money.…” He winked at me as if he were Al Pacino in person. “I mean real money.” With these words, he got into the taxi. The door slammed shut and the car zoomed off and joined the stream of lights moving along the left bank of the Seine. On the other side of the river, the massive black silhouette of the Louvre stood out against the dark blue night sky. It was half past twelve. I was standing on the bank of the Seine, totally overwhelmed by the events of the last three days. I had kissed the woman in the red coat, I had received a love letter, and I had a date at the Ritz with Solène Avril and Allan Wood, who called me, respectively, Alain and Al-lang.
If my new, exciting life continued like this, I’d never find the time to see any films at all. By now, I felt as if I were Jean-Paul Belmondo, and that Breathless was a boring story compared with what I had experienced. I stuck Allan Wood’s second card in my pocket, where Mélanie’s letter still nestled, and all at once had the feeling that I was right in the middle of things—right in the middle of life. It was an intoxicating feeling.
* * *
“Who says that life no longer throws up any surprises?” Robert stubbed out his seventh Gauloise, trying to keep cool in spite of everything, but his demeanor spoke volumes. I had rarely seen my friend as impressed as he was that Saturday afternoon. We’d been sitting for two hours under the red-white-and-blue-striped awning of the Bonaparte, to which I had summoned him with the cryptic statement that I had sensational news.
“Oh man, Alain, you’re waking me just for that? I’m still half-asleep. What could possibly be so sensational in your life?” he had asked reluctantly. “I had a sensational night with Melissa, believe you me.”
“I do believe you,” I replied, wondering which of his students Melissa was. “But that’s still nothing compared with my news.”
“Let me guess—you’ve gotten her cell number. Sensational. Congratulations.” He yawned loudly. “Can I hang up now?”
“No, no, Robert, you’re not getting away with it that easily. When I say sensational, I mean sensational. You’ll never guess who I’m having dinner with at the Ritz tomorrow evening.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
I maintained an iron silence.
“Angelina Jolie? Har-har-har.” He laughed at his own joke.
“Hey, not a bad try,” I said, and the laughter died.
“What? Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“No joke,” I said. “Just come.”
I’m reluctant to admit it, because it perhaps shows me in a bad light, but after all those years as “periphery man,” it did me a lot of good to see Robert dumbfounded for once. After I had told him everything, he sat in silence for a long while, speechless for the first time in his life. This was, of course, not, as you may well realize, due to the fact that the lovely Mélanie had sent me a very encouraging letter and—in spite of Robert’s withering prognosis—definitely did want to see me again. For my friend, this was no more than a minor, peripheral bit of news, on which his only comment was, “Fine, fine—is that all?” But the business with Solène Avril—that was something else.
“Solène Avril? Wow, that’s cool!” he said, lighting yet another cigarette. “Totally awesome! Tell me, is she as much of a knockout in person as she is on the screen?”
I nodded, tore open the little paper packet beside my cup, and trickled some sugar into my coffee. “You can say that again. It really knocks your socks off to see that woman suddenly standing right next to you in the flesh.”
Robert sighed and took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Oh man. When I imagine that, I get a warm feeling all around my heart. And that sweetie was in your cinema for a whole hour, you say?”
“With Allan Wood.”
“Allan Wood? What does the old fogey want from that sex goddess?”
“Nothing at all, as far as I can see. He just wants to make a film with her—in my cinema.”
“Pull the other one!” mocked Robert. “I mean—Solène Avril! Really, anyone who kicks her out of bed for eating crackers must be nuts.” He gave me an unmistakable look. “And you’re meeting again tomorrow evening? At the Ritz? I bet that woman has a suite there with a gigantic king-size bed. Boy oh boy, are you lucky!”
“Good God, Robert!” I burst out. “We’re meeting to discuss the film shoot. Don’t you ever think about anything else?”
Robert shook his head. “No,” he said decisively. “Not with that woman!”
“Well, at least I don’t feel the need. I’m already in love, remember?”
For a moment, I thought about Mélanie, who would only be returning to Paris on Wednesday, and wondered what she was doing at that moment. Perhaps she was walking on the seashore, thinking of me, as well.
“What’s love got to do with it?” Robert gave me an uncomprehending glance, and behind his wrinkled brow I could see the word idiot beginning to form. Then a new thought clearly shot through his mind and his expression brightened. “Say, Alain … do you think I could come along on Sunday evening? As your friend?”
I gave a satisfied laugh. “No way, José! The dinner at the Ritz is strictly a business meeting.”
“Aha! Purely business—only you could believe that!” Robert pouted. “Then at least invite me along when they begin shooting.”
“I’ll see if it can be arranged.” I grinned.
“Hey, what do you mean, man? Do you want to ruin my life? I only want to meet her.” He looked at me with disarming innocence in his light blue eyes, and I began to understand why most women were unable to resist him. It would be hard to escape this leopard in rabbit’s clothing.
“And what about your sensational Melissa?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“What about her?” Robert looked at me in amazement and drained the last drop of coffee from his cup. “Melissa is a very nice girl who’s got to learn all about Newton’s laws because she has her exams coming up. And anyway, everything is relative, as the highly esteemed monsieur Einstein tells us.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that.”
“Of course he meant it like that.” A sly grin crept over Robert’s face. “Now, are you my friend or not?”
I pushed my cup away with a resigned sigh. “No worries—I’m your friend.”
“And I’m yours. Do you have anything suitable to wear to dinner at the Ritz? I bet you’d even manage to show up there in a pullover. At the Ritz!”
You can say what you like about me, but my best friend, Robert Roussel, professor of astrophysics and babe magnet to all his female students, would have lost that bet outright. Because as I drove up to the Ritz in a taxi that Sunday evening, I was wearing a dazzling white shirt with a tie and an elegant dark blue suit. My getup left nothing to be desired; even Robert would have had to admit that.
But my friend turned out to be right about one thing. That dinner with
Solène Avril was to end very differently from what I’d imagined. And in a way that was not strictly business at all.
Twelve
The dramatic structure of a good film is based on a director’s choosing a moment in the life of his hero when an unexpected occurrence or a sudden realization changes everything. This turning point, which divides the lives of the people on the screen into a before and an after and changes them for the better or the worse, is the core of the action. And very often chance or fate—in the last analysis, it doesn’t really matter which—has a hand in it.
A man sees someone being murdered on a passing train. A clerk finds a ticket for Rome in a phone booth one morning and decides not to go to work, but to risk the journey. A woman discovers a suspicious hotel bill in her husband’s suit pocket. A child dies in a car accident, and its death throws a whole family out of its equilibrium. A man discovers during a picnic in the Bois de Boulogne that he actually loves his fiancée’s best friend. Three quarrelsome siblings are forced by the terms of their mother’s will to travel the pilgrim road to Santiago together before they can touch their inheritance. The daughter of a millionairess hides the good-looking thief who hammers on her hotel door. Five years after the war, a married man unexpectedly meets his first love again in a café.
Oh, yes, there’s one more: The owner of a small cinema takes an evening stroll on one of the loveliest squares in Paris with a famous actress.
It’s always a single moment that sets everything in motion and creates new connections. Cause and effect. Action and reaction. The butterfly that flutters its wings and causes a hurricane many thousands of miles away. In real life, however, unlike in the movies, you can’t choose the moments that bring about groundbreaking changes. In fact, you often don’t have the faintest idea that you are heading for such a moment.
* * *
The place Vendôme lay silent and majestic in the twilight, an untouched island that seemed to have been forgotten by the bustle of the city. On an impressive column towering in the middle of the square, the cast-iron statue of Napoléon kept lofty watch over time and all things human. In the arcades around the edges of the square were a whole lot of banks and also the most elegant stores and most expensive jewelers in Paris. You don’t just chance to pass through the place Vendôme, and as my taxi stopped outside the entrance to the Ritz, I tried to remember when I’d last been in this square. Without success.
The porter opened the taxi door for me; I got out and, for the first time in my life, entered the oldest grand hotel in the world.
I looked around uncertainly in the lobby—the reception desk was on the right-hand side—and less than a second later a gray-haired hotel clerk came up to me and asked discreetly if he could help me.
“Bonsoir. I have an appointment with Monsieur Allan Wood and … er … Madame Avril,” I said, and for a moment was a bit worried that he wouldn’t believe me.
“Of course, Monsieur Bonnard. They are expecting you. Please follow me.” The elderly man in his livery seemed totally unimpressed and walked in front of me with a measured pace. I, on the other hand, was deeply impressed, if only by the fact that he knew my name. We crossed the lobby and passed an inner courtyard with stone and marble statues, where a few guests were sitting at the tables, smoking.
At teatime, they serve little tartes aux framboises and delicate sandwiches on silver cake stands—I knew that from Robert, who valued the discreet privacy of the place when he came here with one of his chosen ones and didn’t want to be seen. “Even a poor professor can afford the occasional afternoon tea at the Ritz,” he joked. A thick carpet with an orange pattern swallowed the sound of our steps as we headed for an old-fashioned sofa and chairs. Behind them, on a marble fireplace, a gigantic flower arrangement of deep blue gladioli, purple tulips, white orchids, and pink roses reached almost to the ceiling. Fascinated, I looked around. Wherever my gaze fell, there were flowers, pictures, mirrors, antiques, and even the occasional person sitting with a drink or an iPhone in his hand.
“This way, please, Monsieur Bonnard!” The man in the red livery opened a gigantic door, behind which I could hear the low hum of voices. It looked as if we’d reached the restaurant.
It felt like entering a temple of spring. A light blue sky dotted with white clouds arched over the tables with their white cloths—a trompe l’oeil painting whose appearance of reality was enhanced by a real blooming tree in the center of the room. I looked up, expecting to see birds flying and chirruping through the restaurant, but their re-creation of nature didn’t go quite that far.
A young waiter with gelled-down hair came up and took over convoy duties after a whispered conversation with the elderly man.
“This way, please, Monsieur Bonnard.” He wove his way lithely between the tables, and I was no longer surprised that he knew my name. I was gradually beginning to get a real VIP feeling.
“Please, Monsieur Bonnard. Of course, Monsieur Bonnard. With pleasure, Monsieur Bonnard.” The frequency with which my name was being used had grown exponentially since I had entered the old grand hotel. I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had suddenly asked me for an autograph.
But that was reserved for the blond woman in the sleeveless little black dress who waved casually to me from one of the tables at the back of the room as a corpulent man took his leave of her with an autograph on his menu.
I raised a hand, put on a winning smile, squared my shoulders, and walked calmly over to the table where I was expected.
“She’s like a sun—everyone wants to be close to her.” Allan Wood watched his favorite actress admiringly as she tripped through the restaurant on her high heels “to freshen up.”
I nodded. Solène was without doubt the shining polestar of this evening. She was charming, entertaining, extremely amusing. She automatically knew how to draw attention to herself without anyone being able to say exactly how she did it. Perhaps it was the way she told a story, how she threw her head back and broke out in infectious laughter, how she said “Oh là là, chéri” to Allan Wood, or simply the way she spread butter on her baguette. Everything she did, she did with enthusiasm and yet also with the greatest of ease.
The nervousness I’d been feeling all day vanished in the very moment that I sat down with the two of them at the table and Solène said, “Come on, Alain, drink a glass of champagne—we’re having such fun!”
And we proceeded to have even more. It may sound strange, but after just a quarter of an hour I had completely forgotten that I was sitting at a table with two famous people. I got caught up in the relaxed atmosphere that emanated from this odd couple—who, as I had surmised, were not actually a couple.
In the weeks to come, it became clear to me that Solène Avril called every male being around her chéri. She actually did this because it was so much easier than remembering everyone’s name. “I have to learn such an awful lot of lines, I can’t be expected to burden my brain with names as well,” she would say with a laugh. Cameramen, lighting technicians, journalists she’d chatted to for more than ten minutes—she called them all chéri. Even the waiters at the Ritz, who served food and drink expressionlessly with all the respect and propriety you would expect, were no exception. They were the only ones who occasionally reminded me that evening that this was not a casual dinner with friends at La Palette.
Men that Solène didn’t like were, of course, not called chéri. They were “idiots” or “bores”—and the latter was clearly the worse insult of the two. “He was a bore, wasn’t he, chéri?” she repeated emphatically in a broad American accent to Allan Wood when talking about her latest lover, the Italian racing driver Alberto Tremonte. “Can you imagine it—a racing driver and yet so boring? I tell you, I almost died of boredom.”
Strangely enough, this headstrong actress never called men whom she was in a relationship with chéri. These chosen few were given names like mon lion or mon petit tigre. Her latest tiger was a big Texas landowner who was actually named Fred Parker.
Funnily enough, she managed to remember my name.
“Alain,” she said, “tell us a funny story about your life.” She was highly amused by the way that Allan Wood kept on mispronouncing my name, and loved pointing it out to him. “It’s Alain, not Al-lang,” she would say, correcting him. “But that’s what I’ve just said: Al-lang,” he replied every time, raising his eyebrows in good-humored surprise. “Al-lang—bang bang!” Solène poked me in the ribs and we laughed till tears ran down our cheeks.
Allan Wood joined in the laughter. He had a great sense of humor, and was one of those enviable people who are capable of laughing at themselves. I’d seen that when the starter was served. Allan had chosen œuf cocotte from the gigantic menu. “Oeuf cocotte—that sounds kind of sexy,” he had said, only to find himself half an hour later leaning over a little dish in which half-cooked eggs and chopped-up mushrooms were floating in a slimy brown sauce. “Good God, what on earth is that?” he blurted, staring distrustfully at the warm goo—which, incidentally, is said to have an aphrodisiac effect. “Has this already been in someone else’s mouth? That wasn’t necessary. I may be old, but my teeth are still up to scratch!”
“That’s what you eat when you have something else in mind, chéri,” Solène explained, the corner of her mouth twitching suspiciously.
“Would you believe it?” said Allan, shaking his head as he fearlessly dunked a big chunk of baguette in the egg mixture and chewed on it gingerly. “Interesting,” he said, and nodded a couple of times. “Tastes interesting. But I somehow prefer fried eggs, sunny-side up.” He quickly washed the gloop down with a big gulp of red wine, threw his napkin down on the plate, and looked at me. “Now I’m looking forward to my steak. But first you and I have something to discuss.”
One Evening in Paris Page 6