by Pema Donyo
Better to think of an alternate future, a what-if scenario for a world in which she never became unfamiliar to him. He could spend another lifetime dreaming of an alternate future, and it wouldn’t land him anywhere. And yet that was the purpose of his writing—to exist within his other world. The one untouched by reality. He glanced at his watch. Visions of a future that never existed could wait, as they always did. It was time to meet Pierre. He looked back at the stack of bills. And time to confirm that his next check was coming through.
• • •
The cabaret Pierre had in mind required creeping through a narrow maze of alleys and street corners between the building and his flat. Once Owen found his way back onto the main road, he recognized the vaulted roofs and shuttered windows marking the street. He had passed through Pigalle before, but he tried not to frequent the neighborhood. It held a seedier cast of characters whom he had no interest to be involved with. Numerous cabarets lined the pavement. Whether in pubs or nightclubs, laughter could be heard from all locations. Piano music echoed into the street. Women wearing dresses that fell barely below their knees leaned against bay windows holding back the gaiety. Each door displayed art deco tiles or hid behind a tapestry of beads. A light breeze blew through the air, sifting the leaves of the beech trees above him.
The city came alive at night.
The closer Owen walked to a man a few paces ahead of him, the more familiar his outline grew. Was that Ezra? His friend stopped before him, his hair as disheveled and voluminous as ever. Ezra walked faster than anyone Owen had ever seen, but a man who did as much writing, editing, and publishing as Ezra would always be in a hurry to go somewhere.
“Wish I could talk more. Wanted to tell you that I liked that last sketch of yours. Gertrude showed me.” Ezra straightened his tie. Owen had never seen him stand or sit still. “I’d like to publish it.”
Owen wasn’t sure which “last sketch” Ezra was referring to, but he had to thank Gertrude the next time he saw her. Ezra had started a literary magazine called The Transatlantic Review, and a decent number of talented friends of his had seen their names in publication there. Better than that, it paid.
“How’s the novel though? She said you tried B&L.”
Owen shoved his hands into his suit pockets.
Ezra frowned. “Better the right rejection than the wrong publisher. If they didn’t want your manuscript, someone else might.”
He could only wish. He swallowed down his bitterness and shrugged. “Writing’s all about rejection. It’s a blue business sometimes.”
“The color of the business is green. Not depressing blue or sunny yellow.” Ezra shook his head. “I think your work will sell. Have patience.”
He sounded like Gertrude. She talked of patience like an endless well an artist could always pull from. Owen resisted correcting him and instead thanked him again. At least selling short stories provided another stream of cash.
After Ezra left, Owen continued toward the cabaret. It lay at the end of the street. No one could miss it: a red windmill towered over the building. Crimson and white neon letters spelled out the cabaret’s name, casting shadows around the maroon building. Lists proclaiming the night’s acts flanked both sides of the entrance. Each window from inside the windmill’s building glowed yellow, as if each room were already occupied. Swing music drifted through the exit, where a group of men in black suits stood huddled right outside it. Closer to the entrance, a mural of can-can dancers stood above him. Each dancer held her leg high in the air as her grey skirts billowed behind her.
Owen took off his hat as he entered the building. A flight of stairs separated the entrance from the actual show. The main room was permeated by a swirl of smoke and women’s perfume. Red light cast a tint over everyone’s face, and even the furniture was a matching shade, making the space pulse with an intense energy. Pinstripe curtains hung above private booths, punctuated by lights that marked the beginning of a larger seating area. Long tables lay before the stage, the closest table crowded already. He scanned the balcony for a familiar face. No luck. He might never find them in the throng.
“Owen! Owen!”
At one of the booths sat Iris and Pierre, heaping plates of black caviar and empty bottles of champagne laid across their table. Relief washed over him. Pierre called his name again, and Owen joined them. Full yards separated the section of booths from the general tables, and groups of men and women continued to stand and talk as the show started. Some even started to dance in the spaces between each plush booth. After all, they had paid for it.
Pierre slurred as he said, “Have some caviar.”
“How are you, Owen?” Iris asked.
“Better now that I’m among you two.” He lifted a spoonful of caviar into his mouth. And better now that he was among food.
“Did you know, Miss Wong, Owen does not drink?”
“I’m surprised you still don’t.” She rested her elbows on the table and placed her chin on her folded hands. “Especially among your set.”
That firecracker tone of hers was back. “My set?”
“Artists.”
“And I’m sure all of Hollywood is dry these days.”
“Not drowning in liquor to the same extent people seem to be over here. All anyone does here is drink.”
“Maybe you haven’t seen the true city.”
“Says you! I’ve been here for weeks. I saw the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe . . . ”
“Visit all the tourist spots—what a fine idea. You might as well have seen Paris from a postcard. You know what you need? You need someone to show you around the real spots.”
But she had a point. He had seen the effects of drinking among “his set” of artists. It made them act out, forget about their spouses, even forget who they were. Worse, too much drinking or partying could make someone enjoy nightlife a little too much and forget their real work. At the end of the night, they were all in the city for the art.
Pierre raised his glass, swaying as he did so. “A toast!”
Iris caught Owen’s gaze and rolled her eyes at Pierre. Owen laughed.
A woman tapped Iris on the shoulder, over the corner of the booth. “Pardon me, miss. Are you Iris Wong?”
Iris angled her shoulders toward the woman and smiled. It was her slow, beautiful smile he recognized from the press. The smile reserved for paparazzi shots and movie posters, not for the likes of him.
“You are, aren’t you? My husband will never believe this.” The woman pulled out a handkerchief from her purse. “Could you sign this for me?”
“Of course.” Iris reached into her own purse and pulled out a fountain pen covered in gold leaf. An actress always came to an event prepared. She signed the handkerchief and handed it back to the woman.
“Thank you.” The woman held her handkerchief with care.
It was the kind of moment Iris had told him about once when they were young. She’d wanted to be recognized for her acting, admired even. He’d never doubted her; she had spoken about her dreams with such concrete finality. No one else had spoken about their future the same way. A swelling sense of pride filled his chest. He wanted her to look over at him, but her attention was captured by the show.
The dancer on the stage twisted her feet to the rhythm before a set resembling a tropical rainforest. Her movements started slowly at first and then built up tempo as she kicked her feet in the air forward and backward. She wore a girdle of bananas as her skirt, and a flesh-colored bodysuit covered her torso. A pet cheetah wearing a diamond collar sat to the right of her, watching his mistress move.
Every time she kicked her feet into the air, Pierre hollered and took another sip from his glass. The man drank like a fish. Owen waited until halfway through the dance to lay a hand on Pierre’s arm in warning. Pierre nodded yet finished his glass all the same. Not too long afterward, he folded his hands onto the table and lay down his head. His eyes closed within seconds.
“I wish I could dance like that,”
Iris said.
Owen shrugged off his suit jacket. The heat in the cabaret was stifling. “I would have thought the studios had trained you by now.”
“You make us sound like monkeys.” She arched an eyebrow.
He smiled. “You said it, not me.”
“A monkey without the ability to dance, I’m afraid. Whenever directors see my dancing, they tend to cast someone else.”
She couldn’t be that bad. He stood up from the booth and held out his hand. “C’mon, I’ll teach you.”
She glanced over at Pierre. He seemed to be square in Dreamland, his body lifting up and down to the tune of his breathing. A slight snore escaped his lips.
“It seems my trainer has set me free. Why not?” She took his hand through lace gloves.
The touch sent a rush up his arm. He liked the familiarity of her hand’s weight in his. They walked over the red carpet and toward the left side of the booth. There was enough space to move about as they pleased.
Owen rolled up his sleeves. “First things first with the Charleston: rhythm.”
“Which I lack, I’m afraid.”
“Nah, you’ve got it.” He managed a half-smile. How would she react to his mentioning the past? “Though we never danced together, so you might be right.”
Iris jutted her chin upward. There she was again, with that perfect, challenging look of hers. “Teach me then, o wise one.”
“One, two, three . . . ” He spoke according to the beat of his steps, trying to ignore the big band music swinging in the background. He stepped his right foot forward, then brought it behind him. His left foot followed suit in the opposite order, stepping backward first and then forward again. “Five, six, seven . . . ”
She copied his movements without difficulty. “What’s next?”
Eager as always. “Just keep repeating after me . . . One two three, touch. Five six seven, touch.” He repeated the same movement but pointed his toe outward and touched the ground with the end of his shoe both times. Iris followed, holding up her dress as she peered at her own heels.
“Then you twist.” He twisted both his feet toward the center then twisted them back out away from him. “Place the weight on your toes, lifting the back of your heels.”
Iris repeated his steps, then twisted one foot out, bringing it up from the ground and into the air. “This is the next part, right?”
And the student surpassed the teacher. Her movements did look awkward, but she repeated his all the same at a snail pace.
“It’s usually done a little faster than that.” He moved alongside her, quicker than the speed she displayed. “Here, let’s try it to the music.”
He danced in front of her, trying to set a rhythm. She started to dance faster as the trumpet’s blare picked up the tempo, her steps moving to the beat. She couldn’t keep up with him at first, but eventually her movements began to mirror his. Their steps moved in sync. Her slim figure seemed to glide over the floor as she danced, and his body drew closer to her. She didn’t pull away. The next time the Charleston refrain repeated, the snare drum echoing through the cabaret, Iris threw back her head and laughed. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in years.
As the song wound to a close and transitioned to another, one with a slower step, Owen stopped dancing. They stood before each other, panting. He grinned. A certain magic surrounded her, an aura of independence. She didn’t seek out people; they sought out her. He had the feeling that she floated wherever she pleased, untethered to everyone and enchanting whoever happened to be in her way.
And he was the lucky bastard tonight.
Behind her was a small balcony. Several balcony enclosures dotted the back of the booths, allowing higher-paying guests a view into the courtyard below.
He pointed to one. “Want to get some air?”
Her long skirt fell back to the floor in a small train as she followed him. He had always admired the way she carried herself. Even in school, she’d walked with her shoulders thrown back and her posture straight.
The balcony’s view looked out onto the well-trimmed gardens. The cabaret’s owners had built a maze of flowers and shrubbery below, around the outskirts of the maze, and he was sure some backdoor exit would lead them down there. Electric fairy lights and soft candlelight flanked both sides of the walkway. The wind pressed cool against their cheeks, and the thin sheen of sweat dotting his face faded away. Outside the chaos of the cabaret, the dips and rises of the brass instruments’ song from inside grew dim. He faced her, leaning against the railing as she stared at him from the other side of the balcony.
“Do you miss LA?” he asked.
“I miss my family.” She cocked her head. “Do you miss it?”
“I miss the people. My family visits me here, so I can’t say that.”
“Which people?”
You.
“Friends,” he said.
One element he hadn’t missed was her ability to look right through him. She still looked at him that way, skepticism staring back at him. “Tell me really: how’s the writing been?”
He cracked his knuckles.
“You can be honest with me.”
“Not everyone’s dream happens as easily as yours.”
“Easy?” She scoffed. “You think it’s been easy? Baloney! Remember when I thought being an extra in that lantern movie was the most exciting thing in the world? I was such a sap. I knew nothing about the industry. You have no idea how hard it is to gain even supporting roles.” She sighed. “I take what I can get. These days it’s either an exotic Polynesian dancer or a Native American princess in distress with two lines of speaking parts.”
Her ability to land contracts with major studios was impressive, regardless of the role. Then again, this was Iris. She never settled for less than the best.
“I know I can do more,” she continued. “It’s a matter of the right part and the right film. I have to wait.”
“The most beautiful actress in Hollywood stuck in another supporting role. A damn shame.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I’m hardly the most beautiful.”
“Did I say the most beautiful? I meant the most funny-looking.”
She laughed at his response. He would do anything to hear it again.
“Stop teasing. Hopefully Hollywood takes notice.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Enough about me. You haven’t told me about how your writing is going.”
The girl never gave up. “Rejections, mainly.”
Her eyes softened. He couldn’t stand another look of pity. He preferred judgment. He wanted her to be angry about his failure, furious even. Not pity him.
“But not all bad. Published in a few magazines.” He tried to keep his tone light. “Still trying to get a book into the world. Rejections till then.”
They both stared out at the gardens as the sound of the jazz behind them grew louder. A soprano voice lilted through the windows.
Iris’s voice was low. “I always thought you would reach your dream before me.”
His shoulders tensed. He wasn’t sure what had inspired her sudden mention of the past. Besides, she was the more determined one between the two of them.
“The way you spoke about writing was unlike anyone else,” she continued. “You would get inspiration for a story, and then you were off writing for who knows how long. It was like nothing gave you more joy.”
He used to feel the same about her love for the movies. It felt good to hear someone talk about the old days. To be honest, he might have been more productive while living in LA than before coming to Paris.
“The city’s full of distractions. When I used to work with my father’s friend, he kept inviting me to all these events. People always tell you to come with them somewhere, meet someone they say you have to meet . . . ”
“And you feel like if you don’t attend, you’re missing out on another opportunity to make a connection that could make your career.”
“Exactly. And then you do go, and it ends up being another
event where—”
“You’re talking to people full of themselves who talk in abstracts about your work. And all you can do is ask yourself is how this is supposed to help you.”
He studied her, half expecting to see sarcasm. But her face held no trace of mockery. She meant what she said. Finally, someone who understood. They had spent time on different sides of the world and yet lived parallel lives.
She faced the garden. “You supported me a lot when we were younger.”
If this was her idea of an olive branch for calling off their relationship, it didn’t quite reach across the years.
“I always regretted not supporting you more. I was so angry when you moved.” Her hands tightened over the silver railing. “But I get it now. We both did what was best for us.”
He rubbed his jaw. What could he say? Nothing seemed right. This conversation could lead down a long road. It was overdue. Every word she said whetted his appetite for more.
Clang!
The sound came from behind them. He whipped his head around to see a waiter scolding Pierre, both his silver tray and bowls of caviar strewn across the floor. The director waved his arms as he shouted.
Iris pulled away from the balcony, a lost look on her face.
Owen suppressed a groan. Perfect timing. “I think our friend over there needs to head home.”
Pierre continued trying to speak over the ragtime tune blaring from the stage. Owen apologized to the disgruntled waiter and guided Pierre to sit back in the booth. Soon enough, he settled into a sluggish state. He rested his head back over his arms as if to sleep. Not so fast. Owen tried to rouse him by prodding him in the shoulder. No response. He shook him until Pierre scowled and shoved him away. Better.
“Do you know where he lives?” Owen asked her.
“I do. I’ll take him back.”
Ridiculous. Pierre’s weight would crush her. He leaned toward Pierre and shrugged one of his arms around the director’s shoulder and grabbed Pierre’s waist to steady both of them. Heavier than he expected. Iris stepped out of the way for them, and he angled his head in the direction of the exit. She led them down the stairs, looking back over her shoulder every once in a while to make sure they still followed her. As they left the cabaret and rounded the corner, he started to slow his steps on purpose. He would drop Pierre off, she would head toward her hotel, and then what? He didn’t want to let her get away again.
