by Dan Rhodes
‘So,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’
Fifteen minutes later he put down the phone, having made the biggest decision of his working life: the cinema was to close. He had agreed to relinquish the building from early September until the end of January, during which time he would make enough money to restore the place to its former glory. And what’s more he would be able to raise its profile and completely relaunch it – to let people know what Le Charmant Cinéma Érotique was: the only place to come for serious, hand-picked, properly projected grumble flicks from around the world. Out of nowhere had risen a new beginning.
He usually steered clear of the Internet. For a long time he had considered it an enemy whose sole intent was to bring Le Charmant Cinéma Érotique to its knees, but that day Monsieur Eric Rousset delightedly swept a pile of papers off his keyboard, opened a search engine and typed in his saviour’s name: Le Machine.
Monsieur Rousset had the patrons of the major art museums to thank for the uplift in his fortunes. Le Machine’s fame had made its way back to his forsaken home city, and when he announced his intention of bringing Life to Paris, a scramble had begun as the main players raced to be the one to host the work.
The scramble was followed by a swift retreat as, one by one, the city’s art-minded philanthropists made discreet phone calls in which they made it quite clear that they could not be seen to support such an exhibition, and that they would have no choice but to reconsider their relationship with their favoured gallery were it to go ahead. Likewise, the controllers of government budgets were wary of a press backlash, and made it clear that they were not prepared to release funds in support of this installation. Within days of the announcement, it had become clear to everybody involved that Life had not found a home.
Le Machine’s management had anticipated this outcome, and could not have been more delighted: their star’s outsider status was confirmed beyond doubt, and though the organisational burden and initial investment would be greatly increased, they would be able to take full control of the marketing and the money. A few numbers jotted on the back of an envelope showed them that they would be on course to make around twice as much this way. All they needed was to find the right venue. And that, it turned out, was easy.
So, in early September, Le Charmant Cinéma Érotique had closed its doors, and Le Machine’s management had moved in. They worked fast. A giant billboard heralding the exhibition now covered the front of the building, and the largest of the screens had been chosen as the main exhibition space. A four-hundred-seater, which Monsieur Rousset had used exclusively for lesbian porn (a speciality of the house, as well as being his personal favourite – he was a man of simple tastes), it had not contained more than thirty lost souls at any one time for well over a decade. The three hundred and twenty lower seats were stripped out and replaced with a sloping floor, which would accommodate four hundred and fifty standing spectators, with just enough room for them to mill around. A raised platform with a ramp was built to one side of the room, to allow access for people in wheelchairs. The eighty seats on the small balcony had been left just as they were. The screen had been removed, and the stage cleared to make way for the exhibits, and the walls had been painted black.
Just as he had on every other day, Monsieur Rousset had come in to see how things were going. Various items of apparatus were being moved into their final positions, and he watched as technicians rushed around sorting out the lighting, the surround sound and the positioning of eight discreet cameras. The projection room had been converted into an editing suite: every moment of this performance was to be filmed. All two thousand and sixteen hours were due to be released in a signed, limited edition, six hundred and seventy-two disc, cadmium-plated box set which would sell for thirty thousand euros apiece. Forty had already been reserved, and they were already close to breaking even on its production costs. Judging by the rate of enquiries coming in, Le Machine’s management was confident that the remaining one hundred and sixty would be sold out before the end of the run.
The toilets had been gutted and refurbished; the ladies’ had been used solely as a storage cupboard for decades, and it was emptied of clutter, mainly old flyers and posters. As well as the main auditorium there were two smaller screens: Screen Two had been used for man–woman porn, predominantly S&M, and this was stripped out to make way for the exhibition shop (selling, among all the Le Machine memorabilia, the seats that had been removed and the posters that had been excavated from the ladies’ toilet, which an astonished Monsieur Rousset had been told were now collectable items, and after a seventy/thirty split they would provide him with further revenue for his relaunch). Screen Three – shemale, feet, German, miscellaneous deep fetish – was taken over by the organisation. The press office was based here, and today everybody was frantically busy because, with just two days left until the exhibition began, Le Machine himself was coming to look the place over, to get a sense of it for the first time, and to talk through any misgivings he might have.
It was crucial that he be comfortable with the arrangements. Everybody wanted things to be just right for him, nobody more so than Monsieur Rousset.
He had been expecting Le Machine to arrive at the venue like a boxing star, surrounded by an entourage, but he came unaccompanied, and apparently on foot. He was fully clothed, wearing a big coat, a black beanie hat and dark glasses. It looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a couple of weeks. On being introduced to Monsieur Rousset, he shook his hand and quietly thanked him for allowing the use of his cinema. Monsieur Rousset was delighted by his soft-spoken graciousness, even more so when he was personally invited by Le Machine to accompany him and his management as they toured the venue.
They went from room to room before finishing on the stage. Le Machine was concerned about temperature control, and made a few technical enquiries about the refrigeration of certain phials, and the positioning of the heaters and air conditioners. Once he was satisfied that it was all going to be fine, he inspected the on-stage equipment, making sure its quality was up to scratch. He always commissioned brand new custom-made vessels for each show, and he had to make sure everything was just right. They had been fitted with valves to ensure that while his bodily excretions were fully visible, very little of the smell made it as far as the exhibition’s visitors. He turned to Monsieur Rousset, and said, ‘I wouldn’t want to make your cinema smell like a sewer.’
‘No. No, of course not.’
Le Machine and his team were always working on new approaches to Life, and an innovation for this run was a gas collection mechanism, which would be connected to a single-ring hob in the on-stage kitchen. Le Machine’s plan was to do as much cooking as he could by using gas that had risen from his faeces.
He completed his inspection, and was reassured by his manager that the technicians had made sure everything was working perfectly, that they were ahead of schedule and had a full forty-eight hours to run double checks on all the equipment. He sat on the on-stage bidet to check it for comfort, then lay for a while on the single bed, after which he requested a firmer mattress. He stood close to his sound designer, whom Monsieur Rousset had come to learn was his closest collaborator, and made some hushed enquiries about something they referred to as the new device, then he stood in silent contemplation.
After a minute of this, he almost inaudibly addressed the people around him. ‘Now, if I may . . .’ At this, everybody scuttled down from the stage. Monsieur Rousset took his cue, and followed. He made his way to a seat in the balcony, where he sat and watched Le Machine as he paced up and down, apparently lost in concentration. He was overcome with admiration for the man.
V
Aurélie Renard was delighted by the ease with which she adjusted to motherhood. There were still some technical issues to overcome, but she took them in her stride. The first thing that struck her was that she had no idea how to deal with a buggy on the Métro or the bus, so to get around this she had simply chosen to walk the five kilometres back
to her apartment.
Aurélie went everywhere with a big, full bag. She was always in awe of women who were able to live out of tiny bags; she couldn’t work out how it was possible. She always had a sketchpad, a selection of pencils and charcoal and a camera with her, and she knew that not everyone needed those, but along with them she would carry around more everyday things like a snack, a paperback book, a packet of cigarettes, a bottle of water, a street atlas, a box of matches, a magazine, an emergency concealer pencil, tissues, a small mirror, chewing gum, lip balm and a spare packet of cigarettes just in case. To her this was as minimalist as it was possible to be; she couldn’t imagine how anyone could get by with less. Her friend Sylvie was the same; she didn’t have artistic leanings, so she was able to do without the sketchbook and things, but even so her bag was medium-sized, and was always overflowing. Many times they had sat outside cafés and watched in wonder as women with small bags passed by. The ones who amazed them the most were those who wore immaculate make-up and held cigarettes. How they compressed so much of their life into such a tiny space was a wonder of the world. There must have been a secret that they weren’t being let in on.
Her bag was as full as ever, and with the ancient video camera adding to her burden she soon started to feel weighed down. Every few blocks she stopped for a rest, and to check in with Herbert. She would sit on a bench or a wall, and tap his nose, pinch his cheeks (avoiding the bruise, which was already starting to darken), sing half-remembered nursery rhymes and pull faces for his amusement. More often than not he would be indifferent to her efforts, but sometimes she would be rewarded with a smile or a gurgle. She began to take photographs.
Whenever they passed another woman pushing a buggy, Aurélie was confident that she didn’t look any less natural a custodian of a small child than the genuine article. Her maternal instinct still needed some fine-tuning though, and it wasn’t until she saw a passing baby with a bottle in its mouth that she realised Herbert might be thirsty. She found his milk in an outer pocket of the big bag, handed him the bottle and realised she had done the right thing when he drained it in one go. Shortly afterwards, he fell asleep. Sitting on a step, she pulled out a pencil and pad, and sketched him. She was fairly pleased with the result, but still hoped to do better the next time.
It was only as she got to her neighbourhood and neared her building that serious misgivings started to creep into her mind. She knew it would be best for her to keep him a secret, and she didn’t want her neighbours asking awkward questions. She lived on the fourth floor and there was no lift, so getting him up without being seen would be difficult.
It took her a while to work out that the best way to get through the heavy street door was to push it open with her back, and pull the buggy after her. Once they were in the lobby she was faced with the stairs. She thought for a moment about taking her bag and the video camera up first, then coming back for the baby, but she supposed it wouldn’t be ideal to leave him alone in the hall. She didn’t want to leave her things unattended either, particularly not the video camera, which she had borrowed from the college. It wasn’t worth anything, but if she lost it they would still make her pay to replace it. She found she didn’t have a choice but to get everything up in one go.
She sized up the buggy, and took hold of the frame, top and bottom. She lifted it, and started walking up. It took all the strength she had, and by the time she reached her door she could feel sweat on her forehead, and could hardly breathe. She half-heartedly vowed to give up smoking as she found her key and pushed the buggy inside. Not one of her neighbours’ doors had opened to reveal a quizzical face; even Old Widow Peypouquet was nowhere to be seen.
Herbert had slept through it all. She closed the door behind them, and at last they were safe at home.
Her apartment was tiny, and shabby, and a long walk from the Métro in an unfashionable neighbourhood. Because of all this, the rent wasn’t too terrible, and with her wages from her summer work and her weekend shifts in a bar, along with help from her dad and a steadily mounting debt, she was just about able to afford to live alone. There was one main room, most of which was taken up by a double bed, a chest of drawers with a small television on top and an easel by the window. Off this was a shower room barely large enough to turn around in, and in the corner was a kitchen that had been built into what must once have been a closet.
She loved the place, and had never felt claustrophobic. When she first came to Paris she had shared an apartment with a group of other students, but now she was glad to have somewhere she could keep to herself, uninterrupted by the drama of the shared living space. She loved never having to justify her movements, or her lack of movements, to anyone else. She knew, though, that she was now going to have to relinquish her treasured privacy. It was going to be OK though. It would only be for a week.
The buggy took up most of the available floor space, and she wondered what she was going to do with her new companion, where she was going to put him. She flopped on to the bed, and thought.
In a box at the back of her kitchen cupboard was her sickness kit. Her dad sent her new items for it every term; he hated the thought of not being there to take care of her if she was ever unwell, of her languishing alone. He made sure she always had enough supplies to see her through a few days of being housebound: some dry crackers, powdered soup, spaghetti, rice, paracetamol, vitamin pills and an emergency toilet roll. She had dipped into this kit a few times, when she’d had a cold or an upset stomach, but more often for hangovers, and those times when she had nothing else in and hadn’t wanted to go out shopping in the rain. It had always been a comfort to her though, just being there, and now it was going to be a life saver.
She had her usual supply of potatoes, too. She and Herbert were going to be OK; they could just hunker down for the week, indoors and out of trouble. This plan wouldn’t provide her with much in the way of photo opportunities, but she would just have to make do. She wondered whether he liked spaghetti, soup and mashed potato. ‘I know it sounds boastful,’ she whispered to the sleeping child, ‘but I make really good mash. There’s no point in pretending otherwise – if it’s mash you’re after, you’ve come to the right place.’
She took the bag from the back of the buggy, and emptied it on to the bed. There was a spare set of clothes, three disposable nappies, a plastic spoon, moist wipes, two jars of pureed food, a bag of maize snacks, a pot of grapes, a kind of cloth, a first aid box, a plastic mat, a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, some mysterious thin plastic bags and an unopened bottle of some special kind of milk. There were also some items that she couldn’t identify, and she supposed their functions would be revealed as she went along. If this was all he needed, this was going to be easy.
She gazed at him for a while. She could smell something, and in seconds the room was filled with a thick, awful fug.
Oh shit, she thought. I hadn’t thought about that. Why didn’t I think about that? It made her wonder whether there was anything else she hadn’t thought about.
He opened his eyes, took one look at her and his mouth became a chasm, from which came a blood-curdling howl. Maybe it wasn’t going to be quite so easy after all.
‘It’s OK, Herbert,’ she said softly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. ‘It’s OK. It’s me. It’s your brand new auntie Aurélie.’
Herbert’s cries cut through to her marrow, and the smell thickened and thickened. She looked through the bag’s contents, still strewn across the bed, for the things she would need to change him. She found a clean disposable nappy and a packet of wipes. She couldn’t see what else she would need. She examined the nappy, and with an artist’s eye she quickly saw how it would attach to the baby. Those long summer days spent indoors folding paper birds while the other children played in the shadow of the power station had not gone to waste after all. After a few attempts, she managed to unclip the safety belts that were keeping him in the buggy.
She tried to work out how to get him out of the buggy and
on to the bed. She didn’t want to go anywhere near his bottom, and the most practical way she could think of would be to clamp one hand under his chin and the other behind his head, and lift him out that way. She had never seen a baby carried like that though, and decided it would probably be best not to try it. She put her hands under his arms, and he struggled to get free. She retreated, steeled herself and tried again, and a moment later he was there before her, dangling and wailing as she held him at arm’s length. She tried to breathe only through her mouth, but even so the stench was inescapable. She laid him on the bed, and took off his shoes, socks and trousers, and there it was: her first nappy. The cartoon characters on it seemed incongruous with the seriousness of the task at hand.
She undid the Velcro fastenings, and opened it. It was full to bursting with a stinking orange-brown slime. It was the most disgusting thing she had ever known, and she felt sick. She lifted his legs, and moved the nappy to one side. Only then did she realise she hadn’t taken any of the wipes out of their packet, and with one hand grabbing the baby’s squirming legs, she tried to extract one. Herbert broke free, and as he landed on the duvet he smeared it with a coating of sludge. She gave up trying to keep him still, and the duvet clean, and with two hands now available she was able to take out a wipe. She lifted a leg, and ran the moist cloth across his bottom. Straight away the wipe turned from white to orange-brown, and she knew she was going to need several more. She looked for somewhere to put the soiled one. There was nowhere obvious, so she piled it on top of the dirty nappy, which had started to leak on to the duvet. The last man to lie on her bed had been Sébastien, and it seemed consistent that his successor would leave it covered in shit. At least Herbert was straightforward about it.