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Tuesday night, Carol trudged to meet Philippe in his office on a narrow, ancient street in the Fifth. Talking with John had felt good, but she still needed advice on what to do.
She climbed two flights, on centuries-old, warped wooden stairs, to Philippe’s office and knocked. He opened the door and smiled.
“Would you like something to drink?” he said, inviting her in. “I have water, plain and gazeux,” he said.
Carol felt tears prickle in her eyes at this small kindness. No one at work had acknowledged her existence today.
After pouring her some water, Philippe sat down behind the white laminated table that served as a desk. Carol sat in a white plastic bucket chair, a bit like George Jetson’s cartoon chair. Philippe didn’t play power games with the seating—their chairs were the same height. She plopped her pocketbook on her lap. It was loaded with Kleenex. Philippe had a box on his desk, she noticed.
“Hot day, wasn’t it?” Philippe commented. He wondered if this meeting would be a good time to talk over critiquing styles. He looked at Carol. Obviously unhappy. Not a good time.
“Yes,” Carol said and tried to settle her anxiousness.
They made a bit of small talk about Paris while Carol twisted the leather handle of her pocketbook, and then Philippe asked, “How can I help?”
Well, you could marry me for starters, couldn’t you. He looked great, even though he was in another of his rumpled suits. She was especially lonesome tonight. And feeling just a tiny bit randy.
“I have a situation at my job that’s very difficult. I’m looking for advice. I’ve read your work at the writers’ circle, so I feel I’ve gotten to know you just a bit. And you’re a vicar, you must talk to a lot of people.”
“Yes, that’s true. Tell me about your job.”
“It sounds glamorous, screenwriter for a film company in Paris, but day to day it’s very hard. Because there is so much money and prestige at stake, people are ruthless, worse than the investment bank in New York City that I worked in years ago. Ideas are gold bullion in this business, and you’re only as good as the one you just delivered.”
She took a sip of her d’eau gazeux. The bubbles felt like tiny sparks flowing down her throat.
“In spite of the pressure, I’ve written two screenplays in the last three years at Trapèze that were produced. Financially successful. Much more than made up their production costs. And they were successful entertainment. I couldn’t help but go to a few showings of each film and sit with the crowd. They laughed in even more places than I’d written. It felt wonderful. I want that feeling again. If the business people would leave their hands off my scripts...”
“Why?”
“They come into my office with the storyboards—the concepts for each scene—and start chipping away. They say, ‘If we used a French cow, right outside of Paris, instead of an American buffalo,’ or ‘if we used stock footage of the Eiffel Tower instead of hiring a helicopter,’ etc., until the freshness and integrity are destroyed. To save a few centimes.”
“Is that what’s troubling you about work?” His sympathetic voice meant Carol had to pause to settle the ache in her throat. Then she explained the scenario.
“A friend”—she didn’t say it was John—“told me to sue.”
“You’re a French citizen?” Philippe asked.
“No, British.”
“Gregoire is French?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t recommend a lawsuit. The justice system here is incomprehensible, even to the French. And you would not do well in a suit against a Frenchman.”
“I see. I’m sure you’re right.”
“To confront him personally with what he’s done, the injustice of it, the unprofessionalism, that makes sense to me. But ultimately, your greatest happiness and freedom will be in forgiving him.”
“But he’s damaged my reputation—no, ruined! There’s nothing I want more than to be known as a great screenwriter and to keep the respect of my peers.”
“Well, you know that people are fickle. One day they wave palm branches over you, and the next day they’re screaming, ‘Crucify.’ To spend your life’s energy winning man’s empty praise...?”
This was going to require a bit of thought, Carol realized. She mashed the handle of her pocketbook again.
“I’ve given my life to pursuing the truth through art. To creating art in spite of the business people trying to ruin things. I do such good work. I went through a tough patch with my love interest and wham! My professional reputation is ruined.”
“Do you want to tell me about this tough patch?”
“Some other time we’ll talk about my disastrous love life. But I’m too tired to go into it now.”
She took another sip of the sharp water and set the plastic cup down on the Formica table. Lots of white plastic in Philippe’s office...
“Let’s just talk about your job, then,” Philippe said. “The arts—movie making—that’s difficult. Why do you do it?”
“I want to tell stories that show how important values are, that affirm humanity.”
“That’s very worthwhile.”
“Thanks.” Are you sure we can’t get married? I’ve always wanted to be with a man who encouraged me. Can’t seem to find one to save my life, can I? By now the handles of her pocketbook felt soggy under her sweaty hands.
“What value is your current movie about?”
“Tenderness between parents and children. And how humans can’t do neat things like fly, but we can love. And love your enemies, maybe, though I don’t love Gregoire right now, quite the opposite, isn’t it? Speaking of the devil, what do I do about my colleagues and Gregoire?”
“Bide your time. Do excellent work. In a week or two they will have forgotten.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Just do your best. You could pray and forgive him.”
Well, thought Carol, Philippe was a vicar of some sort, it was inevitable that he talk rubbish about prayer and forgiveness and whatnot.
“Well, I’ll think about it. I have to go now—babysitter.”
“I understand. Au revoir, Carol,” Philippe said.
She dashed into the bright evening.
