Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sabine, Aubin, and Yves walked along Rue Norvins as Yves answered a flurry of texts.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’m finishing what I hope will be my last low-budget film—this is the one you will be in—and then I won’t have to do everything myself.”
“Why are you going to stop making them?” asked Aubin. “They’ve been a big success.”
“Because being poor is no fun. I hope to get one of three films greenlit. They are all much higher budget, so the stakes are higher, too. One film will be shot in the US, one shot here in France, and one in Ireland. It’s hard to know where my life will be.”
“Sounds exciting,” said Sabine. “But then anything’s more exciting than high school.”
“True. Have you seen my films?”
Sabine hesitated. Aubin jumped in, “I’ve seen a bunch. They’re great.”
“I haven’t seen them all,” Sabine confessed. “I guess I didn’t know how I’d react to seeing your work. How it would make me feel. We haven’t been exactly—I mean—”
“We haven’t been close,” said Yves. “That is my fault. And I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not a fair question.”
“No, it is. You’re my father, aren’t you?” Dangerous territory.
“Yes. I am,” said Yves. His voice caught in his throat as he said it.
“Your films are your life’s work,” she said. “I want to see them.”
“I will pass you links. I’ll also be in Toronto to premiere this film at Renegade. Would you be my guest? Then you can see it—with you in it!—on the big screen, with an audience.”
Sabine nodded. She’d deal with how that would make her mum feel later.
“This is Place Marcel Aymé,” said Yves, stopping in a square where, out of a stone wall, a bronze man emerged. “He is known as Le Passe-Muraille. A man who can walk through walls. I will tell you all about him over dinner.”
They went to Le Refuge des Fondus, a Montmartre restaurant painted fire engine red with gold lettering.
They pulled open the gold doorhandle, which was shaped like a baby bottle, and found it to be a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall, big enough only for two long tables along either wall. Customers all basically dined together.
“Bienvenue!” said the owner, holding Sabine’s hand for balance as she stepped over the table and onto a bench. He helped Aubin over the table, too, and soon after, brought over biberons: baby bottles filled with wine.
“Because I never had a chance to feed you with a biberon when you were little,” said Yves, toasting Sabine, “a decision I forever regret, I bring you here so I might have a chance to offer you a biberon in a different way.”
Sabine felt the warm glow of something. Love? The joy of finding a lost parent.
“The man passing through the wall is from a story by Marcel Aymé,” said Yves. “He lived in Rue Norvins and wrote novels, stories, plays, articles, even screenplays. Many works have been based on his material. I can only dream of reaching so wide an audience.”
Appetizers arrived in little bowls: saucisson, olives, and toothpicks to stab them with.
Another round of biberons. Then baskets of baguette, skewers, and pots of oil and cheese fondue.
Sabine was tipsy, happily so. She and Aubin were close, fingers interlocked.
A tiny electric current passed between them.
Then he pulled their hands onto his thigh, and the electric current turned up to ten.
“The story is about Dutilleul, a clerk no one pays attention to, who gains the power to pass through walls. He goes from a small life to grand adventures. At first, he gets pills because he thinks he’s going mad.
But since he likes his new ability, he doesn’t take them.
He is able to seek revenge against his mean boss, pull tricks, steal money, make love to another man’s wife—until one day, he mistakes the pills for aspirin.
They take away his ability, and he’s trapped forever in the wall.
He made ill use of his gifts. What is the word? ”
“Squandered?” offered Sabine.
“Exactly. I often think, what is my gift? How do I not squander it?”
“I don’t want to squander anything either,” said Sabine, squeezing Aubin’s hand beneath the table, but also gazing momentarily in her father’s direction. This moment, with both of them, was perfection.
Marlow headed to the kitchen to drown her sorrows in wine or patisserie, whichever she stumbled upon first. She found Guillaume opening a bottle of red. Like he’d read her mind.
He pulled a second glass from the cupboard as she regaled him with a blow-by-blow report of the performance review, gestures and impersonations included.
“If you decide to give up on festivals,” he said, “you may have a calling as a performer.”
“Thank God,” she said. “It’s clear I won’t be back as the manager of the industry office.”
“You never know. Meanwhile, two things. One: you remember I had a friend who works at Cannes? Estelle. She finally got back to me—she’d been away—”
“Like every self-respecting French person.”
“—and, as it happens, there’s an opening in the industry office there. It is only contract, but I offered to introduce you by email.”
“Are you kidding?” Marlow fended off feelings of guilt about even contemplating staying in France and leaving Noah on his own back in Toronto, and hugged Guillaume.
They stayed like that a moment longer than they should have.
The feel of him sent a tingle through all her extremities.
“And two?” she asked, pulling away, trying to behave.
“Is that my shirt?”
She burst out laughing and explained how she came to be wearing it. He didn’t mind. In fact, he was happy to see her in his clothing.
“Speaking of which,” she said, “I need to get home to clean up. Not only did I stink when I got here, but I perspired my way through that train wreck of a meeting with Oscar. As my Grade 6 teacher used to say, if you can smell yourself, it’s time to shower.”
“Shower here. Stay for dinner. It’s just leftovers. Madame Klein is out for the night.”
Dangerous but too good to pass up.
“Why not call Yves to pass along this invitation from your boss?” asked Guillaume. “Can we discuss it as an intellectual exercise?”
“Fine. Even as my resistance rears its ugly head, dazzle me with it.”
“I know he didn’t help raise Sabine. And it’s upsetting having her visit him in Paris with my terrible nephew. But if we take emotion out of it, why not ask him to the summit? It could be a win-win.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Perfectly. You make your boss feel respected—not even attempting to get Yves interferes with your promotion, which you need. If you do contact Yves, you open a dialogue that could help you understand Sabine better in this moment. She must be enjoying her time with him, since she stayed longer than planned. Although it’s hurtful, perhaps there is an upside.
And if Yves accepts, he will be in Toronto in September and will spend more time with Sabine.
He might become meaningful in her life.”
Marlow’s eyes filled with tears. What Guillaume was saying made so much sense. He came over and wrapped her in his arms.
“I’m a shitty parent,” she said. “Person. A very shitty person.”
“You are not. These feelings are natural. But one thing I have learned from you over the, what, almost six weeks we have known each other? You are not afraid of hard work.”
She buried her face in his chest and had a little cry.
“How about I pour you a bath?”
“Will it have bubbles?”
“Am I a heretic? Of course there will be bubbles.”
Guillaume’s en suite bathroom was the size of their Toronto coach-house living room, with a large, modern, stand-alone bathtub, and a circular window that looked out to the hills.
He poured lavender bubble bath into the tub, lit candles, and produced some salted caramel chocolate and Fortin’s best champagne, both of which he had snagged from the tasting room.
He then offered to wash her hair and took off his shirt so it wouldn’t get wet. She gazed at the world’s tautest six-pack, gobsmacked. Who had abs like that?
“I have to go home,” she blurted.
“Why?”
“First,” she said, “I really want to get into that tub, but I can’t focus.
My mind is on a wayward daughter, a terrible boss, a permanent lack of funds, judgmental parents, and a sarcastic but adorable brother whose life is just as much of a shitshow—well, maybe not quite as much of a shitshow, but approaching it—as mine. ”
“Sabine is not entirely wayward,” said Guillaume. “She is exploring. Getting to know her father, which she has a right to do.”
“I know. And if I stand in the way of that, I risk ruining our relationship.”
“Better Sabine do her exploring now than during university, when marks, life choices, and school fees are part of the picture. So you really won’t get into the bath?”
“I told Luc that you were into a situationship. He confirmed he wasn’t. Then I told him I might explore something with you. He said fine. So I have no idea what my problem is.”
“Neither do I.”
She eyed him. “Turn around,” she said.
He did. Almost trembling with nerves, she stepped out of her clothes and got in. The massive bubbles meant he could see nothing below her shoulders. “Just my hair. You’re just washing my hair.”
He pulled a stool to the side of the tub, poured warm water over her hair, lathered it up with shampoo, and massaged her scalp. May this never end.
“As for your terrible boss,” he said, “I admire your work ethic. I’ve watched you appear here every day to work for the festival. I’d kill to have an employee be as diligent, engaged, committed. Do you actually want Oscar’s old job?”
“I do and I don’t. I mean, barring other options. Maybe I’ll win the lottery and the job with your friend at Cannes will work out.”
“If it doesn’t, come work for me.”
She turned to stare at him.
“What? We need help.”
“With what?”
“Marketing. Coordination. If this deal works out with the States, we’ll need live events where our wine can be promoted. It would be like a festival industry office, but for oenophiles.”
“My parents would finally think I’d made something of myself,” she said.
“I identify with this problem of judgmental parents. Mine are, how do you say? ‘Snooty?’ Snooty aristocrats. Fourth generation vignerons. I cannot escape the desire to impress them. But I am never the perfect combination of old-world traditionalist and new-world opportunity seeker. We are not close. For example, I still vouvoie them, as if they were strangers or colleagues.”
“I didn’t know that could happen with your own parents.”
“It’s very traditional, but I have never been invited to use tu, and so I continue this practice, as do my siblings. This, I suppose, is like calling your father ‘Sir.’ ”
“I’ve never been completely comfortable with my parents either. If I’d grown up in France, I’d be vousvoying them all over the place.”
He poured more bubbly and added hot water to the bath. She was happily wrinkly.
“They have never thought me good enough to take over the winery, although it is my destiny, same as it will be for Aubin. I hope this idea to buy an American wine distributor will give us better profits and show them I can be trusted.”
“Will the deal jeopardize the company if it doesn’t work out?” she asked.
“The company is fine—better than fine. But I have inherited this ethic of never standing still. Always moving forward.”
She broke off a piece of chocolate and offered him some, too.
“As for your permanent lack of funds,” he said carefully, eating his chocolate.
“I know that we are in very different places about money. But I have the same worries. I have a recurring dream that I wake up one morning and our wealth is gone. It is always the same: I go down to the cave for a bottle of wine, but instead of it being a wine cellar, it is a vault. The French word for a vault is caveau, not cave, so you see they are close. And the racks in my dream are supposed to hold money, but they are empty. I have to be careful not to give into the fear. The fear of not pleasing my parents, and the fear of being poor.”
He chewed his lip and looked away. She hadn’t ever seen his emotions so close to the surface, and it made her want to care for him in the same way he’d been caring for her.
“I change my mind,” she said. “The tub is big enough for both of us. Get in.”
He obeyed, taking off his pants, then his boxers, by candlelight. They faced each other under the bubbles. She put her feet on his chest so they were connected, skin to skin.
“You are the most capable person I’ve ever met,” she said. “You could do your job, my job, and Oscar’s job, one hand tied behind your back.”
“Perhaps you can tell my parents this when you meet them.”
“Only if you do me the same favor, in your dashing French accent, looking pretty damn handsome in one of your many linen shirts.”
“Bon.” He put his hands on her toes. Massaged them. Let his fingers wander down her calves. Massaged them, too. She moved her feet down his chest, beneath the bubbles.
“I just want you to guarantee me this is OK,” she said.
“Why are you concerned?”
“Because it’s not fair to you or Luc. I can’t just pick and choose the two of you from some weird buffet of men. I know Sabine called it a roster, but it feels disrespectful.”
“I do not feel disrespected. I am going into this with the eyes wide open.”
“And also, this competition thing between you and Luc—this could all be about testosterone and not about me at all. So I’m feeling … cautious.”
“What if you threw that caution into the sky?” asked Guillaume.
“Because when I throw caution to the wind,” she said, “bad things usually happen.”
“Nothing bad will happen here. I told you, I have other people I sleep with, too, Marlow. A friend in Paris. Another friend in California. We are all adults.”
“And they’re OK with it?”
He nodded. “I am attracted to you, and I think we could have fun.”
“Time to get out?” she asked on impulse, standing so he could drink in the full view of her, dripping wet, bubbles sliding down the topography of her curves.
It was so tempting, this idea of fun, she thought. It had been a very un-fun day, and Guillaume was right: they were consenting adults. So screw it. Why not?