TOM-TOM AT SOHO HOUSE

He called. His name came up on her phone. Yes, come. Yes, ring the buzzer. The lock turned by itself, magic: he opened it with the key she had given him. She wrapped her arms around him, right there, straightaway. He asked for a glass of water first; he’d played tennis and had a headache. A fever? A spot of sunstroke? She didn’t know he played tennis. Or that he could get sunstroke. She put a wet cloth on his forehead. She kissed his eyelids gently. She fluttered her eyelashes against his cheeks, butterfly kisses, like her father used to give her when she was little. He fell asleep against her and she didn’t dare move.

He was worried. Gwyneth’s agent hadn’t called. A week passed before they were told that she had other commitments. Jessie suggested Scarlett Johansson. Too voluptuous. Ted could see Charlize in the role, with her aloofness. Too masculine, according to Kouhouesso.

They were at Soho House, at the edge of the square pond under the olive trees. Fifteen storeys below, the cars had discreetly hastened to make room for George and Jessie and their amazing vehicles. It was the first time she had been part of an HOD meeting. She didn’t know if she was with Kouhouesso as his girlfriend or as an actress. Or because of the group’s inertia? Or because, for George, she was obviously with them? Or because she was attractive? In the alcoholic languor of a late afternoon in Los Angeles, in the polluted heat, in the Californian pre-Christmas, she felt as beautiful and strong as a palm tree. The word Intended was whistling softly in her head.

The waitress came to take their orders. George gave the waitress the eye. The waitress laughed. She looked like Anne Hathaway. George’s agent suggested Anne Hathaway. Jessie’s agent boasted about one of his clients, Kelye, a little bit has-been. Eva Green would be better, said George’s agent. Three starlets in fake Versace sat down at the next table. At the end of the terrace, near the fountain, Kate Bosworth was drinking a smoothie. She called out hi to George. A role was hovering over Hollywood, a role with its little wings, its flimsy little dress, its little ‘where to land?’ look. Los Angeles was starting to buzz, to raise a fine golden dust on its crackleware back.

The waitress moved off. The fish in the pond darted around and the men talked. An English girl? Keira Knightley? A clever and classy European girl? A French girl? Ted said the name Audrey Tautou four times. Jessie suggested Catherine Deneuve, young. Jessie’s agent said Julie Delpy. Ted said Audrey Tautou for the fifth time.

Kouhouesso looked at her. She gave him her audition smile. He looked at her as he did often: his head slightly tilted, mildly worried, as if he was surprised she was there. Or else (the idea suddenly struck her) he, too, was trying to work it out. Since the beginning. Who she looked like. That face. Those eyes.

He had tied back his dreadlocks. He was wearing a thin cashmere sweater, pale turquoise, nothing underneath, and a scarf of yellow linen. He seemed even taller and almost skinny, apart from the breadth of his shoulders under the mass of hair. Jessie suggested Kim Wilde. When she was young. He’d be happy to have young Kim Wilde for himself. Ted was sulking. Kouhouesso called the waitress for a second Eastern Standard (vodka-tonic cucumber-mint) and excused himself to go out for a cigarette. George took Solange by the elbow and led her out to the terrace, on the heels of Kouhouesso.

A thick layer of red mist was lying over Los Angeles like blush. Kouhouesso was leaning against the guardrail, the smoke from his cigarette merging with the fog. Sunset Boulevard was spread out fifteen storeys below, as if, simply by extending his arms, Kouhouesso himself had thrown a spotlight on it.

George said that she, Solange, would be perfect as the Intended. ‘She would no doubt be perfect,’ joked Kouhouesso, ‘but first I have to see her naked.’ Everyone gave a bit of a laugh. George raised his finger, a waitress appeared. He ordered champagne, but Kouhouesso, who steered clear of mixing his drinks, stuck with his Eastern Standard. The terrace was a raft floating on the fog.

Then Kouhouesso started to tell a slightly strange story, in which he recounted that he hadn’t wanted to be tactless to a certain girl at a certain party, not knowing if she was with someone and possibly him, George, in any case not knowing if he wasn’t over-interpreting the signals he received, aware that he was experiencing a certain level of tension, by no means unpleasant (he smiled at the red fog) but anxious, first and foremost, not to come across as inappropriate, because, in this world where nothing is left unsaid, he made it a point of honour to leave each person to his, or her, private life: what did he know in fact about that girl? Nothing, and he would have rather been struck down by lightning that night than risk the slightest impropriety.

It was as if he had wanted to communicate something to them, a secret, a declaration, but the message was lost. As for the Intended, the casting slipped back into limbo.

There was a bit of a commotion inside. Jessie had spilled his drink down his Gucci suit and the waitresses were buzzing around him. Ted had gone, no one knew where. They were discussing Jessie’s role, which was now clearer: Kouhouesso had developed the character of the steamboat driver, only two pages in the novel, but probably the most racist pages. Jessie wouldn’t stop reading the description out loud, at the top of his voice, in Soho House: ‘an improved specimen’, ‘a dog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat, walking on his hind legs’! Kouhouesso and he were having a good laugh. She and George gazed at the fish. ‘A fucking racist masterpiece!’ yelled Jessie. Kouhouesso, magnanimous and instructional, spoke about period and narrative: Marlow’s point of view on negroes, whereas these days George or Solange…‘A fucking racist masterpiece!’ Jessie repeated. The word negro reverberated like a bell in Solange’s already painful skull.

They had to find a name for this cannibal: Kouhouesso put forward ‘Iyapo’, the name of his grandfather, Iyapo meaning ‘many troubles’. Everyone laughed. The pitfalls would be more numerous than the mosquitoes in the rainy season.

So there was a grandfather. She wondered if everyone in the family had names ending in o. Did ‘Kouhouesso’ mean something? Her French teacher had taught her, around the time when the whole high school was wearing ‘SOS Racism’ badges, that it was impolite to ask the meaning of names. George means George. Solange doesn’t mean either Sol (‘soil’) or Ange (‘angel’), but comes from the Latin, solennis. Only white people would assume that savages have names that mean ‘little cloud in the wind’ or that sort of thing. Back then, she didn’t dare point out to her teacher that her second name, Oïhana, meant ‘forest’ in Basque. The Basque people are the Africans of Europe.

The character of Iyapo-Jessie had to be stoking the boiler on the boat during the whole trip up the river. Which meant three weeks in the Congo for Jessie. He had taken off his stained jacket and undone the top buttons of his shirt. His agent suggested that he go back two or three times, but would that fit in with Angry Men 4? And what about the promotional tour for Return of Scissors? ‘Fuck the promotion,’ Jessie said loudly, and he lit up a joint right there on the terrace. Kouhouesso explained that you can’t just ‘go back two or three times’ to central Congo. The caves he had in mind for Kurtz’s station were only accessible by helicopter. ‘Does Ted know that?’ asked George. His own window of time was only a week; the dates for Sailor’s 13 were scheduled, as was the second film he was directing. Kouhouesso looked up to the sky: ‘Santa Rita, pray for me.’ A waitress brought Jessie an ashtray and apologised on behalf of the management: the person delivering the new suit was stuck in traffic. Jessie took off his shirt.

His girlfriend had turned up. Her name was Alma—enormous breasts and about eighteen years old. Jessie read her the description of Iyapo, filed teeth and a piece of polished bone stuck through his lower lip. Alma ordered a room-temperature latte, not too hot, not too cold, easy enough, no? In the end, the role of Kurtz-George was the least problematic: it was crucial, but all concentrated at the end of the film. Except that his scene was supposed to be shot on site, at the caves, and the insurance was delaying things: George was worth a mint. The casting for Marlow was underway: they were waiting for an answer from Sean Penn. Jessie was tom-tomming on a bar stool; in a minute he was going to jump on a table and shout, naked and beating his chest. George was laughing. There were more cocktails on the house.

Solange said she could make herself available at any time, including the Congo shoot, but no one seemed to hear her. Her cheeks were burning and her belly was tied in knots. Jessie-Iyapo launched into a southern nursery rhyme, Old MacDonald had a farm, ee i ee i oh…His suit had arrived; Alma was helping him put it on among a swarm of waitresses. The sun was plunging down over the city, red and flat like an ecstasy tablet.