by Hedi Kaddour
Later, Gabrielle said to Ganthier:
“That guy would blow up the planet to reach the moon, and he is inviting me over! He wants to show me a Strandkorb, do you know what that is?”
“Yes, a beach chair, a large armchair made of wood and wicker. He put it on his balcony, two seats. He told me that it reminds him of the beaches of his occupied country, yes, ‘occupied,’ the corner of Prussia that they had to give to the Polish, the Danzig corridor. It’s always risky to live in a place that can be transformed into a corridor. He says that it’s the land of Kant—in fact Königsberg is more to the east, after Danzig. Those are the two great specialties of the country, Strandkorbs and Kant. The armchair is ingenious, a retractable shelf on each arm to hold your beer, another shelf under the seat that slides out and becomes a footrest. I’m sure that Otto dreams of spending an afternoon sitting on it with you.”
“I don’t think I really interest him. I don’t think he’s interested in women.”
34
FASCINATION
Kathryn was able to arrange a meeting with Wiesner: “It’s not because you’re American that I’m seeing you, it’s because I saw you in a film by your husband, The Rose Merchant, it’s very good, very well done.” Kathryn was ashamed of that film. It had earned a lot of money but it was an easy story, a tearjerker, with two alternate endings, a happy marriage or a tragic death. The producers had demanded a happy ending, believing that only intellectuals—that is, people capable of reading a newspaper—would like a tragic one, but the tragic ending was as successful as the marriage of the heroine, and they asked the managers of the movie theaters: do you want death or marriage? Or both? In any case, it was a tearjerker. Neil didn’t like the film either, and he was counting a lot on his future Eugénie Grandet to regain the admiration of artists. Neil was like that, always in advance of a film that would reestablish everything, and always in advance of a woman, Kathryn said to herself: He must be having fun back there, I don’t even want to know whom with anymore, I even wonder why we’re still together, because we see so little of each other? Because that pig Arbuckle was too much and the studios don’t want any divorces . . . because we don’t care enough about each other to have the energy to break up, because we don’t have any more vanity, because the situation is convenient . . . Before we arrived in Nahbès I never lived on the other side of cheating, it was by cheating on Neil that I’ve learned how easy it is, and so Raouf was payback for Neil? My jealousy scenes . . . Metilda must have seemed much easier to live with. That’s what men look for, easygoing women . . .
Kathryn wondered if there was any irony in Wiesner’s admiration for that Rose Merchant. The filmmaker spoke to her in a friendly voice, but she sensed that at any moment he would become the master. She needed him. A great film shot in Berlin—that made you someone special in Hollywood. She knew that she would never be a true star, but she could be someone special. Berlin was her chance. Wiesner knew it, too. He was already using that knowledge to dominate, but what he wasn’t saying and what she knew was that he also needed her. To have a well-known American actress was a true passport, whereas in the States films that came from Berlin were still forced to be called “European.” During the war, in school courtyards, a lot of American schoolchildren had burned their German books.
You know, said Wiesner, I’m interested, if you’ll allow me, interested in a different sort of acting than what you did in The Rose Merchant, which you perhaps still do a bit, we will try to change some things, if necessary . . . That was it, he was criticizing the film. Kathryn was reassured about Wiesner’s tastes, not about his honesty; she would stay on her guard. The following days, in the studio and on the set he was unexpectedly sweet with her, but not at all with the others. “Yes,” he had fun saying, “Our society is becoming anarchic these days, it has some good sides, you must free forms to be able to create, but if you want the work to be done, nothing’s better than the good old Kasernenhofton, the ‘barracks yard’ tone.” Later, she heard him say something that hardened all the faces: yes, he had indeed said Hundsfötsche, a makeup artist translated, dog vagina? Whom did he say that to? They didn’t know exactly. Why didn’t anyone react? Because what was essential was that the work be done, and for the people on the set that wasn’t his worst insult, a tangled cable, a bad lipstick job, and the worst came out, in the original language, travail français!—French work! For Kathryn, Wiesner installed a halo of calm, friendly and specific instructions, but violence and fear pervaded, and she felt it was circling her. Wiesner’s hand brushed her shoulder, her cheek. Kathryn was flattered. Once she saw Wiesner’s wife watching them, very cold, a blond with short hair.
What Wiesner asked for was difficult, contradictory. For him actors were colors that should be able to change in an instant; great theater actors did that very well. Wiesner didn’t say anything else, didn’t ask her if she had done theater, or if she was a great actress. He had a very directive concept but demanded the natural. He often had a scene repeated, even when he seemed satisfied, and the more he repeated one, the more he asked Kathryn to appear to be improvising. He raised her chin while making her pivot her head, asked her to keep the pose to test the lighting. She started to have a sore neck, didn’t dare say anything. He had her act with another woman, one instruction, suddenly, “Seduce!” The actress put her hand on her chest, “Perfect!” Wiesner said, “A lovely moment of surprise! We must keep it, with less expression . . . The opposite now, place yourself against her back, slide your hand, no, don’t try to look complicated, a simple gesture of breaking and entering at the opening of her dress, but with the look of an ingénue, you’ve never done that? You’re not like my actresses, they say they have to be drunk to enjoy men . . . And now, more complicated, you look chaste and sated, yes, both at the same time, not easy, the mark of the greats . . . We’ll get there, with a lot of work.” He was silent a moment, dove into his notes, thinking, These actresses who think that the egg is more intelligent than the chicken, you still have to show them everything!
Wiesner’s wife often joined them during breaks. She complimented Kathryn coldly. Once she showed her husband a newspaper article. He laughed, pointed at a column:
“A teacher has written a letter in which he does an inventory of his career. The man kept accounting books, thirty years in his profession, you know what that amounted to?” Wiesner translated while reading: “Four hundred thousand blows with a cane, one hundred twenty thousand whipping sessions, one hundred thirty thousand blows of a ruler on hands, ten thousand two hundred punches on ears, he is very happy to have trained youth!” Wiesner mocked the teacher, but they sensed that he agreed with him; the teacher was just a bit extreme.
“Were you beaten a lot?” Kathryn dared ask him. She was also thinking of Raouf’s early years, of what he called his two schools. “At the Linz boarding school,” said Wiesner, “we had to recite our lessons for the next day before going to bed. A stick was more effective through the fabric of a nightshirt.” Kathryn said that she had never been beaten, by no one.
“Really? It’s because you’re not a boy.”
“In America people are beating children less and less, it’s called democratic education . . .” Wiesner and his wife looked at each other. Kathryn wanted them to respect her. She added in a suave voice: “That’s what allows us to beat others . . .” Wiesner didn’t respond. That girl was trying to escape her collar, and she was enjoying it! He got up to go give some orders. His wife followed him. Kathryn started thinking of Raouf again, He could have come with me, he doesn’t want to, he’s playing shy, that allows him to go see his Austrian, I didn’t know we were so modern.
Later, Kathryn said to Wiesner that the teacher’s list could make a superb comic montage, short sequences, a lively rhythm. Wiesner nodded in approval: What was that girl thinking? She was there to go in front of the camera, not behind it, she wasn’t her husband. He said, smiling, that it would show criticism of good education, but so much the better, “when, in
a film, I distance myself from my opinions, it’s the sign that I’m inventing; for Chekhov an original story in the twentieth century would be that of an honest banker . . .” Wiesner wondered what he was going to be able to do with this American. Her face wasn’t thin enough, she wouldn’t catch the light, but she held it as was rarely done . . . Not the allure of a star, she will never be a precipice, rather a woman with whom one would like to live, beautiful, but placid, she’s a very good supporting character, or a victim, perhaps . . . The symptom of the crisis of values is that this woman is a victim, innocent, or she could commit a small sin, like all of us, but for her it would turn tragic, I’ll have to make her die, but first go through infamy, because of a small sin, she could tie her own rope in the chiaroscuro . . . and before dying, a great hope. He assumed an affable air, asked her: “Dear Kathryn, what little sin would you be capable of? Little sins, you know, that’s what connects the audience with the character.”
Basically, Kathryn did not find Wiesner very interesting, and she began to tell herself that she had made a mistake. Neil regained a few qualities. He would sometimes shout on the set, but no one cared, and they had fun. On her request Wiesner had shown her one of his films, a riot of blacks, whites, light and shadows. On the screen there appeared in succession an insurrection, a putsch, an assassination, a man and his disguises, playing cards, a master letting his valet take drugs to control him better, a master of the hour and of well-held traps, pitiless with delays, a train flying by—suddenly she was no longer mistress of herself—and the stock exchange clock, and sixty miles an hour, I’ve never seen a drunk so well filmed, a false drunk, a forger in his lair, the lair full of blind workers, and false news at the exchange, and rates that collapse, a crowd at the exchange; in the middle a man is alone, like a pillar, he’s crying, he’s scratching his head, puts his hat back on, shouts, wipes his face, shakes some papers; twenty-four images a second, and in each second at least ten gestures by ten different characters; and the scene is suddenly more vast, at least a hundred characters, and never the same movements; the lowering of the rates, the fall, the crisis, the rates go back up, the crook now a millionaire, How does he do it so I don’t leave this tumult? He must have cut at least half of it, each cut creates a tension, and events don’t follow each other, they move, he is more American than Americans, the winner at the exchange becomes a psychoanalyst, promises to heal all the sick through dialogue, Not even time to smile, I’m suffocating, it’s been at least twenty minutes since it started, a light that doesn’t illuminate, which is threatening, that pierces, that creates a shock, which attacks like a thief, Almost a half-hour now without breathing and I don’t want it to stop, and now a woman, on the stage, like a burst of fresh air, To be that woman, to be filmed like her, as a burst of fresh air, you don’t need a princess costume, in this rhythm one is royal, and I disappear before they have seen me enough, I become a regret.
The film was crazy. The best way to make a good film, said Wiesner while they were changing the reels, is to burn one’s vessels, take the example of a man who cheats at cards and who ruins someone else, it’s awful, it’s for the everyday audience! My character, the crook, he also earns, but . . . he decides not to put away his gains, why? You see, that intrigues you, it’s because I first decided to have him give it up, even before knowing the reason. You have to put yourself on the edge of the unknown so that the viewer also has the sensation of the unknown, and after I found it, why is he doing that? Because he is not a simple crook, he’s a man who shatters morality to feel his instincts. For him that’s what’s essential, not money, and that’s what film is. It makes the never-seen rise up, even if it’s infernal . . . That’s not very American, is it, two hours of illusion to leave the audience with no illusions?
It was superior to anything she had seen up to then. It was all that Neil wanted to do, that they didn’t let him do—to be an actress in such a film! She listened to Wiesner. Everything changed as soon as he started talking about his films. He said that you needed life in the illusion. Others were wrong in wanting to produce the illusion of life: I’m trying to put life in the illusion, and life in the illusion is a snag, a blip, but that relaunches the rhythm! When, in a film, a clothing designer presents a fashion show, for example, he holds by the hand the beautiful girl who is wearing the dress. She walks on the podium, three feet above the ground where the designer comes up. That just means, “Here fashion is being shown.” For me, at a certain moment, the designer leans over the girl’s shoe and brushes it with his finger, not at all to remove a speck of dust—there can be no motive, just a sign, a bit incongruous, but that’s it, life that surges in the illusion, that’s all. Or a king who is stuffing himself, a medieval king. He’s not content to take the meat in two hands. That’s what you would expect, because you know it already: here’s a medieval king! If the film imitates what you’re expecting, that’s not film. You need something else. For example, the king cuts a slice of the meat—you could also expect that, it’s everywhere—but for me, then, he takes the slice in his whole hand and wipes the dish . . . And when my hero cheats human lives, it’s not a common story. It becomes a work of art because he cheats himself to taste ruin . . .
One day Wiesner asked her:
“Does my glass eye bother you?”
She said no, then added that it must be twice as hard to truly measure a space. Yes, he replied, in the beginning I was forced to fight against my vision, less depth perception, it was good for me, I learned to compensate, and what I see I owe to myself, not to nature. Nature provided the means, life inflicted the loss, and I re-created it!
He smoked a cigar constantly. One day he made fun of her habit of chewing gum (but she never chewed when she was on the set). She said that it was to avoid having those close to her find themselves opposite a mouth that smelled like cigarettes. Since then he didn’t smoke around her. She told herself that she was in the process of betraying Neil. It was more serious than loving Raouf. Neil was the profession. He had let her go to Berlin, but she knew that he was not at all in favor of that German experience, and she sought reasons to hate Neil. She had plenty. There was one she preferred, Neil looking for a letter, saying that he was sure he had left that letter on his desk, he couldn’t find it, who had moved things around on his desk? A police investigation! Or a jealous wife, it was the same thing, incompetence! Incompetent even in jealousy! He had repeated the word three times. She had responded that the mess on the desk was his doing, the same disorder as in his head, the disorder that the studio owners complained about! She knew that she was hurting him. The producers were criticizing his Eugénie Grandet screenplay for lacking unity. He didn’t want a screenwriter; he wanted to do everything himself; he couldn’t. He was suffering; he was going to become a veteran of failure. Someone had messed up his papers, the work of a jealous weasel—then, more direct, right in her eyes: I don’t give a damn if you read my mail, but put it back where it was after you do. She felt nauseous: I don’t need to rifle through your papers, I know everything, is your mistress jealous? If you want I can calm her down, tell her you were with me . . . He became mean: Don’t act the martyr . . . not with me . . . Anyway, you don’t know how to act . . . Kathryn responded that’s not what they tell me, saying nothing else. But that wasn’t the first time she had gone through his papers. After all, it was her right . . . She finally understood the reason for his anger. She told him: What makes you crazy is that you think I’m trying to read letters that no one writes to you! She left, laughing. Why should she stay with a guy like that?
Now Wiesner was showing her the boards for his great project, a mythical story. He himself had drawn a giant dragon, mechanized, and sketches of a landscape.
“I don’t want a landscape, standard scenery. I can’t stand postcards. I want the eyes of a landscape, and not many words.”
“You don’t like words?”
“When there are too many words it’s like when I have too much money in my pocket.” He was getting
excited while he was talking. They were in a private screening room. Wiesner had put an arm around her shoulders. She was afraid that his wife would come in. Wiesner understood, said in a low voice: “She’s making sure we’re not disturbed.”
35
THE RETURN
Raouf looked back. Behind them, in the middle of the road, a headless rooster was turning around and around.
“Is it okay?” asked Ganthier.
“If you like, but the peasant won’t agree.”
Ganthier stopped the car and backed up. A man came out of a thatch-roof house. Ganthier got out, greeted the peasant, told him that he shouldn’t let his animals wander on the road, and held out a bill. The bill disappeared into a pocket. Ganthier shook the man’s hand, got back in the car. They set off again.
“I bet you gave him enough for two roosters.”
“Four or five,” said Ganthier, “For us it’s an incident, for him it’s a scandal . . . and perhaps he won’t throw stones at the next car.”
They had been on the roads in France for several days, speaking little. Kathryn had gone back to America. Gabrielle was in Russia, with a friend she had introduced to Ganthier at the train station when she was catching the Berlin-Moscow, a slender girl with red hair, brown eyes, clumsy movements, an Englishwoman. Gabrielle has found someone to protect, Ganthier thought, I didn’t fit the bill. The young girl was verifying that the porter indeed had all their luggage. She interrupted Ganthier’s gesture and said to Gabrielle: “Give me some change!”
“I don’t have any,” Gabrielle responded, in a timid voice.