Stars in Their Eyes

by Pema Donyo

  “I have my own copy at home.” He shoved the parcel back under his arm. “You should let more people read your work, Owen. A writer has no use for modesty.”

  Owen watched him retreat to the rest of the party. The man had a proper education and not one lesson in minding his own business.

  “Now you’ve done it,” Owen snapped. If she read his story, she would recognize herself as the heroine. What if it scared her away?

  She frowned. “What have I done?”

  “Forget about it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I said, forget about it.”

  “All I want to do is read your work.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is if I want to support you.”

  “It’s a bit too late for that, don’t you think?”

  She stiffened.

  His tone had come out sharper than he’d intended. “Forgive me.”

  She ignored him. “I need to be up early tomorrow. I think I’ll head to my hotel.”

  She rose from her chair, clutching his story at her side. There was a pinched expression on her face as she averted her gaze from his.

  He stood up at the same time. “Let me walk you home.”

  “Thank you, but I can manage on my own.”

  “Allow me, please.”

  “Good night.” She brushed past him and walked toward the door.

  Maybe he wasn’t good at the whole “being friends” scenario. When it came to women, he preferred to end interactions with a clean break. Spending time with Iris came with loose ends. They’d had their chance once before, and he’d ruined it. She had no reason to reciprocate his feelings, not with prospects like Pierre. He thought of the papers she had held in her clenched fist, wrinkling the front page. Even if his behavior didn’t terminate it, their renewed acquaintance would end with a fell swoop once she read his story.

  Owen watched her walk away for the second last time.

  Chapter Five

  Iris had read a script once about a man who wanted to travel the world in a ship. His wife sold everything she owned to allow him to afford it. Once he bought the ship, he sailed off without her. The director had found it all terribly funny and offered Iris the role of the wife’s servant, with the important task of selling all the wife’s items.

  No wonder her father had disapproved of how she’d spent her time.

  When she first returned to her hotel, she wasn’t sure what to do with Owen’s story. Half of her considered throwing it into a drawer and forgetting about it, especially after how cold he’d acted toward her. It was like a complete change had come over him while she’d been dancing with Scott. One moment she’d sworn Owen was flirting with her, and the next moment he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. It was as embarrassing as being invited to a callback audition only to be rejected for good. She had deluded herself into thinking he might still care.

  But his story burned a hole in her drawer and her mind. Seconds ticked by on the clock. Curiosity kept her tossing beneath her sheets even while she closed her eyes. After nearly an hour of inventing endless possibilities of what it could be about, she went to her hotel’s living room and opened the drawer. She would read just the first page, enough to satisfy her curiosity. That would be enough to send her to sleep. Yet the first page’s sentence continued onto the second page, and the second page’s paragraph continued onto the third. Before long, she found herself on the last.

  Slivers of sunlight dappled across her floor. No use trying to sleep anymore. She made herself a hot cup of coffee and settled against her mohair sofa, the pages of his work scattered before her on the low table. She gathered them and fanned the pages out as she sipped from her cup. Scott was right; Owen was an excellent writer. His style was clear and concise. His language held no trace of the flowery Romantic poets she used to read. In his story, every word belonged.

  She warmed her hands around the mug as she watched the sun rise over Paris. Its rich amber hues coated grey buildings and softened their hard edges. Wispy white curtains framed her window and blew into the room, giving a dreamy effect to her suite. A group of pigeons cooed as they settled onto the windowsill, reminding her of the early hour. She should be rehearsing lines, not reading a story.

  The premise was simple. A man and woman meet. He falls in love. The woman possesses a lifelong dream to touch the stars. The man buys her a ladder, and the woman climbs the ladder, only to realize that it’s not high enough to reach the sky. Next, the man builds her a tower. The woman makes it to the top of the tower and, to her dismay, she still cannot reach the stars. Then he buys her a hot air balloon. Navigation proves impossible by night, and he guides the balloon back to the ground. Finally, the man admits defeat and tells the woman he can’t help. She sees a shooting star head toward them and catches it. She never needed him in the first place.

  Iris’s eyes settled over a passage: the vivid description of the heroine. She had black hair that unfolded to her back, bright brown eyes, and a slim profile. She rambled at times. She worked at her father’s business.

  Iris scratched at a prickly feeling underneath her skin. Hope could be dangerous. Yet the feeling expanded in her chest without warning.

  Owen had written about her. Owen had written about them.

  She set her cup on the glass table. The noise almost startled her, awakening her from a fog. She gathered the papers and placed them in a neat pile on the edge of her table. Enough analysis for one morning. She was late for work. If his heroine could touch the stars, so could she.

  • • •

  Beef carpaccio, pig pluma in raw salt, roasted filet of hake with spelt risotto, “patte bleue” chicken of 100 days. Iris read down the brasserie’s menu with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Somehow, she doubted she could order bacon and eggs.

  “A very modern menu, no?” Pierre said.

  She nodded without enthusiasm. It might have been, for all she knew. She needed a guidebook to translate it.

  Fruit stands and pastry shops lined the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. The chic restaurant stood in front of a paved courtyard right off the avenue, beneath a shielding porch that looked like it was about to cave in any day. The staff bustled about tables covered in spotless white cloth. If not for his reservation, she doubted they would have found a table. A massive mosaic glass dome loomed over the heads of the guests, making her feel small. Pastel murals of pastoral scenes covered the walls. Pierre sat across from her, his back pressed against the leather booth. Above his head was a painting of sheep flocking together amid otherwise barren grassland.

  She yawned. Even staring at it was enough to make her feel tired, and her lack of sleep the night before didn’t help.

  “You seem quiet. Are you all right?” Pierre laid down his menu.

  “Fine.” She straightened her shoulders. “Tired, that’s all.”

  “Well, when filming wraps up at the end of the week, you will have a welcome break. I have plans to travel to Los Angeles as well.”

  “I would be happy to show you around.”

  “Then let me return the favor. I have booked a hotel suite downtown. It’s quite large.” His voice lowered. “You would be more than welcome to share it with me during my stay.”

  Maybe she was imagining it, but she doubted living with him as a platonic friend was what he had in mind. She feigned a smile. “I have my own apartment. And my family lives nearby.”

  He placed his hand over hers. His touch felt clammy. “Maybe a weekend visit, then. Let me know soon.”

  It made her right temple throb whenever someone told her to “let them know.” She would decide on her own time, especially when it came to men. She knew both actors and actresses who slept with casting directors or producers. Some landed major film roles with the said directors or producers afterward. Whether it was by asking or due to affection, she didn’t know. She slid her hand out from underneath his and used it to call over the waiter. This had been what she wanted, hadn’t it? She finally
had Pierre’s affections. Yet the idea of sleeping with him made her stomach churn.

  The waiter arrived, wearing a long white shirt over black pants. A black vest and black bow tie completed the look, making him look more penguin than man. He pulled out his notepad. “And what can I serve for the lovely couple tonight?”

  “Confit de canard,” Pierre said.

  “Do you have grilled chicken?”

  The waiter narrowed his eyes at her. She would take that as a no.

  “I’ll have his order as well then,” she corrected.

  The waiter snapped his notebook shut and took their menus. “Wonderful. Are we celebrating anything tonight? An anniversary, perhaps?”

  The only event she would be celebrating was leaving the restaurant. They were not a couple, and there would be no anniversary. She placed her hand over the side of her face, shielding her pained expression from the waiter. Pierre told him they were not but thanked him all the same. After the waiter left, Pierre returned to staring at her cleavage, like the waiter had been an interruption rather than a welcome distraction.

  “A lovely couple, no?”

  No, she wanted to reply. Still, a small part of her wished she could agree. She found Pierre attractive; that wasn’t the problem. His hair still looked boyish, strands falling over his forehead at odd angles. Light stubble grazed his jawline. If he had any acting ability, he could star in his own movies as the hero. But talking to him was like talking to a beautiful wall.

  “Our new film is progressing on schedule. Almost wrapped up,” he said.

  She stifled a yawn. “Indeed.”

  “How did you enjoy the city?”

  “It’s lively. I think I’m ready to return home for now. You’re the local, how do you see it after all these years?”

  “It’s all right.”

  She drummed her fingernails against the table. “How so?”

  “Same old city to me. As long as you like it.”

  “You’re a flirt tonight.”

  “I am all seriousness.” The corner of his mouth twisted into a smile. “I am serious about you.”

  She scanned the restaurant around her, averting her gaze from his. Clusters of lights shaped like flowers hung from the ceiling and shone onto the checkered tile floor. They sat in the first room of the brasserie—known as “Paradise,” Pierre had told her—as opposed to the back room, where less famous guests were seated. From the Paradise room, one could see every customer who came in through the front door. She watched the entrance, scanning the guests for a familiar face. Perhaps one from Gertrude’s apartment.

  His voice sounded dry. “Is there someone else?”

  Owen’s face flashed through her mind. “Of course not.”

  He looked unconvinced but didn’t press the topic further. Their meals soon arrived. She tried to make progress into her dish. But the duck didn’t smell as fragrant to her as Pierre seemed to think it did, and the vegetables tasted bland. It was his turn to keep up the conversation that night. He talked of his next holiday to Switzerland he had planned, and she paid attention at enough intervals to murmur in agreement.

  She sat inside the nicest restaurant she had ever seen and yet had no desire to be there. Was Owen at a similar place with another woman? Was he writing his next story? His pages still formed a small pile at the end of her table. She heard his low voice behind the words, whether reading the man’s dialogue or describing the heroine. She bit her bottom lip. Other men gave her plenty of compliments, and yet none of them provided the warmth that Owen’s did. And even then, compliments were the least important thing she cared to hear from him. She wanted to know what inspired him to write, how he remembered his home, what was on his mind.

  He still intrigued her.

  Pierre cut into his roasted duck and took another bite. When he spoke, small bits of roasted meat shot into the air. “I’ve been chosen by the same studio to direct another film. They’re looking for a lead actress.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, in Paris.”

  Her parents sent her frequent telegrams, asking her when she would be home. She missed them. Her half-year tour of Europe closed out with Pierre’s film, and she had promised her family that she would be back. Part of her wondered what would happen if she stayed. It was easier to be an Asian actress in Paris. The same prejudices didn’t exist; the phrase “yellow peril” never crossed movie posters. Most of all, it was thrilling to have starring roles for six months. But at the end of the day, the film industry still revolved around Hollywood.

  “Thank you for telling me. Right now, I’m hoping for a leading role in LA.”

  He swallowed down a large bite. “I know directors in Hollywood. Maybe not the major directors you work with, but they would be open to meeting you with my recommendation.”

  “In what roles?”

  “They’ve worked with Hayakawa and Aoki and given them top billing. I doubt they would turn you away.”

  Her heart lifted. Sessue Hayakawa and Tsuru Aoki were Japanese actors, married, and two of the few Asians in Hollywood alongside Iris. She’d seen Tsuru in films growing up, watching her in the leading roles Iris herself craved. If certain directors helped them, maybe they would help her too.

  Pierre pointed his fork at her, a half-chewed vegetable at the end. “One’s even making talkies.”

  Talking pictures were all anyone in the industry discussed anymore: sound films with dialogue instead of cue cards. A full-length talkie? Hard to believe. Nevertheless, Iris was thankful that her time in Britain had involved speech lessons. She had shaken off her Californian accent in favor of an English lilt. If talkies caught on, maybe that would make her more attractive to directors.

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “Excellent. I’ll do what I can for you.”

  She shifted her weight in her seat. Goodness, she couldn’t refuse him when he held her next career move in his hands. He might not recommend her to his connections in LA. Besides, there was always the possibility of work drying up and her returning to Europe. Refusing him might mean burning a needed bridge. It wasn’t worth it to reject his advances, not yet anyway. She would maintain the friendship they had. Even if that required tolerating looks that were a little friendlier than she desired.

  Pierre laid his hand over hers again. Alarm bells rang in her head as he stroked his thumb over her skin.

  Her eyes widened. Tolerating touches was a different matter. She moved her hand out from under his again, this time tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as an excuse. Why not take it one step further? She held the side of her head, feigning a headache.

  “You should rest,” he said.

  “You might be right. I’m not feeling very well.”

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine.” She opened her purse and pulled out the required number of francs to split the bill. “Thanks for your suggestion. I’ll head to my hotel.”

  He pushed the francs toward her end of the table. “Nonsense. Let me pay.”

  Perhaps she was racking up an invisible debt in his mind. What if he thought everything came at a cost? All the times he escorted her home, all the meals he insisted on paying for, even the roles he brought up. She stood from the table without taking the money.

  But she had no intention of heading to her hotel. She needed air. A cool breeze blew through her hair as she walked out of the restaurant and toward the Seine.

  There was no real night in Paris. Not night in the traditional sense, the one in LA where everyone went to bed (at least she did) at a reasonable hour and the clubs closed before sunrise. In Paris, everything stayed open later. The streets could be more crowded at 3:00 a.m. than 3:00 p.m.

  She strolled along the bank, her shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. A row of benches lined the river. Elderly couples huddled together while artists sketched the serene view onto square notepads. She squinted at the drawings, trying to determine what they were. Some sketches could have been
photographs, others looked horrendous. For example, the man sitting on a bench ahead of her drew fast, yet his picture was hopeless. It looked like either disfigured train tracks or a gnarled vine.

  She stopped walking. Hold on; she knew him. The man was Owen.

  • • •

  Owen discovered around the age of twelve that writing was one of the few hobbies that didn’t involve people. Playing baseball involved confrontations with the umpire. Trading baseball cards was almost as bad; someone doubted the value of your card or you had to haggle. He was too young for the bars and too young to drive, so he wrote instead. The characters in his stories never expected him to go to law school, like his father. His heroes never fought with him for a girl, like his supposed friends. His heroines never left him for someone else, like his first girlfriend. When he was in his imagined world, he could forget about the real one.

  The same could be said for drawing. He was no talent at sketching by any means. But whenever the words jammed in his brain or all the sentences he punched into the typewriter stank worse than the city’s sewage, he picked up a sketchpad. Armed with charcoal and a square notebook, he marched down a flight of stairs and toward the main road. Two turns left and half a mile later, a view of the river greeted him.

  Wrought iron benches stood at regular intervals before a fence. If he left home on time, he could catch the sunset and attempt to capture the movement along the water in black and white. Sometimes he tried to draw the scene before him without the small fence that surrounded the perimeter of his view. The new expats would stop behind him and ooh and aah, amazed at seeing a real artist at work. The locals would sniff and pass him by without a second look: There were better views of the river; this was an amateur.

  Streetlamps created rays of light that flickered across the water. Some nights, he drew the flashes of light themselves. Some nights it was the trees flanking both sides of the bank. Sometimes it was the nearby lamppost, which obstructed a decent portion of the view to his left. Never the people, though. He had enough of those to deal with.