Chapter 65

Thursday night, John strode to Le Café Livre. He noted another difference between New York and Paris. Here there were great black asphalt pimples in the sidewalks that could launch a person ten feet if he weren’t watching his step. Cobbles were missing from the streets, leaving big holes. In New York, city officials would make sure bright yellow caution tape tied to barriers was put up around each and every hole. U.S. cities were paranoid about people purposefully stepping in a hole and suing—because so many people did. That’s the means Americans used to make their American dream come true. Not in France. Nobody thought about suing. You walked at your own risk. You exercised prudence. If you fell, you went off to a very reasonably priced doctor and went home and poured yourself a glass of wine.

John approached the array of black and white woven café chairs at Le Café Livre and was greeted by the group with gratifying warmth. Even Anjali, who had worked with him all day, smiled and wiggled her fingers in greeting.

They were seated in their favorite spot outdoors. Their usual waiter passed, mouth downturned. Too soon for Parisian winter sourness, John thought. Maybe an argument with the chef? An unexpected request for a doggy bag?

Before sitting down, John peered through the door to the café. It was crowded, and a buzz of conversation poured out the door. Nobody was paying the slightest attention to the books standing shoulder to shoulder on the shelves around them. Books as mood-enhancing décor.

Not his book! His was going to be different, better. It would be on nightstands around the world, and it would be read! And enjoyed, dammit! It better be after all this revision to just the first chapter.

They ordered un café each. They were meeting half an hour later than previously, at Philippe’s request, so they could eat homemade food and save money. John still had trouble with austerity, however, so he had bought a take-out falafel from one of the popular Jewish places in Le Marais.

An espresso or a decaf was obligatory in order to claim a seat. But since each of them had bought one tiny cup, approximately a thimble-full, for five euros each, they got to sit the rest of the night with no nudges or hints from the staff.

“How are people doing?” asked Philippe. His gut was churning with worry, and the bitter coffee made the maelstrom in his stomach worse.

“The French stink at making coffee,” he said. “They’ve perfected pastries, the things that go best with coffee, but you have to take your pastry to Italy to get an excellent cuppa joe to go with it.”

Well, that’s the least of my problems, he thought. How am I doing? First I have to create some kind of life, even if it’s an impoverished one, and a reason to live it. Emily. But she will be in college soon—how will I pay for it? She’ll leave. I need something that will stay with me no matter what. He looked at Carol, with her hair in a cute messy bun on top of her head. Pretty as ever, lovely blue eyes, but she seemed subdued.

“Oh, fine,” she said. She had no intention of revealing she’d lost her job. She’d had chicken for dinner, and it was wrestling with her digestive system.

“No,” said Philippe. A direct lie, he mused. But I can’t tell them she’s selling herself, I simply cannot. And I certainly can’t say that I’m stomping with anger at God.

Anjali rubbed her eyes, tired from staring at a computer all day, and looked around at the writers’ circle. John, dressed nattily, as ever, Carol also looking sleek, probably ready to pounce on my work again but not a bad sort, really. Philippe, rumpled as always, dark rings under his eyes, looking compassionate and spent. She thought to herself, I’ve gotten to know these people a bit, I like this group, I think I can be honest with them. I need to talk to somebody besides Aasha—so happily engaged—about my life. I hope this goes well, especially with my boss here. But I need to talk. She chimed in.

“I have to decide within a month whether to go back to India and marry someone or stay and keep writing screenplays.”

John was startled by her forthrightness. Then he thought, brave. Tough decision. He’d been with his assistant all day and had no idea this was on her mind. The mysteries of the human soul.

“That’s a big decision, and I have to tell you something that might affect you. It’s an apology really,” Carol said. “I was a little hard on your screenplay. It’s quite good, and you should never give up.” That wasn’t all I should have said, she thought, but it’s enough for now.

Anjali answered, “Well, that’s nice of you. But is writing screenplays going to make me happy?”

Good question, Carol reflected. I have two relatively successful films out with Gregoire’s company, and two previous successes. They haven’t made me much happier. Maybe I should tell Anjali that. Nah! I’ve already stomped on her dream enough, let her figure out what to do.

“I can say this much,” Carol said, surprising herself. “The initial thrill of having my work purchased was intense. I’ll never forget it. For five days I was ecstatic. I felt I had justified my existence. Then I finally came back to earth. And they changed half the script, doing things to it that drove me bonkers. Seeing my name in the credits was terrific, but the final product was so far from what I’d envisioned, I was disappointed with the film. To be honest, I’m questioning my own relationship with the film industry. It can be fun, when the ideas are popping, and it can be very tough.”

“Like being a pastor.” Philippe’s stomach twisted again. “I still haven’t written my sermon, and I only have two days left. I don’t know what I’m going to say.” Wow, I’ll bet none of my colleagues ever admitted anything like that to anyone other than their wives. This group is growing on me.

“I learned a good tool.” Anjali pulled a notebook she’d bought at the Louvre, with a print of a Botticelli fresco on the cover, out of her bag. “When you’re stuck, do fifteen minutes of freewriting. Actually, do it any day. Freewrite about your project and give yourself permission to let anything emerge.”

“We’ll see what happens.” Carol dropped her eyes to her pages. She hated not to finish, it had the makings of a huge hit. But Gregoire owned that idea. That was the end of that, wasn’t it? She turned her attention to Anjali. “Keep working on that script you gave me. And on The Big Sleep in Paris. They both have rather a lot of potential.” There, that made up for my bitchy email.

Even with Carol’s praise, Anjali didn’t feel any confidence in her writing returning.

“Philippe, what do you think?” Anjali asked. “Will I be happier married than writing screenplays?”

“Hopefully, you can do both,” interjected Carol. Though I’ve never found a man who graciously goes along with me pursuing both. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Somewhere.

“I guess I’m duty bound to tell you,” Philippe said, “by virtue of my profession, that the real happiness of man is something you guys may never have heard of, because we live in such a secular age. The Westminster catechism says our best happiness—the chief aim of man—is to glorify God and enjoy him forever. But I’m not living it out very well at just this moment, so don’t mind me.”

“Glorify God?” Carol asked. What a foreign idea. She seemed to think that the chief aim of man—or at least woman—was shopping.

John wished Philippe wouldn’t talk about God. But then he was startled: how strange if what Philippe said were really true. What a profoundly different principle to live by.

Philippe changed the subject. “Time is rushing onward. Let’s get started, shall we?” he said.

Carol groaned inwardly with the agony of having to read about Chuck and his propensity for fisticuffs yet again.

“Chapter One. Out his motel window, the summer sun was a flaming soccer ball, low in the sky and ready to score a goal.”

“Chuck dashed water on his face from his room’s corner sink. He was desperate to sleep but couldn’t because the mattress of his bed was laid on wires that creaked when he moved. He dressed and went out.”

“His Ford Thunderbird”—nice choice of car, Carol thought—“started up and purred smoothly as he cruised a side street off The Strip. He watched for Jake Malloy’s current hangout, looking for a knot of men in shiny suits who would signal the presence of their boss. Chuck needed to talk to Jake.”

Here comes the fistfight, Carol said to herself, four against one, and Chuck would prevail with nothing more than scraped knuckles. It took John just three paragraphs to set it in motion. Sigh.

“He spotted the knot of men. He drove three blocks to find an open parking space.”

“As Chuck walked back to where he’d seen Jake’s entourage, he passed a casino and noticed its marquee. Brenda’s name dazzled him, written in black letters against a glowing white background. A strand of light bulbs surrounded the marquee. All the lights flashed in sequence, and her name appeared and disappeared as the white background turned on and off. She obviously hadn’t disappeared from his heart because he was rooted to the spot, staring at her name, longing for her.”

Ah, thought Carol, a twist. Not your usual action novel. It’s got a babe in it, an actress babe. Now that’s different. Sigh.

“Chuck strode through the casino, dodging chubby women from Peoria in mint green jogging suits, zipped up against the chill of the air conditioning. He went to the stage, climbed the steps, and ducked behind a curtain. Nobody tried to stop him.”

Hah! thought Carol, not likely in a casino full of money and security guards. She’d mention it to John. Gently. Male egos, after all. He looked good in a French blue shirt, sleeves turned up to reveal muscular forearms.

“He found his way to the dressing rooms.

“‘Hey!’

“Chuck turned and saw a guy in a security uniform coming toward him, and a dressing room door with a star on it.

“‘She’s expecting me,’ he said to the guard and slipped through the door. Brenda sat in a cream-colored satin peignoir, applying makeup. She looked at Chuck in the mirror. The door opened behind him, and the security guy poked his head in.

“‘Everything okay, Miss Starr?’”

Oops, thought Carol, John’s naming is off again. He has Brenda Starr of the comics on his brain.

“‘He can stay.’ Brenda’s voice was deep, luscious. The door closed, and they were alone.”

John read on. The fistfight didn’t come until the end of the chapter, after Chuck left Brenda. They did not have sex, but there was plenty of sexual frisson between them—the authorial promise of something more.

“I developed my protagonist, just like you guys said to do,” John said proudly when he finished reading.

You gave him an old flame to bump into, thought Carol. That’s not exactly all that “character development” meant.

“Relying on fistfights in order to have some conflict in this story is lazy writing,” Carol said.

John was silenced. So far at these meetings, she had called him racist, lazy, and sexist?

“She’s half dressed, of course,” Carol continued, “and she has a sexy, low voice, of course. Clichés. What about Chuck being attracted to somebody like a librarian?” She could see the glasses coming off and the hair being loosed. Oops, another cliché. “I mean a schoolteacher.” Schoolmarms and cowboys. Nope, cliché aussi. Why were there nothing but clichés for women’s roles? “I mean something new and different. An astronaut, for heaven’s sake.” She eyed his ring finger. White skin gone. She turned quickly back to the pages in her hand.

John was watching Carol closely, thinking she looked great but packed a painful punch.

Philippe thought, there’s no avoiding it. I’m going to have to talk to her. But first, John’s text.

“You’re still missing something essential,” Philippe said. “It has to appear in the first chapter and in every scene: what the protagonist wants, what’s driving him crazy to get.”

I’m “missing something essential”? John thought. This text is great. Everybody’s jumping on me tonight, even Philippe.

An author defending his work could be a bit like a bear defending a cub, Carol thought. Except that was a cliché.

“But he basically stumbled upon her,” Philippe said. “Why is he searching for Jake Malloy? What is his deep motive for doing that? We need to have a sense of that, starting in the first chapter.”

“And the other thing that needs to be in the first chapter is the theme,” Anjali said gently. After all, he was her boss. “In movies, it’s stated in the first five minutes or so, usually by a secondary character so that it isn’t quite so obvious as the main character stating it.” Uh-oh, was she getting pedantic like Carol?

“In the case of your story, it could be something like, ‘Justice comes in surprising forms.’ Philippe was glad to think about John’s novel and not Meredith, for a change. “I’m assuming that Chuck wants some sort of justice against Jake Malloy.”

“Yeah, that works, that’s what he wants,” John said eagerly. He thought, that solves both problems, the theme and the want.

“You could have Brenda say it.” Anjali was nervous about reading her own piece in a few minutes and was bored already with John’s story.

“Yeah, Chuck left her in the lurch a year ago, and now he wants to make things right somehow, even if they can’t be together,” John said. “Looks like I have a rewrite in my future.”

Nobody had mentioned the first sentence, Carol thought, and she wasn’t going to. It was ludicrous imagery, the sun a flaming soccer ball about to score a goal, but then again, he wasn’t attempting to write anything remotely literary, that endured through the ages. Give it a pass. An appropriate thought for a soccer ball, especially one flaming like the sun.

Anjali went next. She had labored to format her screenplay just as she had seen it done in the published screenplay for Sense and Sensibility, which she had taken out of a Paris library. That she’d have to format her script again when she got paid for her péniche article (would she ever finish it?) and bought screenwriting software was no small obstacle.

She passed out the photocopies of her ten pages. She had changed “Dick Bogart” to “Dan Price.” “Dan” because it was manly, short, and strong, “Price” because there would be a price to pay for the justice he sought.

John would think that’s great naming, Carol thought as she glanced over the script.

“Don’t you think Dan Prince is a great name, John?” she couldn’t help asking.

Anjali flushed. Carol thinks it’s dumb, doesn’t she? And just what sort of great naming is “Ogre?” If she shreds me tonight, I’m never coming back.

They picked parts. John claimed the role of Dan Price. He would, thought Carol, who grabbed the role of Madame de Denichen. She would, thought John. Philippe read the narration, and Anjali listened, attuned for hesitations or stumbles as they read her words.

INT. - DAY – STAIRWELL OF GLAMOROUS APARTMENT BUILDING

DAN climbs a staircase wrapped around an elevator shaft to the de Denichen apartment.

DAN knocks on beautiful, carved wooden door, painted white with brass knocker and knob. MADAME DE DENICHEN, 45, with short dark hair styled in a gamin cut, framing lovely cheekbones, dressed in off-the-rack yet high-end casual clothes, opens the door.

MADAME DE DENICHEN doesn’t deign to acknowledge him but turns her back on him as she swings the door open.

INT. – DAY – The DE DENICHEN apartment.

DAN steps into a luxurious apartment with twelve-foot-high ceilings, candelabras on the mantel, luxurious fabrics on the sofa and the armchairs that face it. The drapes on the two tall French doors that lead to two wrought iron balconies are silk, tied back by huge tassels that cost 50 euros apiece.

My son has a bright future ahead of him. The Senate. The President’s Conseil des Ministres. Higher.

My son is married to a girl from a prominent family. Two weeks ago, he was at a party, drank, then drove an aide—female—home, except he ran off the road. She’s blackmailing us, saying they had sex before they left, she’ll spill all if we don’t pay. We want you to get your hands on every bit of evidence she has and bring it to us. We also want you to gather evidence of her debauched character. If she goes public, we’ll go public and discredit her.

Not a bad scene, thought Philippe. Anjali might do well as a screenwriter. He would tell her so that she had more information for her decision.

Carol twisted in her seat. A little too much like that scandal with Ted Kennedy at Chappaquiddick. All Anjali needed to add was a bridge. But damn, her work was pretty good...

Anjali wrung the script in her hand. Oh God, I hope they like it. I hope I hear some positive feedback, something I can post on my wall and feel encouraged.

MADAME DE DENICHEN leaves the room while DAN fingers the expensive fringe on the decorative pillows on the sofa. MADAME DE DENICHEN comes back a moment later with a stack of cash.

(leans against the door again, looks him in the eye, with her bosom thrust forward because the knob is at the small of her back.)

EXT. – DAY – RUE DE MONSIEUR LE PRINCE

DAN leaves with a self-satisfied air, buttoning his suit jacket, and walks toward the door of a traditional French restaurant, Polidor.

I suspected that the girl who was injured wasn’t all that bad a sort. I felt dirty taking money to find dirt on her. But I hadn’t eaten in 19-and-three-quarters hours, and my rent was due.

Carol said, “I’d like to see you give both characters in this scene a telling quirk—a mannerism.”

“Yeah, like fidgeting with the rock on her ring finger,” John said, remembering Cassandra and the ways she brought attention to her engagement ring. That purchase should have warned me, John thought. “Maybe she holds her hand at a distance and admires it, maybe she taps it on the mantel in impatience.”

“Speaking of impatience, any words you can cut in the dialog would speed the scene up,” Carol said. “Less time spent on talking heads.”

Anjali wanted to scream. You’re driving me crazy! There isn’t an extra word anywhere in that scene. I’m positive! Shut up!

John said, “Dan needs to meet a buddy, his favorite waiter in the restaurant, somebody soon, to state the theme.”

Carol critiqued the critiques. John sometimes learns fast, she thought, especially when other people’s work was on the table. His suggestions for mannerisms were spot on, too. She regarded him with a sidelong glance.

John felt her glance but didn’t meet it. Time to be different than Dan Price and keep things slow for a bit.

Carol sipped her water and thought, That’s all the help I’m giving tonight. Anjali is competition, isn’t she.

The group handed Anjali’s pages back to her, and Philippe handed out his. Nobody made money writing short stories anymore, he knew. This was pure catharsis. He began to read.

Tamara tottered in the blinding sun. She’d lost her sunglasses, and even if she hadn’t, they wouldn’t have helped with the way she felt today. She simply must switch from red to white wine. Fewer headaches. She wiped her streaming eyes, her tissue coming away with half the makeup she had applied to the shadows under her eyes that morning.

She’d been in five shops today already. She spotted another help wanted sign. Burger King. She must be desperate. She lurched as the door swung in more easily than she expected. A man behind the register watched her. She walked toward him as steadily as possible.

“I’d like to apply for the job in the window,” she said. It was so cool in here, out of the sun.

The manager looked her up and down as she approached the counter—miniskirt, high heels, blouse down to here, make-up smeared.

“That job was filled this morning,” he said. “Sorry.” He went through a door back into the kitchen.

Her stomach rumbled when she smelled a hamburger being prepared for the tall young man on line ahead of her.

“Can I buy you a something to eat?” he said.

Tamara felt something uncomfortable deep in her instincts, but she had overridden those warnings many times before, so she did again. She also felt her bellybutton touching her spine.

“You’re such a pretty girl, please let me buy you lunch,” he said. “What would you like?”

As they ate, he told her how attractive he thought she was.

“That manager was an idiot to turn you down. A girl as beautiful as you could work for me. I hire girls to go out and have dinner with men who are traveling and need someone to talk to. You’d go out on beautiful péniches on the Seine, or go to fabulous restaurants. There’s always plenty to drink, good food, you just talk to them and entertain them.”

Something seemed off to Tamara, but she was desperate.

The group could guess why. None of them wanted to add to his pain by making a single comment.

“It’s good writing,” Carol said. She hated stories about prostitutes and drunkenness all that skanky scumminess. But she looked at John and Anjali, trying to convey a warning to go light on Philippe. They both met her eyes.

“I’m hooked,” John said. Uh-oh, why did he use that word? “I mean, this is a really interesting character.” I’d better shut up and leave it at that, he thought.

“Anjali?” That’s all Philippe could squeeze out of his constricted throat. They are being kind to me. I hate being pitied. I hate Meredith for what she’s doing. Will this nightmare I live in never end?

The group handed back his story with “Great writing” and “Nicely done” written in the margins. Carol handed out her copies.

“I started a new screenplay,” Carol said. “I wanted to see what you guys thought of it.” Actually, she needed their ideas to make this excellent, sell it, and keep a roof over Louise’s head. “We’ll get back to those fun birds, I hope,” John said.

“Oh, I guess,” Carol replied. She didn’t want the group reading the parts—people were always so slow, leaving big pauses in which they hadn’t glanced ahead and seen that it was their turn to read. She hated that stupidity. Flow was important. “I’ll read it. Here goes my contribution for tonight:”

INT. NAOMI'S STUDIO APARTMENT – MORNING

Alarm goes off. NAOMI, 50s, sits bolt upright, climbs out of bed to make coffee.

Her old-fashioned clamshell phone jingles. She reads text message: “It’s over. You make peanuts, you don't have anything saved. You have nothing to offer this relationship. Box up my stuff and the ring and send them to me.”

NAOMI gasps. She goes to the kitchenette, grabs a paper towel and starts to wipe her eyes, then halts, rips it in half, starts to wipe, then rips it in half again, tucks the unused pieces into the paper towel tube, and finally wipes her eyes. She sits on her bed.

Another text bings into her phone. “Insure the box.”

Good so far, thought Anjali. But I see extra words, and I will point them out one by one and see how she likes it.

John was not intrigued by the script, but by its author, who spun these webs out of thin air. He cleared his throat and glanced at Carol, who was intent on her pages.

She continued to read the entire script (selfish of her, Anjali thought, I would have liked to read a part):

NAOMI, dressed in inexpensive, ill-fitting clothes, and PHOEBE, mid-50s, attractive, in a long, artsy caftan, sit in a booth. PHOEBE eats heartily, NAOMI stabs at her food.

I’ve been dumped. I work at a dinky suburban weekly, the bottom of journalism. I’ve never been promoted. I don’t own a house or have kids. I hate to say it, but—maybe he was right to dump me.

The first time he held out his hand to me, and I took it, it felt so good, so right.

“I don’t think anyone under the stress that Naomi is under would say ‘What an incredible, irredeemable jerk.’ She might say one or the other, but not both. Too many words.” There! I said it. But don’t be an idiot and offend this professional screenwriter who might give you a hand up in the business. Darn! I shouldn’t have said it!

“I like that bit with the smaller and smaller piece of paper towel,” John said. Actually, he thought it was the only redeeming feature of this bland chick flick. Egads! When did I get so bitchy?

“Thanks,” Carol said. She didn’t tell them she had been given that bit of action by the teacher in a screenwriting class she’d taken. Crikey, this screenplay had been in a drawer for three years already.

“I like Phoebe so much!” Anjali said. “I hope you give her lots of scenes.” Maybe that will patch over my first comment. What a little chicken you are, Anjali.

“An old-fashioned cell phone, uses one-quarter of a paper towel to wipe her eyes—you’ve shown this character’s circumstances,” Philippe said. He had a clamshell phone, too.

“And ‘success might look different than you think.’ That’s the theme?” asked John.

Carol nodded with a wry smile. It appeared that her own life’s struggle to be a success was being reflected in her art.

“I see what you’ve been saying about theme,” John said, “stated early on by a secondary character.”

“The whole rest of my film questions that theme,” Carol answered. “Or it should.”

“You could blow it wide open by juxtaposing a successful character,” John said. Wow, I really have good ideas, he thought.

“That’s Phoebe,” Carol replied. “At least, she seems successful. For now.”

“I think that soon,” John said, “you should take us out on the town of Clifton and show us its downtown, its people.”

“You’ll see next time,” Carol answered. Really, John had good instincts for other people’s stories.

“And don’t neglect the ogre,” John said. “I like him, in a weird way.” I want to see the ogre on the screen after investing my time and creative energy in him, he thought. Next time I brainstorm with Carol, I’m asking for my name in the credits. And a share in the profits.

“And what’s with ‘men are a mixed bag?” he asked. “We’re simple, straight-forward creatures.”

Not the kind I end up with, thought Carol. “Oh, well, what’s a film conversation between women without an aspersion cast on men?” She smiled at John.

“I like your theme of success,” Philippe said. “I struggle with that question, too.”

John had been curious about him for weeks now and leapt at the chance to know more. “How do you define it?” he asked.

“I’m a pastor. That says everything you need to know about my pay. I’ll never swim go on safari or hike in the Himalayas and buy big experiences, the way some people define success. My bucket list has to be very short.

“Success for me, for years, was defined as my congregation growing. Then I learned that that wasn’t it. On a good day, when I look at my life the way I believe God looks at it, I can define success as walking hand in hand with God, trusting him no matter what—in life, death, whatever. But lately I’m not even doing that, to be honest.”

Carol had been feeling like a failure, having been fired, and she could identify with Philippe. Her markers for success—smart new clothes for her and Louise—were denied her now, if she were going to use her savings wisely. What was going to take their place?

“But how do you define that, precisely?” Philippe challenged her. Three quarters of being a pastor was challenging the assumptions of his parishioners, which he thought maybe the writers’ circle was.

“I don’t know. Maybe several screenplays produced,” Anjali said. “Enough to live on so I can write more and don’t have to be an assistant.” Whoops! She glanced at John, who winked.

“‘Live’ as in Beverly Hills?” Philippe asked. “The bar you’re aiming for could easily keep sliding.”

“I could live simply,” Anjali said. Though deep down she envisioned palms in tubs by her glamorous front door. People to water them for her.

“What if, from a bigger perspective, that wasn’t success? What if, instead of having two hours’ influence over an audience who forgets your movie within ten minutes of leaving, no matter how much magic you created, success was different?” You’ve said too much, Philippe thought. You’re upset over Meredith, don’t upset this young woman.

John touched his substitute cufflinks and thought, he has a lot to say about success, when he screwed up his daughter so bad. John paused. That might be harsh: kids do what they want to do, like Emily continuing to live with Cassandra. Wow, I’m getting bitchy. Next thing I’ll be buying a feather boa.

Anjali considered the question. She had thought that writing screenplays was a chance to invest in an audience. But that was a concept, not a personal relationship. Maybe success had a bit more of a human touch.