Stars in Their Eyes

by Pema Donyo

  “We’ll see how it goes.” She opened the door and stepped outside. Before she closed it, she paused.

  For a moment, he wanted more than anything for her to step back inside the car and forget their entire argument. There would be no talk of the future anymore. They would make plans for the next time they saw each other; they would joke about his father’s questions; they would kiss and say good-bye like nothing was wrong.

  And then the moment passed. She closed the door with a low click. She closed the door on him, and he drove away from her. As his car rumbled farther from the curb, a heavy ache filled his chest.

  Chapter Two

  Paris, France

  1926

  Her first proposal was supposed to come with a brass trumpet playing in the background, white flower petals falling from the sky, and a ring from the man she loved. Instead, she gazed at an empty velvet box and a chap she had known for a few weeks. His eyes looked as round as saucers, imploring her for an answer.

  “Cut!” Pierre yelled.

  She relaxed her shoulders as her fellow actor stood and closed the box. The spotlights above them shut off. Thank goodness. The heat from the lights was stifling. The cinematographer angled his head away from the camera to tell them they’d done a good job. All routine. She smoothed out the front of her buttercream cashmere blouse as Pierre approached her.

  “You make a fine leading lady.” He waved toward the film’s backdrop.

  She followed his gesture to take in the set. It was pure film romance all right, a formerly vanilla gazebo decorated to resemble an oriental shrine. The prop department had strung paper lanterns covered in generic marks that belonged to no language she was aware of. A jade statue of a dragon was placed in the center of the shrine, surrounded by unlit incense sticks placed in open-faced wooden boxes.

  It was the Western world’s China.

  “I’m just glad this role doesn’t involve me playing another servant.”

  She couldn’t count the number of Hollywood roles that had been offered to her as the maid. Always secondary parts, never the lead. The last role she’d auditioned for—the role of a Chinese heroine—had been given to an Austrian actress. The role she was offered instead? Her maid.

  “Europe needed you sooner. You have wasted too much time in Hollywood.” He studied her with the intensity of a sculptor gazing at clay. It sent a thrill up her spine. Hopefully, that look would translate into future starring roles in his films.

  She cleared her throat. “Does your invitation to lunch still stand?”

  “Of course.” He smiled.

  Yesterday had been the third time he’d asked her to lunch that week, and the third time she’d accepted. If there was a fourth invitation, her answer would be the same.

  The eyes of the film crew and actors rested on her. Let them look. Several of her coworkers had joked about the director’s attentions. They teased her about it between takes whenever Pierre was out of earshot. Perhaps there was truth to the teasing. She was in no position to refuse him. If Pierre was interested in her, let it be. All the better for her.

  Other actresses waited around for directors or producers to take notice of them. It was the industry standard. It was foolish. Iris had tried the method before to little avail. Why wait? The industry had no room for passiveness. She knew what she wanted. Better that she pursue him. Her next role depended on it.

  The production company’s studio lay above a street full of cafés in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Pungent cigarette smoke mingled with the mouthwatering scent of croque-monsieurs. Vibrant petals sprung from the flowerboxes dotting nearly every window of the buildings she passed. Her heels clicked over the cobblestone streets as she caught snatches of French and English around her. The international flavor of the city had surprised her when she’d first arrived a few months ago. Expatriates observed the French and adopted their mannerisms, yet they clung to the safety of their cliques. She had performed in theaters in London and starred in films in Berlin, yet neither city held the same draw for Americans as Paris.

  One of her sisters had instructed her to try all the cafés in the city before returning home. An impossible task. She didn’t even recognize the current café Pierre drew to a stop before. Its seating area extended outward from the corner of a yellow flatiron building. White lettering spelled out Les Deux Magiciens above the enclosure covering half the tables outside. Teal umbrellas shaded guests from the afternoon sun as customers made toasts to the chime of tinkling glass or folded their newspapers with headlines of the stock market’s latest rally.

  Pierre ordered a bottle of wine once they were seated and then raised a toast to Hollywood’s newest star. Her cheeks burned. Hardly, and only if he counted supporting roles as stardom. Still, she joined the toast and sipped from her glass. He polished off his first drink and poured himself another. The hard-drinking spirit of everyone around her was ludicrous. It was drinking for the sake of escape. Whether it was memories of the war or an unpaid rent bill, everyone turned to liquor to withdraw from their problems. There had to be better ways to do so; she was sure of it. It was as if the city transformed everyone into parched sailors, taking in liquor like fresh water.

  “There’s an excellent collection of cubist paintings at a gallery not far from here.” Maybe he would be interested in coming with her.

  “Ah.”

  “It’s incredible. An image is broken up and reshaped again. You can guess its original form, but the way it’s presented is completely new.”

  “I see.”

  “There’re dozens of viewpoints with any piece. It shows the object in its natural state, how it should be analyzed, rather than how it’s immediately presented.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Do you prefer any specific forms of art over the other?”

  He managed an energetic shrug and gulped his wine.

  When she finally gave up trying to gain an opinion from him, he smiled at her and complimented her porcelain skin. She bit the inside of her cheek. His English might not be perfect, but she was sure he could communicate a thought more substantial than one about her appearance.

  Still, she returned his smile. Pierre was sweet. And sweet could be enough to sustain a gal for a while, couldn’t it? It was enough for her to grin and bear his company for the sake of her career.

  “I invited my friend here today, the screenwriter. You wanted to thank him, no?”

  She did. Finally, someone had written a part for an Asian actress that didn’t portray the heroine as dying for another man or scheming against the hero. The film in Paris would be the capstone to her time shooting in Europe. It would show the studios back home what she was capable of. The rumor mill was circulating news of a potential three-movie contract for her from a major studio; hopefully, there was truth behind it.

  Iris clapped her hands together. “I would love to thank him. Where is he?”

  She peered over Pierre’s shoulder. Perhaps he was already here.

  A group of women in cloche hats giggled over coffees at a table. Beside them stood a group of children covered head to toe in wool clothes, selling lilies from woven baskets, waving the fresh flowers toward the women.

  A clink of glass hitting marble jerked her attention back to Pierre. He swore in French and grabbed a napkin, dotting his lap. He must have knocked over the wine bottle; the red liquid streamed over the tablecloth and toward him. She righted the bottle as he pushed his chair away from the table.

  “Forgive me, excusez-moi . . . ”

  “It’s fine; accidents happen.”

  “No, no, clumsy of me, I apologize.”

  She caught a glimpse of the dark stain on his plum trousers before he headed inside the café, likely to find a sink or at least a pail of water to wash it out.

  She traced a finger around the rim of her nearly full wine goblet. The children moved farther down the avenue and passed by her. The mother wielded the largest basket of flowers and used it to gesture across the street. She c
rossed, and three of the children followed. The youngest, a girl wearing a bright red beret, trailed behind her siblings. Iris winced as the girl tripped against a raised cobblestone and fell forward, scattering her flowers on the ground. Her family ahead of her didn’t seem to notice. The girl started to gather the lilies, one by one placing the delicate stems back into her basket.

  A canary-yellow roadster sped down the road. Its speed was dangerous on such a crowded street. The girl needed to move. Yet she plucked the flowers from the road without a glance upward. The hairs on the back of Iris’s neck stood up. Why didn’t anyone help her? The driver made exaggerated gesticulations as he spoke to the woman in the passenger seat, both more absorbed in each other than the road ahead.

  Across the street, a tall man angled his head toward the child’s direction. He started walking toward the girl, his pace quickening as the car came closer. Iris stepped toward the road, too, yelling at the girl. The child looked up at her. Before Iris could reach her, the man broke into a sprint and pushed the girl out of the roadster’s way. The vehicle brushed past them moments afterward, speeding ahead in a tremendous gust of air.

  The driver swore and honked his horn. “Get out of the road!” he yelled.

  She ran toward them both. The girl was crying, and her remaining lilies lay flattened in the center of the road. Iris crouched down and held her hands.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  She nodded, wiping away her tears with the flat ends of her palms.

  Quick footsteps followed a cry of Romanian words as her mother joined the party.

  She said something to the girl, and the child pressed her face into her mother’s thick skirt.

  “Thank you,” she said to Iris.

  Iris shook her head. She wasn’t due any thanks.

  “Don’t thank me, thank . . . ” Her voice trailed off as she pointed toward the man.

  Iris supposed she had looked at him before he crossed the street, but she hadn’t really seen him. His light brown hair fell over his forehead in soft waves, appearing almost fluffy under the sun’s rays. Blue eyes stared back at her in recognition. His shoulders looked broader than she remembered, and light stubble grazed his jaw and upper lip.

  “No need to thank me,” he said to the woman. He held up his hands as if he wanted no praise. Once the child and her mother started back to the other side of the road, he met Iris’s gaze.

  He chuckled. “It’s been a damn long time.”

  She nodded, a lump rising in her throat. She had rehearsed so many lines to say to him if they ever saw each other again. An endless cache of words—gone. Images crossed her mind instead: standing on the dim street as his car pulled away. She had waited until it disappeared around the bend of the road and the rumble of its engine faded away. She would see him again, she’d told herself. Paris was an ocean away; he wouldn’t really leave. It couldn’t be over. Her legs had burned to run after the car.

  “Owen! Is that you?” Pierre waved at them both and gestured to them to join him at the table.

  Iris moved as fast as her T-strap heels would take her. Against her better judgment, she placed her palm against one of her cheeks. Burning hot. Hopefully, Owen wouldn’t notice. At the table, she ignored the slight shaking of her hands as she poured herself a glass of water.

  Pierre clapped a hand on Owen’s back. “This is my friend Owen Matthews, our film’s screenwriter.”

  He had changed a bit, at least physically. His arms appeared more muscular. She’d sworn he had been incapable of growing facial hair back in the days when they used to steal kisses on his parents’ porch. And the deep tan that had settled over his skin was gone. Or perhaps her recollection of him betrayed her. Her memory blurred the edges, making her unsure of what she remembered.

  “We knew each other in LA,” Iris said. Might as well be the first one to admit it. Should she have greeted him with a hug or a handshake? Neither? A million questions buzzed through her mind. Maybe he resented her for never writing.

  He didn’t flinch, just bit into his bread as if she were any other old bird to him. “Nice to see you again.”

  She’d give up her next audition to keep her cool as well as he did. She gulped down her water, praying it would calm her nerves. Part of her wanted to run back to her hotel and forget she ever requested to meet the screenwriter. She should have looked up his name.

  “How did you know each other?” Pierre asked.

  “Oh, you know, here and there.” She shot Owen a pointed look. The Owen before her was an unknown entity, unpredictable and capable of anything. Besides, it wasn’t as if she cared about him anymore. She cared about his perception of her and his professional endeavors, sure. But as a romantic interest? Far from it.

  Owen didn’t miss a beat. “She wanted to be an actress, even in those days.”

  She almost breathed a sigh of relief and mouthed thanks. The corner of his mouth raised in a half-smile. Damn him, and still as good looking as the last day she’d seen him. Did she compare to how he remembered her? If only he’d run into her while on set, with her glamorous makeup and stylish wardrobe assistants helping her. She looked her best then.

  “And she’s a brilliant one. I saw her films while visiting America and knew I wanted to cast her myself.” Pierre rested his hand on her bare shoulder.

  Owen’s eyes narrowed at the touch. But she might have well imagined it, because the next moment, Owen smiled at Pierre.

  “A real talent you’ve got there. I’m glad the part’s going to her.”

  The flattery created a knot in her stomach. He had seen her work. She should have kept more detailed notice of his books. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard about your novels. How are they doing?”

  He leaned back in his chair, distancing himself from the party. “I write screenplays now.”

  She widened her eyes. Surely not. It had to be a lie. The Owen Matthews she remembered had loved creating character-driven novels, not churning out action-oriented screenplays. A lot could change in a couple years, but his focus had always been singular. That was what she loved—had once loved, she corrected herself—about him so much. He was the only person with enough determination to match hers.

  “Been seeing more activity in screenplays these days,” he offered.

  His words rang empty. His tone even sounded slightly bitter. She studied Owen’s expression, searching for a sign of a joke. What had happened to change his direction?

  “And poetry,” Pierre said. “He once wrote love poems to my cousin. The smart girl refused him, and the next day he sent the same poems to another girl. This time, she fell for them.”

  The knot in her stomach grew tighter by the second. She had experienced her share of admirers, and it was only fair he had too. He probably had a wife, maybe even children.

  “Is that so?” Iris asked. “Where do you and Mrs. Matthews stay?”

  Pierre laughed.

  “Right up here, safe in my imagination.” Owen tapped his forehead.

  Despite his teasing, her chest lifted a little. He wasn’t married. She tried to ignore the perverse pleasure she took from the knowledge.

  Pierre called over a waiter for the check and then prodded her with his elbow. “Never mind that. Iris wanted to thank you, no?”

  Oh, she should have written a note and sent it through Pierre. Meeting the screenwriter in person had seemed like a neat idea when he’d been an anonymous figure. Now, just like when she’d first seen Owen minutes ago, the right phrases left her mind like the cigarette smoke floating above their heads. Words had always been his forte, not hers.

  “Right. Yes. I . . . thank you.” She wanted to cover her face in her hands. She could perform in front of a live audience of hundreds of people in London, but she couldn’t manage to speak plain English to one man.

  He blinked.

  “Thank you for your screenplay.” She cleared her throat. “It’s very difficult to find a role that doesn’t stereotype Asians. The way you’ve written
the leading lady presents the character as dynamic for once.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. “I’m sure the part was made for you.”

  She raised her eyebrows. That was odd. She eyed Pierre to check if he’d caught on, but he was preoccupied with asking for the bill.

  Pierre paid the check. She insisted on paying at least half, but he insisted on paying for the full bill. Just like he insisted on walking her to the hotel. She adjusted her weight in her seat, feeling Owen’s gaze on her as she accepted both. It didn’t hurt to entertain her director. When Pierre tried to link his arm with hers, she hesitated before eventually giving in.

  As they stood up to leave, Pierre halted. “Oh! Owen, you must come for a tour of the set. You haven’t even visited us at production yet.”

  He scrawled the address on his napkin and pushed it to Owen’s side of the table. Without agreeing, Owen folded it into neat thirds and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

  Running into him hadn’t been so bad. Still, if only the wall of formality between them would come down. She was just any other woman to him now. She held her head higher as she walked away from the café. Well, he wasn’t speaking to an ordinary woman. She was an actress, a soon-to-be leading lady starring in her big break. All she had to do was work harder than before and stay the course.

  A course that did not involve falling for a certain blue-eyed writer again.

  • • •

  Les Deux Magiciens had been Owen’s favorite haunt since only weeks after arriving in Paris, and he still frequented the café to run into friends or meet new writers he admired. The meaning of the place shifted once he saw her standing before it, all clean and crisp in her white dress. He knew her beauty had remained the same; he could see that from all the movie posters outside every cinema and inside every dance hall in the city. Her eyes remained as bright as ever. The only difference was that now the world knew it, too.

  No, what had changed was the way she spoke to him. It was all politeness. The easy familiarity of their conversations existed in his memory alone. The reality unearthed a fresh ache in his chest that he thought he’d stitched up. One word from her, and all the stitches ripped out again, leaving him bloody and vulnerable.