Chapter 16 #2
“Bonjour chérie,” said Yves, exchanging kisses on both cheeks.
He introduced Isabelle, his lead actress, and explained his movie’s storyline.
She played a woman who was leaving her husband: a man who meant well but had no capacity to love others more than he loved himself.
Over the course of the movie, she managed to break free from the marriage.
The film was almost done, but Yves felt the audience needed to know more about her thought process right before she left for good.
He wanted Isabelle to write a goodbye letter in the park as ordinary life happened all around her.
Later, Isabelle would record voice-over to accompany it.
“Won’t the crowds disrupt the shot, or stop to watch? Are we allowed to shoot here?”
Yves shook his head. “Location permits in Paris are a nightmare.”
“But your films are so successful,” said Aubin. “Why not shoot in a studio?”
“It’s expensive, and I don’t like the result.
Too precious. Real life happens in imperfect moments.
So I do not fill out the Paris paperwork, or pay the location fees, I do not have a proper crew.
Everything I do is secret, fast, small. I often shoot at night, for example.
I meet the actors after the bars are empty and before the locals have woken up.
I shoot on my phone. I have lenses that make everything look cinematic and beautiful—or beautiful enough.
I shoot under a lamppost or a store sign, so there is no need for lights.
Today, there is sunshine. Perfect. If the actors are going to talk, I use body mics.
Hopefully the gendarmes do not pass by, and if they do, we scatter as quietly as possible. ”
Sabine looked around. You couldn’t pay for a set that had a palace and an octagonal pool, not to mention all these extras. “Did you say you got arrested?” she asked.
“Just once,” he said with a smile. “I make myself look like everyone else, taking selfies or recording friends on their phone, and I hope no one notices me. If there is trouble, we run.”
The notion of running from the police didn’t thrill Sabine. She liked to stay on the right side of the law, whether that be the official law, the principal’s office, or the laws she had in her brain for being a good person, a person who excels at everything she does.
“Aubin, you watch for gendarmes,” said Yves. “If they come, you run with Sabine. I will head my own way, Isabelle, too. We meet at the organ player.”
“What should I do?” asked Sabine.
“I was hoping you’d be in the shot,” said Yves.
“What? No. I’m not an actress.”
“I don’t need an actress. I have one: Isabelle. She will do the acting. Besides, in my films, I ask actors not to act, just to be.”
“He deplores acting,” said Isabelle. “The moment he sees it, he stops.”
“I only ask you to sit on a chair beside her,” said Yves. “If she makes eye contact, then do what you would ordinarily do. Which would be?”
“Smile, I guess,” said Sabine.
“Then do that. Let’s shoot one, see what we think.”
Sabine was way out of her element, but she sat on a metal chair and watched the kids play with their sailboats. Yves started shooting. Isabelle walked up, sat in a chair beside Sabine, and smiled. Sabine smiled back. Isabelle pulled out a notepad and pen and wrote a letter.
“Brilliant,” said Yves. “It’s very natural—good for you, Sabine.
I am thinking … I’d like to start on Sabine, then have Isabelle walk into frame.
Sabine, did you bring your tiny book? You could work on it while you sit there.
And then that would give Isabelle’s character the idea to write something, and she could pull out her own paper. ”
Sabine hadn’t brought her tiny book but offered to tear pages out of the notebook in Isabelle’s bag and make a new one.
He liked that idea. She sat on the chair.
Yves started shooting as she ripped up the pages and tucked them into one another.
She looked at the children shoving their boats off one side of the pond and racing around to the other side.
On the front page she wrote “Sabine.” She got halfway through drawing the palace and pond before Isabelle sat down, watched her draw, and pulled out her notebook to compose the letter.
Over the next six or seven takes, Sabine drafted and illustrated her tiny book.
Sabine
I could be the thirteenth in Madeline’s old house in Paris
All covered with vines
I could add myself to the girls, in two straight lines
And we could walk in rain or shine.
I could visit Paris, and see the sights
In the days, and in the nights
But I’d be no orphan, I would not be alone
I’d be here with Yves, and call Paris my home.
Les flics!” said Aubin suddenly. Yves saw the officers headed their way and started walking. Isabelle headed in a different direction. Aubin grabbed Sabine’s hand and they went another way. The officers broke into a run, one after Yves, the other after them.
Sabine and Aubin ran. They ran on forbidden grass, past tourists and a bandstand, officer in pursuit.
They ran through a row of trees bordering a fountain and hid behind a large pot of flowers, clutching each other to be as small as possible.
Chests heaving, gasping for air, they spied the officer searching for them in vain through the dangling ivy. Eventually, he gave up.
“I’ve never done anything like that,” said Sabine.
“Me neither. We’re criminals now.”
“It’s so badass,” she said and spontaneously kissed him.
“Maybe you are badder ass than you thought,” he said, kissing her more.
Badder Ass. No better compliment anyone could give her, ever.
Marlow’s office in Guillaume’s guest wing was a light-filled room with an antique desk, printer, comfy chair, and high-speed internet. But having her brain back in RIFF work was her least favorite time of day. She was under pressure from Oscar to perform.
Office hours were often back-to-back video calls about the industry summit, now called the September Summit because it would take place the first week of September.
Oscar had pushed through a day-long event rather than the four days he’d originally hoped for, but it was taking as much prep time as if it were the regular, public-facing, ten-day October festival itself.
She frequently asked when the job interview would be—now deep into credit card debt, she needed it more than ever.
Yet she was distracted. Out the window, she watched Guillaume, sleeves rolled up, working. She wanted to help. Or just be near him? Both. That way of thinking is disastrous, she told herself. Stop thinking of him as a guy. A man. A strong, capable, successful, smart—
“Let’s go over summit panelists, because I still think we’re missing a big fish,” said Oscar. “Who can we get?”
“What about Caroline Smeaton?” Marlow asked.
“Nah. She’s not a very engaging speaker, and I don’t love her work.” Oscar rejected most ideas Marlow floated, especially the female ones. “Who else can we think of?”
Marlow watched Guillaume, shirt off like the other workers.
The skies had cleared after the storm. The July sun was beating down.
His muscles rippled under a sheen of sweat.
He was superb in a different way from Luc, but superb nonetheless.
More cerebral, together, even-keeled. And who could resist a guy working in a vineyard? His own vineyard?
“Earth to Marlow. You’re elsewhere. Which you are, of course.”