26
In a letter to his friend George Sand, Gustave Flaubert once wrote, “It is true that I am endowed with an absurd sensitiveness; what scratches others tears me to pieces.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
But I just turned nineteen, and I made only one wish while blowing out my candles: to stop letting myself be torn apart by my emotions.
The tears that flow when I don’t want them to, the questions that overwhelm me and that I have no way of answering, the stress that paralyzes me, the injustices that rile me, my obsession with the details that move me, the songs that sweep me away, the battles that drive me, the way my self-confidence abandons me at the worst possible moments, my fear of everything and mostly of nothing, the sulking that lasts longer than it should because I don’t know how to get past it…
It all has to stop. I need to find a way to lighten my load, to get through life without every day being a struggle, an ordeal that I create for myself.
Clémentine has done her job well as my best friend-slash-therapist.
The new Alma has decided to forgive Vadim for the half-ruined birthday—but in the back of her mind, she holds onto a promise never to trust Felix.
And the feeling is mutual. The new Alma has decided to channel all her energy and anger elsewhere—into filmmaking, into following the wise advice of Mr. Abrams. And very soon, the new Alma is also going to stop referring to herself in the third person.
For several weeks, I’ve been filming Vadim whenever I get the chance.
I film him when he pushes my camera away with his hand, when he agrees to talk to me, and when he acts like I’m not there.
I also film the places that mean something to me: our café and the park where we walk, his empty chair in class, his apartment, my room, the streets where we kiss, and the doors we slam.
Nothing escapes the lens of my new camera.
Afterwards, I go to my professor’s house during my assistant hours, which have basically become private tutoring sessions.
Mr. Abrams helps me sort through my dailies—the raw, unedited footage I’ve shot that day. He comments on the material and gives me ideas for shots and sequences, suggesting new angles and new ways of filming. He encourages me to shoot again and again.
It is true that I am endowed with an absurd sensitivity, and that what scratches others tears me to pieces.
Abrams likes my way of seeing things, my “sensitivity without sentimentality,” and I admire his uncompromising eye when it comes to my work.
I don’t dare talk to him about Flaubert, but I suspect he, too, is an absurdly tortured soul.
I’m no longer uncomfortable with him. I listen to his advice, let him compliment me, and allow him to push me when I can no longer move forward.
To me he is, by turns, a teacher, a mentor, a second father, and a film critic with no filter.
And after a while, I become a listening ear for him.
A shoulder to lean on. I let him talk when he’s having a bad day, like today.
Like every other Saturday—well, actually, more often every third Saturday—when his son visits him for the weekend, and the brilliant artist turns into a helpless father.
“You know, Alma, our lives are too full. Too full of people and useless things. We have to clear the clutter to see the essential. Otherwise, the essential slips away before you’ve even truly looked it in the face.
Simply because it was always there, right beside you, and you walked past without seeing it. ”
“I don’t really understand, Professor.”
“Ah, I’m sure you do.”
He laughs joylessly and bends down to stroke the head of the Basset Hound glued to his feet. The dog is dozing in a sitting position.
“Well, your son hasn’t completely slipped away. He’s coming to see you today.”
“He comes, and he leaves again. But that’s all I deserve, I know. I should have taken care of him when he was little. Taken care of my wife, of the life we had—which wasn’t so bad. I didn’t need the rest. I just wanted it.”
“Your life today is good too,” I say, trying to cheer him up.
“Enough about me. I’m rambling! But you’ll see. When you finish this short film, you’ll realize that you don’t really need Vadim Arcadi.”
I swallow hard. It’s not the first time Abrams has brought up the bad influence Vadim has on me and the excessive importance I give him. It’s also not the first time I smother my overly sincere responses. Instead, I let him speak.
“This puppy love is a delusion. A little affair that makes you feel big things: passion, sorrow, desire. But whether it’s with him or someone else, what matters is to feel that spark, to feel alive.”
“But you were the one who pushed me toward him at the beginning of the year.”
“No, Alma, I didn’t push you toward Arcadi; I pushed you to take up his challenge. And you did it! You hated him, you tamed him, you seduced him, and you fed off of him. But don’t forget the essential. You are the essential. You need to come out of this stronger, not destroyed.”
In the heavy silence that follows, I try to decipher this latest enigmatic piece of advice, one of the little life lessons that Abrams seems to have a knack for imparting.
More than anything, I try not to tell him that he’s wrong, that Vadim brings out the best in me, despite all his flaws.
That since he’s been in my life, I feel like I’m finally living.
That sometimes my love for him leaves me breathless.
And that he always breathes his strength, his courage, his freedom, his madness into me.
Vadim Arcadi takes my breath away. Vadim Arcadi inspires me.
How could I go on breathing without him?
I make a mental note of the ideas flooding into my head for my short film.
Filming a face holding its breath underwater in my pool.
Filming the wind blowing the clouds across the sky.
Filming the sea breeze as it caresses our skin.
Filming the breath we take before making a big leap.
Filming mouths kissing breathlessly. Mad dashes that leave you gasping.
Heaving chests, parted lips, and sighs that replace words.
Filming, by any possible means, this undeniable truth: Vadim is the air I breathe.
The doorbell rings and snaps me out of my private little escape into poetry.
“Caleb is here. Are you going to stay a little longer?”
“I don’t know. I think I’d better leave you two alone.”
“It would make me happy if you let me introduce you to him. My only son and my best student: we’re getting to the essentials here.”
His strained smile tells me that I can’t refuse.
A guy who is neither very tall nor especially burly appears in the brown-toned living room.
He’s the spitting image of his father, only twenty or twenty-five years younger—and unravaged by tobacco and whiskey.
Caleb has boyish features: thin, pink lips; a small, almost non-existent nose; and almond-shaped, blue eyes squinting behind a pair of glasses that suit him.
He must have inherited his father’s nearsightedness.
But his boyish face already bears the frown lines of an anxious adult.
Though he must be in his twenties, he looks like he’s already lived ten lives.
His hair has no style, no distinct color.
He stands slightly hunched and walks dragging his feet, as if every step is an effort.
From his furrowed eyebrows—similar to Mr. Abrams’s—his clenched jaw, and pouting lips, I get the impression that he isn’t thrilled to be here, much less find me here.
“Cal, this is Alma Lancaster, a freshman and my assistant. Alma, this is my son and his best friend, Despair. He takes him everywhere with him; you’ll soon get used to it.”
“Hi, nice to meet you!” I blurt out, cutting short the introduction.
“Hi… Wow, you put up with him even when you don’t have to?” Abrams’s son replies, looking skeptical.
“Okay, I think I’m going to go…”
“No, I’m the one who’s going to make myself scarce. I’ll leave you young people to it! Get to know each other. I’m going to take Hitchcock out, even though he dislikes his walks just as much as I do.”
“Dad, nobody gives a damn about what your dog thinks!”
“Perfect, have fun!”
His response makes absolutely no sense, but Abrams flashes us a forced smile and hurries off anyway.
“Do you always talk to each other like that, or is it just because I’m here?” I ask, getting straight to the point; it’s always better than letting an awkward silence linger.
“Most of the time, we prefer not to talk to each other at all.”
“I see.”
“He may seem nice, but he’s the exact opposite, trust me.”
“I believe you. He can’t be an easy father to have. I’ve got a tough dad too, in a different way.”
“Ah, finally, a student who hasn’t bought into his brilliant professor act.”
Caleb turns to look at me for the first time.
“He is brilliant, though. But he can also be condescending, tyrannical, cutting, and moody, and sometimes he goes too far with his stereotypes …”
“And that’s on a good day!”
I laugh. Caleb’s cynical comeback reminds me of his father.
“Does he often introduce you to his students?”
“Only when they’re girls and he doesn’t think they’re too dumb. He thinks he’ll somehow manage to set me up with one of them. But don’t worry, it’s not a requirement in order to get good grades. I’ve had the same girlfriend for three years, but my dad can’t stand her.”
“That sounds familiar. He’s not exactly a fan of my boyfriend either,” I say, surprising myself by opening up to him.
“You’re with Arcadi, right? He talks about him often.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, about him, about you, and about the guy who constantly stuffs his face during class. About a girl who’s always acting cute, even though she’s smarter than she gives herself credit for; an Asian student who is a bit shy but promising, and whose name he can never remember; and a funny redhead too, who doesn’t really seem to know what she’s doing there. ”
“I know exactly who you mean. I can’t believe he tells you all this.”
I laugh to myself as I match the descriptions to my classmates.
“You guys are all he has, you know. He’s a lonely, miserable man who failed the audition for his role as father and husband, so you’re sort of his surrogate family. The problem is, even though he likes you, he thinks you all suck this year. But hey, you give him something to do with his days.”