A scream, yes

He hasn’t experienced excitement like this in quite some time. It’s a belligerent energy that sweeps aside his regrets, an intoxicating feeling that his lucky day has finally come to free him from a life of frustration. He’s waited for so long, enduring humiliating rejections at auditions and snide comments on his lack of charisma, his high-pitched voice, and B-list CV. No one seemed to care that he’d been a part of a major TV series that caused the network’s audiences to skyrocket. He’s spent the past few decades alternating between silent rage and bitter nights huddled in the foetal position, or occasionally enjoying the fleeting pleasures of the flesh in the beds of women who are never those he dreamed of, but those whose dreams he fulfils.

When did he give up? He can’t say exactly. He slid slowly but surely down a destructive slope from which there was no escape, the way the tree trunks and the bougainvillaea vines of the tropics bend helplessly to the will of the relentless wind.

But Pax will remember the exact moment when everything changed and a new path opened forever. On his deathbed, he will still have crystal-clear memories of 23 September 2017, when much to his colleague Elizabeth’s dismay, his phone rang at work, interrupting an intense brainstorming session. He’ll recall how hard he worked to control the inner turmoil the call provoked and the words he chose to cajole Elizabeth: Sveberg wants to see me. I guess there really is a God!

He laughed as if it were just a joke, but deep down he was certain it was a miracle.

Elizabeth closed her folders as her annoyance gave way to admiration and then satisfaction. She always thought she had made the right choice hiring him for Thea & Co. If he got this role, she would rewrite her pitch for the “Coaching Through Theatre” module. It would make an immediate impression on her clients, who would get a buzz from starring opposite an actor hired by Peter Sveberg. If he didn’t get it, she would still play up the connection—getting noticed by a director with multiple Oscars was an accomplishment, no matter the outcome.

“Go,” she said to Pax with a paternalistic smile, as if she were doing him a favour.

Elizabeth is a savvy businesswoman with dual qualifications as a psychologist and a life coach. She realized before anyone else what an important role theatre could play in companies, particularly given the rise of psycho-social risk in the workplace. One of the reasons for her success is her ability to detect people’s vulnerabilities; the other is her knack for transforming and rewriting situations from different points of view. She was able to convince Pax to give up a Saturday afternoon to help her slog through her backlog, but he’s the one who feels a little guilty as he rushes out of the office.

For the rest of his life, whenever he thinks about what happened next, he’ll remember this feeling as well as the heady belief that he was part of a master plan that was bigger than him, a plan that had swept him up and was carrying him away. Every time he reads a story in the paper about a young couple who won an amazing all-inclusive getaway only to die in a plane crash in the middle of the ocean, or about a lottery winner who lost his millions and now relies on social security, or a young man who rams his car into a tree on his way to his wedding, Pax will see himself in the throes of naive euphoria as he hurried towards his own destruction.

Now he’s slaloming along the pavement, narrowly dodging pushchairs, public benches crowded with bored teenagers, and the elderly enjoying a stroll in the warm autumn sun. He barely sees them—his body seems to be functioning independently of his mind, which remains focused on the unbelievable news that Gaspard, his agent, has just shared. Sveberg, who has come to scout settings in the French capital, has decided to add a new character to his latest screenplay. It’s a secondary role, of course, but an important one nonetheless: a bartender at a luxury hotel who’s happy to listen to his customers and shoulder some of their worries. Pax has just the right dose of typical French charm needed to embody the character, Gaspard explained, bragging about his privileged relationship with the director, who is known for his mercurial nature and fits of anger.

The truth is that Pax is part of a bigger deal—just a detail, really. Gaspard represents two of the film’s stars. Since he gets on well with the casting director, with whom he’s working on another project, he asked her to back his suggestion. Together they made a series of behind-the-scenes moves that have led to this moment.

It doesn’t really matter how it happened, though. After all, everyone knows how the system works, and they all get something out of it. Pax pretends to believe Gaspard when he claims he fought hard to get him the audition. The actor knows that’s far from the truth. His fifteen minutes with Sveberg haven’t been “freed up” for him—he’s just filling an empty block of time. He is acutely aware that his window is slim and getting slimmer by the minute; that’s why he’s in such a hurry. Gaspard suggested he should wear a suit, so Sveberg would “see” his character right off the bat. He said it could make all the difference. So, as soon as he hung up, Pax calculated the route from the Thea offices to his flat (twenty-five minutes), where he would throw on a suit and tie, then from his flat to the bar at the Lutetia (another twenty-five minutes).

It doesn’t leave him much leeway. He should be okay if his train is held at the platform for a few minutes to regulate the service, but not if there are signalling problems or a passenger accident. He’s surprised to find himself thinking this and feels bad for being such a cynic—it’s unlike him. He’s no idealist and no stranger to jealousy, but he’s not usually this cynical. In fact, it’s a regular topic of debate with his daughter, Cassandra, who makes fun of his sanguine attitude. He chastises her for her pragmatism underpinned by materialism—her cynicism, really. Cassandra argues he’s too hard on her. She blames the restrictive world she lives in, claims that it’s more limiting than it was for the previous generation. She suggests it’s easier to be empathetic and act responsibly when you’ve enjoyed all the pleasures and exploited all the potential of youth. But she always ends up being the one to end the conversation, beaten by her father’s eloquence, by the solid rhetoric he has perfected over years of acting, which gives him an unfair advantage.

Pax pushes his unwelcome thoughts to the back of his mind as he exits the metro and checks his watch. He’s struck yet again by the contrast between the bustle at place de la Bastille, where he just was, and the calm neighbourhood he lives in, where the streets bear enchanting bucolic names—rue de l’Espérance, rue de la Providence, rue des Orchidées—but are full of small, soulless grey buildings. His mind slows for a moment in the surrounding silence, taking strength from it, like an Olympic athlete mentally preparing to wow the crowd.

In thirty-five minutes, Pax will be facing his greatest challenge. He suddenly realizes how comfortable his mediocre career has been. Until now, he’s always been able to blame his middling success on an unjust system or a disappointing agent. He’s let people believe he’s an overlooked genius. How many times has he said, “If only I’d been given a chance”?

Well, now he has his chance. It’s been handed to him on a silver platter. He hasn’t been called in to audition for some small independent film or a blockbuster comedy—no, he’s going to audition for Peter Sveberg. Now his situation is simple—he succeeds, or he fails. He either proves he has talent, or that he deserves the mediocre life he’s been living.

The metallic caw of a raven distracts him from his musings. As he comes back to himself, he pulls out his keys, then climbs the stairs four at a time, running through the list of things to do once inside: a cool damp towel to brighten his features; cologne to mask the smell of sweat; shirt, suit, tie.

It’s as he’s slipping his jacket over his shoulders that he notices the noise. The banging, creaking floors and vibrating ceiling should have alerted him as soon as he came in, but concentrating on his tasks made him unaware of the world around him. Only the muffled groans and strange stomping noises finally force him to listen and to wonder what’s happening on the floor above. He doesn’t know anything about his neighbour, except that he or she must have moved in at the beginning of the month: he remembers seeing a “To Let” sign hanging from the window railing in August. He’s never bumped into anyone on the stairs, or in the corridor or the lobby—at least not anyone he doesn’t already know. He’s never been bothered by any loud music. The only clue to his neighbour’s identity is the handwritten name stuck slightly askew on the mailbox next to his: A. Winckler. Only two of the flats in the three-storey building are occupied by renters. The rest of them belong to companies. That was one of the things he had loved when he visited it the first time—the fact that it would be nearly empty in the evenings and at the weekends. Pax likes to practise his roles without dampening his enthusiasm or lowering his voice.

The noise grows louder. Furniture and bodies hit the floor. A terrible fight is going on above him. Anyone in a normal state of mind would realize something is seriously wrong, but Pax isn’t in a normal state of mind—he has an imminent date with destiny. The facts and his interpretation of them are skewed by a host of inner voices. It’s just a fight, he thinks, nothing big. How many screaming matches did you get into over the course of your divorce? It’s really none of your business. You’d have to be pretty nosy to turn up in the middle of a private disagreement. Maybe it’s not even a fight! Your imagination could just be playing tricks on you. Have you heard any insults? A cry for help? A scream, yes. But just one, and it was short. You always blow things out of proportion, develop a whole backstory for every situation . . . It’s an occupational hazard—actors make information and feelings their own, and then amplify them.

Pax anxiously studies his reflection in the mirror. Not too shabby: a handsome face (for an old man, as Cassandra once put it on a bad day), but a skinny body. He’s never been athletic and has no experience with martial arts except for a short stint two years ago to prepare for a role as a mafia boss’s right-hand man. It wasn’t enough to make him feel confident about intervening, though. Fear would most likely get the best of him, making him a second victim. At the thought, his legs tremble and his heart begins to race.

“What an idiot,” he reassures himself out loud. “Getting worked up like this when they’re probably just moving a bed or building a dresser.”

He glances ashamedly at his watch. His leeway has diminished to next to nothing with all this umming and ahhing. He has to leave now if he doesn’t want to miss the last train to success. Why would he be given such an opportunity only to have it snatched away from him an hour later? He briefly considers calling the police but decides not to. He’d have to explain; maybe they’d even ask him to stay there until the officers arrived. He remembers dialling 101 a few years ago to report the theft of Cassandra’s mobile phone. He waited an eternity, listening to the message “You’ve reached the police, please hold the line” again and again. Long enough to be murdered a hundred times. And besides, this is nothing serious, he’s sure of it now. Everything’s gone quiet. Totally silent. As if he dreamt it all.

It’s 4.36 p.m. He locks his door and stuffs his tie in his pocket. He catches a glimpse of a man running down the stairs. Then he’s gone. Pax immediately chases the image from his mind, reserving all his brain’s available bandwidth for his meeting with Sveberg.

At 4.59, he walks into the Lutetia.

His slightly uneven, nervous gait conveys the blend of disarray, confusion, and excitement that consumes him. He exudes the energy of a marathon runner collapsing at the finish line, forced to concede defeat.

Peter Sveberg smiles. He’s found his man.