46
I feel like the course of my life is being decided today.
My short film is ready, and I even managed to sleep a little. Eating, on the other hand, is simply impossible. I know Vadim spent all night finishing his film, and with his last name at the top of the alphabetically ordered list, he’s first up this morning.
In front of the whole class.
I have a slight urge to pass out.
Vadim’s short film leaves the whole room speechless.
He called it Home. No actors, no dialogue, just breathtaking images and a voice-over—his own—beautiful, cold, and deep.
During five intense, tightly packed minutes, he tells the story of one man’s immigration from Russia to the United States.
Then, later, the wanderings of a child going from family to family in search of his roots, the quest for a homeland, a hearth, a place where he would finally be “home.” The film then begins to consider inner journeys, depicting the way the young hero learns to use his mind to escape, by imagining stories, directing passersby in imaginary movies—always running away in order to remain free.
Free, but alone.
Finally, an encounter, a girl. Faceless and nameless.
The voice-over slowly tells us how, to finally, truly feel that you belong, you shouldn’t look for a place, a house, or a country.
You just need to find someone. Someone who makes you want to stop running.
Someone to hold onto. Someone to whom you can give a little of your freedom.
Someone you could follow to the ends of the earth, and you will always feel at home.
“Oh, Vadim,” I murmur, captivated.
My heart pounds in the silence of the auditorium. My tears flow in the dark—even though I had promised myself not to cry.
When the lights come back on, the other students look at me, curious and touched as well.
Clémentine places her hand on my knee, and I notice her eyes are red.
The jury congratulates Vadim but only asks him a few questions.
He gives half-hearted answers, barely making any effort and definitely not trying to please them.
I get the feeling he’s trying to ruin everything.
I think he’s afraid of succeeding. It’s the Arcadi paradox: wanting to shine, yet refusing the spotlight.
Probably because growing up in the shadows teaches you to be wary of light that blinds a little too much.
Despite Vadim’s lack of enthusiasm in his responses, the teachers and directors once again compliment the quality of his work, his pacing, his realism, his harsh lighting, and his uncompromising choices.
They let him know he can go, and the next student is called.
Vadim slips between the rows of seats and comes to join me, without a word or a glance in my direction.
He waits for the lights to dim again before kissing my neck and whispering three magical, little words that have never meant so much.
I tell him how proud I am. And that he is my world.
***
When my turn comes, after a quick lunch break and some final words of encouragement from Vadim and Clémentine—whose presentation also went well, considering she had the whole audience in fits of laughter—I feel like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
Tugging at my blouse, I stammer a few words of introduction while I look down at my notes and skip every other line, rushing through the ordeal so the film can start as soon as possible. The members of the jury seem skeptical.
I melt into the darkness when Him + Me begins.
No actors to speak of, either. Just Vadim.
His striking beauty, his smirk, and sometimes, his voice.
That gaze of his that pierces right through the lens of the camera, just as it pierces through me.
From time to time, my sister’s cries, my mother’s slow footsteps, Clémentine’s laugh—all the sounds that have filled my life these past few months.
All these people I love, captured just living their lives.
And then my emotions, my feelings, filmed from every angle.
The unapologetic euphoria of love. The visceral fear of losing him.
Desire, absence, passion, all the memories, all the places Vadim and I went together.
The university, the beach, the streets of LA and Paris, the raw nature of Santa Catalina, the classroom, my teenage bedroom, his apartment, the park where we meet up, the engraved bench, the deserted cafés, the square, the little steps we wore down together.
Suddenly, the short film that I wanted to be poetic, stripped-down, and minimalistic seems hopelessly romantic to me, full of clichés and melancholy music. A not-quite-silent romance movie, hopelessly old-fashioned. I consider slipping away while it’s still dark.
No.
I hold my ground.
Back straight, head high.
I’m aware of nods and approving whispers during the final frame, in which the camera follows Vadim from behind, his wavy hair blowing in the wind.
He walks, hands shoved into his pockets, to the end of the Santa Monica pier.
The camera, accompanied by the sound of labored breathing, tries to catch up with him, then stops and lets him walk away, until he becomes a tiny black dot on the horizon.
The lights come back on, and my heart is pounding.
I look around for Vadim, but the jury is already addressing me.
As if it was someone else’s work, I listen as the jurors talk to me about the coming-of-age film they just watched, about the discovery of the other, of oneself, and the quiet intensity of first love.
They analyze my images and my soundtrack; they question me about my choice of shots and my sets, and the whole time I have the odd feeling they are directing their words at someone else.
But they are speaking to me; they are intruding upon the deepest, most personal parts of me.
I let them in, let them praise my artistic choices, my subtlety, my poetry, the fine line between intimacy and voyeurism that, according to them, I never once crossed.
They congratulate me for having managed to capture love on film, at my age, with restraint, delicacy, and sensitivity.
They tell me that I have succeeded in recording the ephemeral, the elusive, everything we try to hold on to, only to watch it slip through our fingers. Everything that cinema exists for.
I could burst into tears, but I don’t.
That Alma has grown up, I think.
Alongside a young man with gray eyes.
One of the directors on the jury adds that right here, right now, he wishes he were twenty again. The students behind me laugh. I smile too, without really knowing why. It still hasn’t sunk in.
I spot Clémentine, on her feet, gesturing wildly. When I finally reach her, relieved that it’s all over, she squeals that it was magn-i-fi-cent and asks me how I managed not to cry.
“Lancaster… Oh my God. You have magic in your eyes and your hands.”
Vadim’s eyes are shining. He pulls me into his arms, whispering to me that he has never been so proud of me. “I didn’t know you were filming me so often, you little sneak. You’re going to have to pay me royalties…”
***
We all end the day at the Sunset Café, celebrating, congratulating one another, comforting those who are disappointed, and finally letting go of the tension that had been building up for so long. I go home filled with a pride I have never felt before.
Late in the evening, I turn on my computer to meet up with Vadim and Clem online. While I’m logging in, the little envelope icon indicates an unread email. I quickly click on it.
No text, just a photo. In perfect focus.
In a room with beige walls, Vadim is crouching, his face half hidden by another body standing in front of him, legs spread.
A perfect body.
With long, brown hair.
It happened.
And all this time, I thought he loved me.