Men (3 page)

‘I like the way you say
champagne
,' he says. ‘It's so chic,
so French.' She laughs. He makes fun of the American accent: ‘They say
champayne
like
John Wayne
.' She laughs again. Every word he says is precious, reveals a little more behind his unfathomable demeanour. His eyes reveal nothing. Perhaps he saw her in
Musette.
Perhaps he's got a thing for French girls, the usual thing.

A few people walk back towards them. Of all these bipeds only George and he know how to carry with elegance our lot as upright creatures. Everyone else uses cigarettes, glasses or studied gestures in order to keep their hands beside their bodies. Those two are simply upright on Earth. He reminds her of someone but it's not George, despite their shared elegance. She casts about, compares the nose, the mouth, but it's more about the look, or the stature…or, she's not sure, a strong sense of self, a powerful torso, the neck a Greek pillar—a statue from antiquity, the human race, all in one.

They head towards the cars. George takes the keys out of her hand: there is apparently no question of her driving. George's limousine turns into a deluxe minibus. He is not far from her, two seats away, two bodies away. George speaks to the chauffeur before they set off and Ted, who works for George in his production company, settles in next to her. A joint does the rounds. The starlet is chatting with Steven (what on earth will Solange's agent, Lloyd, say when he
finds out that she told Steven, the famous Steven, that she'd call him back). She should go to bed early. They're driving along a boulevard; it's been four years but she still gets them muddled, whatever, it must be Hollywood Boulevard. They're outside the Chinese Theatre, the starlet knows a nightclub, the Montmartre Lounge—unbelievable, she pronounces
Montt-martt-re
with
t
s everywhere. Solange wants to keep passing the joint but no one is paying any attention, so she smokes it with Ted. George has left. And Steven. Next thing there are bright lights and lots of people and an old Queen hit single and Freddy Mercury's razor-sharp voice: he's a star leaping through the skies
like a tiger defying the laws of gravity
.

Because of the joint each syllable is enunciated, the drums detach from the piano and the piano from the guitar and the guitar from the voice, all the trajectories divide and reunite: celestial harmony. She has never particularly liked Queen but she remembers an anecdote, well, an interesting fact, she starts shouting in his ear—he's tall but she has very high heels—that Freddy Mercury was a Parsi, a what, a Parsi—how do you say Parsi in English,
Parsi
sounds just fine—in any case she's off and running: a fascinating religion, sun worshippers, strict vegans, they don't bury their dead but perform an extremely civilised ritual—he asks her to repeat, she shouts at the top of her voice: they lay them out on the top of towers, the Towers of Silence—she's yelling—the vultures come and devour them; it takes twenty-odd vultures ten minutes to reduce the bodies to perfectly white
bones, which are then arranged in the tower, in circles, in a super-sophisticated system, gutters and drains for the bodily fluids, so clean, much more hygienic than burial when you think about it. The problem is that there are almost no vultures in Bombay anymore because of the pollution, so the neighbouring Hindus complain about the bodies.

‘Interesting,' he says.

It looks like he thinks it is. It's perhaps not the ideal conversation but he's looking her in the eye. They step aside at the same time to get clear of the music, which is everywhere, she can't hear a word he's saying, the image of the decomposing bodies is sort of floating between them—‘I've heard'—she scarcely changes the subject—‘that elephants are the only animals to have a ritual for their dead.' She is full of hope. Hope that he might talk to her. The elephants are swaying from side to side, rocking the white bones of their comrades in their trunks. Hope that he might explain things to her, take her away, carry her off elephant-style. But his face is impassive again. Almost stony.

‘I know nothing about elephants,' he replies dryly.

‘I know a lot about Parsis.' She laughs feebly.

He is still wearing his improbable Jedi coat and drops of sweat are pearling at the roots of his hair; it's either the heat of the nightclub or a sort of annoyance that she can't identify, exhaustion, a kind of impatience, pity for her. She wouldn't have believed it, but perhaps he's one of those men with whom you have to make the first move.

There is a slippage in time and space, a plunge forward and she's dancing with Ted. Donna Summer pants and moans and whispers
ooooohhh I feel love I feel love I feel love.
Ted is irrelevant but at least he's acting normally, normally for someone whose nose is white with powder. He sways his hips, holds out his hand, caresses her shoulder, mouthing the lyrics, and she spins around. The Canadian Jedi is standing at the bar, motionless, staring into space. Under the tilting lights she watches him move away across the dance floor towards the exit—she has to follow him; she has no choice. The perfumed flapping of his big coat envelops her; she hears Ted's voice tinged with bitterness: ‘You're heading for trouble.'

TROUBLE

She's running. He's three metres behind her and the roar of the bullets is terrifying. The clatter of her extremely high heels echoes in her head, as if she were running beneath her own skull. The make-up is dry and crepey on her cheeks and she has a terrible urge to rub her eyes. He's running too fast; they've reached the marker on the left; he's too close; watch out for the marker on the right, the corner, the railing. Her lungs are going to explode. She throws herself into the green corner, she screams, Matt Damon jumps on her and the blood spurts, she pants, she dies—cut.

He was too close! Obviously the extra was too close; she's pretty sure he doesn't realise it's the cameras they're running for and not the film crew. Sixth take. It's little more than a form of slavery, at the mercy of digital ever since
film stock became worthless.
You were great, Solange, you were superb, I love you.
The director overdoes it a bit. The make-up woman wipes off most of the blood before they head back to the dressing room where the props woman rants as she tears Solange's skin under the shirt. At least the wardrobe woman is an angel: she slipped her some padded inner soles for the stilettos, which didn't prevent her legs from turning into jackhammers. She needs a massage between takes. Matt is sure to get massages. Lloyd sold her the role by telling her that she would die
in the arms of Matt Damon
. In the end, their interaction is nothing more than a knee jab (from him) in the chest (hers). On the first take the damn blood sachet refused to burst; she's a battered actress.

Her phone is still showing no messages.

The wardrobe woman cuts the shirt off with scissors so as not to interfere with the wig; the hairdresser sprays the wig with lacquer; the make-up artist covers her eyes and redoes the foundation. She looks awful, terrifying. And there are marks on her face. The make-up artist is working hard on the under-eye concealer. The props person returns with a sixth sachet of blood. She has to change her bra, but Olga from wardrobe doesn't have any more in her size. They unwrap a sixth shirt, Olga gives it a quick iron while Natsumi, the assistant, runs off to buy a bra—it's not
Danger in Malibu
; she's not going to tear around without one. Phones are ringing left, right and centre. Except hers.

Perhaps he didn't find the Post-it note she left him
with her number on it? Or else he's still sleeping—this late? They're saying that number two camera didn't reverse at the right time. Mobile phones are vibrating full bore, about to fly off the tables. She turns hers off and restarts it: it's working. Natsumi returns empty-handed, red and sweaty. No B-cup bras: apparently she's the only female in this city to have kept a normal breast size. Outside, everyone's screaming. No one has eaten yet. She's not sure whether to call her place on the landline. If he's still there, would he pick up? He was fast asleep and she hesitated over her note, the Post-it note pad in her hand:
There's coffee, honey and cereal, I'm leaving my keys so you can lock up, give them to the concierge, or call me to return them, here's my number…
She looked at him as he slept. In the rays of fluorescent light from the street. She crossed out
to return them.

Give them to the concierge or call me, whatever suits you…

Whatever suits you
sounded like a prayer. In the end she just stuck her number on the coffee pot, the keys and honey in front.

‘Olga, could you call me, please?' Olga does as she's asked: the phone works.

Kale salads have been delivered. It's hard to chew. The make-up artist says that kale contains much larger amounts of raphanin than broccoli and is wonderful for the complexion.

It would be easy enough to ask George for his number. But that's out of the question. Anyway, she wouldn't even
know how to pronounce his name.

She remembers Bob Evans, the producer, who asked his housekeeper to slip a note under his morning coffee cup with the first name of the girl in his bed. And she remembers Michelle Pfeiffer in
Catwoman
, in her lonely little apartment, interrogating her answering machine in vain.

Olga waves a bra under her nose. It's Natsumi's own bra, a Princess Tam Tam bra in her size, warm and slightly damp. She has time to lie down under a blanket before they call her—careful of the hair and make-up. They'll get her to put on the shirt at the last minute. There's a problem with the green corner, the one where they'll install the tunnel to interstellar space; it means rethinking the whole approach of the design. Does he take coffee or tea in the morning? She should have stuck the Post-it note on the kettle instead. Or on the bedside table?

They should have gone back to his place. He told her it was in Topanga. But that was too far. It's all for the best: he's waiting for her. He made himself some coffee. He studied the photos on the shelves, opened a few books. He went back to bed. He's reading. Did he notice the photo of her son? She wondered about removing it. He likes her home. He doesn't reply to the landline: it's not his place.

Her nipples are on fire and it's not the bra. When she was running she managed not to think about it. He was big, he enveloped her, his mouth on her breasts, his fingers in her hair, his hips against hers, almost swallowing her, inhaling
her, taking all of her, and his hands grabbing her again, the back of her neck, her buttocks, his grip tight, lifting her up and holding her, squeezing her, sweeping her off her feet. Under the blanket she is burning up with electrical charges. It's an adrenaline-fuelled desire. Natsumi and Olga are silent in the steam from their green tea; they look like they're asleep. Have they, too, ever left pieces of themselves beside someone? On the deck chairs is a projection of Olga and Natsumi, a hologram; the real Olga and Natsumi are scattered in some unmade bed, in this city or somewhere else, in the wake of a man.

What's the matter with her? What's got into her? He had scars at the corners of his eyes, little triangles, clearly defined. She has retained everything about him, his gestures, words, smell, manner, style, and everything about his appearance that she could take away with her, his outer casing, the skin that enveloped and wrapped him, keeping him there. She was able to hold him in her arms, and she said to herself: he is here, with me, in me. Provisions for memory. Provisions for strength. Because already another force wanted him, she knew it, a force that would be trying to take him from her, always.

Olga, Natsumi, speak to me. Look at me. The strange and marvellous marks on my skin are proof that I wasn't dreaming—no, the proof is the incision, the waiting, the open road. Outlines of standing figures, superimposed images from films, straight, delineated roads, planes
swooping over deserts, mazes to hide in, heat mirages over the occasional car…

‘Solange. Wake up!'

It's Olga leaning over her—for a second she thought it was her mother, all hazy above her cradle, far away. Her phone: no messages. And in a few minutes she'll have to run in stilettos.

‘You looked like you were fast asleep,' says Olga. ‘Did you take something last night?'

VIDEO

The keys are where she left them. As well as the Post-it note with her number. And the concierge's greeting was perfectly natural. She knew immediately that he had left just like that, shut the door, no note, nothing.

The bed is unmade but there's nothing lying around, no clothes. He didn't make himself coffee. He didn't eat. Didn't touch anything. Didn't make himself at home.

He gets up, late. He gets dressed. He finds his way to the kitchen, which is also the way out. He sees the Post-it note.

At that point she can't work out what his expression is. She can't decipher it.