by Pema Donyo
“When do you have to meet him?”
“Soon.”
“Are you leaving now?”
She kept her eyes downcast, focusing on the ridges of his floorboards instead of Owen. She would have to answer if she looked up.
He stepped back. “Last night happened, you know.”
“Yes, it did. But I can’t just say no to him.”
He started pacing in front of her, moving in quick strides up and down his parlor.
“He’s offered me so much. It would be ungrateful to decline him.”
“I understand.”
“Owen, don’t be upset.”
“I’m not.” His tone failed to convince her. “I understand what’s happening here. Go ahead, go back to him.”
“That’s not it.”
“You’re right. It’s not. It’s his connections, and opportunities, and . . . ”
She raised her voice. “How dare you.”
“He’s connected. And rich. What did he promise you, huh?”
“He’s your friend. How can you speak of him that way?”
“He’s a friend who offered me work. That’s as far as our relationship goes. Tell me, what kind of work does he offer you? Which actresses does he mention?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I am very grateful for what he’s given me, and I would like to continue to preserve our business partnership.”
“If that’s what it is.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“This is about you wanting to be a star and him promising that to you. And I can’t give you that. That’s what this is.”
“Take that back.”
“Why, because it’s true?”
Her blood boiled the more Owen railed on. He made her sound like some sort of fame-hungry monster, spreading her legs for a role. She hadn’t even slept with Pierre, for goodness sake. Goose bumps rose on the back of her arms. And yet she had spent the night with Owen without any thought of professional gain. It scared her to death.
“This conversation is over. I’m leaving.”
“Fine.”
“You have no idea how hard I’ve worked to get here. To know people like Pierre. I can’t burn down all those bridges because you decide to waltz back into my life.”
“I’m sorry,” he deadpanned. “I thought last night meant something.”
“I thought so too.” She walked back to the bedroom to retrieve her purse.
He followed her to his room. “You’re better than this. You don’t have to live at his beck and call.”
She found her purse and tucked it under her arm. Owen stood in the doorway, blocking her way. She tried to push through. He wouldn’t budge.
She gritted her teeth. “Just because you haven’t achieved your dream doesn’t mean I can’t still try for mine.”
His jaw went slack. The fire in his eyes died out. When she tried to push through him again, she met no resistance. Her footsteps slowed as she entered the parlor. She had said the worst thing she could think of. If only she could take it back. She didn’t mean it. He knew that, didn’t he? She turned around. He still stood in his doorway, stunned.
“I didn’t mean that,” she said.
The only noise was the grandfather clock in the corner of his room, filling the valley between them with repetitive ticks. She couldn’t leave like this. He would only associate her memory with arguments. So many wonderful memories, and they would end it with anger.
“Are you going to the wrap party?”
He kept his gaze fixed on the floor.
A sinking feeling settled in her stomach. Why couldn’t everything between them untangle, until all that was left was the two of them? No complications. Another wish in the collection of many. Without looking back, she opened the door and walked out of his flat.
Chapter Seven
The sheets still smelled like crushed lavender after she left. Owen had to wash them and hang them out to dry before he could get a decent night’s sleep again. He blamed that and wondering whether she shared a bed with Pierre.
For the rest of the day, he kept writing—a furious clacking of the keys. She had chosen to leave. Any effort on his part to go after her might scare her away or, worse, just cause her to leave him again. If she wasn’t ready to speak to him, he wouldn’t push it. And besides, he didn’t know where she was staying. He couldn’t ask every hotel in Paris whether a guest named “Iris Wong” had taken up residence. Every few hours or so he would glance at the door; had he heard a knock? Maybe she would come back. She had left her cashmere shawl on his sofa during the fight. She had to return to collect it. He would open the door for her as if nothing was wrong and take her into his arms. She knew where to find him.
Another day passed in the same manner. Still writing in his parlor, still glancing at the door. And he waited. A knock at the door came on the third day.
Owen shot up out of his chair and glanced in the mirror. He smoothed his hair back. Presentable enough. As he opened the door, however, the smile faded.
Pierre peered into his apartment. “A cozy place you’ve got here. Could use a little more light.”
“What brings you here?”
He ignored his question. “Invite a pal in, would you?”
Owen stepped aside. He didn’t need to tell Pierre to make himself at home. Pierre roamed around his apartment, picking up stray pages to glance over them or leaning close to the pictures on the wall.
“Say, you seem to be in a sour mood. Writing not going well?”
Terribly. He cracked his knuckles to prevent snapping at Pierre. “How have you been?”
“Good, good. Filming, mainly.” A slow smile spread across his face, and Owen wanted to wipe it off. “I have been seeing Iris a lot lately.”
He loosened his collar. “You and her, huh?”
“I hope so. She is exquisite, don’t you think? A true talent.”
“She’s something, all right.”
“Tell me, what was she like when she was younger?”
“Well . . . ” He took a deep breath. “Just as determined. Just as confident. Sometimes, it seemed like all she had to do was put her mind to something to make it come true. She was fearless. She was . . . unstoppable.”
Pierre gave him an odd look.
Owen wanted the subject to change, and fast. “And what do I owe this visit to?”
“Ah! Yes, didn’t want to do this outside.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “This, my friend, is your payment for the screenplay. Good work, couldn’t have done it without you.”
Finally, a paycheck. The unpaid bills stuffed in his desk called out to him.
“But before I give this to you, I must make a request.” Pierre waved the envelope in his hand. “Are you attending the wrap party tomorrow?”
He’d never heard of one before Iris’s invitation. No doubt it was yet another one of Pierre’s lavish parties. She would be there, no doubt. And likely not wanting to see him. If she wanted to reach out to him, she would have done so already.
“It might not be a good idea.”
“You’ve turned into such a hermit lately. It’ll be good for you. You can’t stay in this cave all day.”
His tone was insistent. Owen’s gaze settled on the envelope. One night seemed like a low price for another payday.
“Fine.”
“Wonderful!” Pierre handed Owen the envelope with a triumphant look. “Here you go. Make sure to dress up a bit.”
Little relief washed over him as he accepted the check. Dressing up was the least of his worries.
Pierre wandered farther into the parlor, as if looking for something. He stopped by the battered sofa. Owen followed his gaze. Across the seat of the sofa was Iris’s white cashmere shawl.
“I’ve seen this before.” Pierre picked up the cloth for a moment and inspected it. “Doesn’t Iris own a shawl like this?”
Owen’s mind raced. “She might.”
“Why do
you have it?”
Telling the truth wasn’t an option. He doubted she wanted Pierre to know about that night. Quick, think of an excuse.
“Oh, it’s not hers.”
Pierre dropped the shawl back on the sofa. He looked relieved. “Oh?”
“It’s . . . mine.” He faked a smile. So much for quick thinking.
“You wear shawls?”
“It’s a trend I’m trying out, yes. They go with most of my clothes. Want to try one?”
“I’m fine.” He raised his eyebrows. “You always were a little odd.”
Better odd than caught. Owen waited for Pierre to leave before he stuffed the shawl into the bottom drawer of his desk. He suppressed a groan. He would never hear the end of it. There went being considered a serious writer.
• • •
When Iris was six, her parents had given in and allowed her to buy a movie ticket. This was back when they used to live on Flower Street, a block north of Chinatown, in a neighborhood that her mother used to refer as a “big stew”: Chinese and Germans and Irish and Japanese, all immigrants with a nascent claim to the land. More important to Iris, movies surrounded the neighborhood. On her way to school, she would see cameras cranking and films being recorded. A Nickelodeon theater stood midway between her home and her father’s laundromat.
As a child, she would pass by it while walking with her mother to the laundromat. She would tug her mother’s hand, begging to go in. At first, her mother disagreed. It was a waste of money, she said. But Iris’s determination was relentless. Bright, illustrated posters and ornamental lights covered the windows to attract visitors. To her, it looked like the entrance to another world. And when her father finally gave her a nickel for helping at the laundromat, she knew how she wanted to use it.
Her mother accompanied her to the theater. The bare walls and hard wooden seats may have distracted her, but all Iris needed was a black screen and a piano to the side. When the music started and the first cue card appeared, she was transfixed. The pictures moved before her eyes, weaving a story for her alone. It was about a telegraph operator who saved the day by capturing bandits who tried to rob the telegraph office. The whole film couldn’t have lasted longer than fifteen minutes, and she felt the injustice of it as soon as the screen went dark. Once her father gave her another nickel, she went back to the theater for another screening.
She even missed school one time to see a movie. Her teacher made her stand up in class and tell everyone where she’d been. She said she was sick. When the teacher asked if anyone else could vouch for her story, Owen was the only one who stood up. He was one of the few who accepted her. He didn’t give her wary looks or tell her that his parents told him not to talk to her, unlike the other kids. From that day onward, she invited him to watch films with her. It was her escape. An escape from the girls who teased her for bringing rice to lunch, an escape from the sweltering heat trapped in the laundromat, an escape from the windowless bedroom she shared with her sisters.
At least she could afford the escapades now. She pushed her round frame sunglasses farther up the bridge of her nose as she paid for her ticket. Last time she went to a theater without them, someone recognized her in the line. Recognition was nice but not the reason she chose to go alone. At least once a week, she sought solace in the dark comfort of the theater. No one knew who she was, and no one expected anything of her. All she had to do was enjoy the film’s magic.
The cinema she selected for this afternoon was situated along the Rue Victor Cousin, only a block or two from the Sorbonne. The neon lights above the entrance, though unimpressive by day, formed the shape of a red camera by night. The cinema’s interior held no resemblance to the grand movie palaces she frequented at home. Its main room looked like any lounge in a modern household. Plush sofas stood next to dusty lampshades reflecting the light emitted through the mosaic glass windows. She followed the crowd of people down a narrow hallway and into the theater.
Maroon seats covered in velvet upholstery formed seven lines in front of the screen. Yellow seats were scattered throughout the maroon, either as a splash of color or as a furnishing mistake. Plastic curtains lined the walls, as if they would part ways and reveal separate screens behind them. The screen before her couldn’t have been much larger than the one she remembered from her old Nickelodeon theater. She sat in the row second to the front, the best one as far as she was concerned. Not so close to the screen that she couldn’t see anything but close enough to immerse herself in the film.
For a moment, she thought she recognized a man walking down her row. She removed her sunglasses to get a better look. Sweat gathered at the ends of her palms. Dark hair, muscular build, broad shoulders. It had to be him. But as he came closer, her hope dimmed. Not Owen after all.
Wonderful—she was imagining him. She avoided the man’s quizzical look and reclined in her seat. What was she to do about Owen? There was always the option of doing nothing. The thought felt almost reassuring to her as the movie started, the projector whirring somewhere behind her. It always left a little something to be desired when no piano was playing to accompany the film. Yet what the movie lacked in sound, it made up for in color. The brilliant yellows of the stage steps contrasted against the deep green leaves of the film’s backdrop. There was a kind of magnetic pull that existed between her and the screen. She could still remember the first time she told Owen that she was determined to work in the industry. She wanted to bring its magic to viewers and provide others with an escape. What could be a more noble profession than creating magic? He had agreed.
The movie focused on a young choir girl rising to stardom as a performer in a nightclub, but the real reason Iris (and everyone else in the theater, she suspected) had come to see it was because of the famous cabaret dancer who had a supporting role. The dancer shimmied her way across the stage, waving her arms in exaggerated movements.
Iris often tried to pick something from the actors to learn from, but there wasn’t much to glean from this role except for dancing. More dramatic films allowed her the opportunity to learn a new facial expression or notice the way the actors interacted. She used to try to reenact her favorite scenes with Owen sometimes, putting into practice whatever she’d gained from her critical study of the film. He would even tell her when she did something incorrectly. He’d watch her practice again and again until her delivery matched the way the actress had delivered a line.
After those informal rehearsals, the sun would set and the night breeze would start to cool the desert. If they were lucky, his parents wouldn’t arrive till later in the night and they would have the kitchen to themselves. He would make two lemonades, and she would spike hers with his father’s vodka. They would talk for another half hour until the drinks were downed. Then she’d lean across the table and kiss his sticky lips, tasting the remnants of his empty glass.
The lights lifted in the theater. She looked around. The screen was dark. Children nudged their tired mothers awake. Those around her started getting up out of their seats and leaving the theater. Impossible. Surely the movie wasn’t over already. It was only after she heard the click of the projector turning off that she believed it.
Soon she was the last one sitting among the empty rows. Staying meant she would never make the wrong choice, because she wouldn’t make any at all. The characters would be her friends, and the storylines would keep her safe. She smiled. What a headline that would be: “Loony Actress Tries to Live inside Her Films.” The studios would love that.
Once, after they had finished school, Owen asked her to think of a story idea on the spot. She wanted to impress him and sound like all the serious authors he devoured, so she started by telling a story about a wealthy family living in a city. But she couldn’t think of a decent plot. Owen told her to start again. She launched into a pitch about a woman who lived inside the theater, surviving off the sustenance of stories and sleeping in the stadium seating until the next movie showing. It was a ridiculous scenario and her own
wish. Owen had said he liked that one better.
She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Every important memory was somehow tied to him. Time had a way of making all the bad memories fuzzy and leaving only the good in vivid color. She shut her eyes tighter. Goodness, she still loved him. She always had. Every day she thought the pain would lessen. It did, of course it did, but the love remained. It clung to her with as much force as six years ago.
Even if she apologized to him, she didn’t know what good it would do. Everyone in the business always said it was who you knew, not what you knew. Her path required connections, didn’t it? She frowned at the thought. Then again, any role she won was because of her own work, not someone holding her hand. She might have enough sway in the industry to command the roles she wanted even without outside help.
She stretched her arms and stood up. It wouldn’t be long before new viewers would enter the theater. It was time for her fantasy to end, and reality required a paycheck.
Chapter Eight
Owen needed to return a book to Gertrude. Or so he told himself as he left the flat with her novel in hand. Gertrude had loaned the book to him years ago. Every couple of months or so she would remember that he still had it and would ask him to return it. And every time he agreed he would and soon forget. He made long strides over the cobblestone street. It was as good an excuse as any to get out of his flat.
He took the stairs to Gertrude’s apartment two at a time. She might not be there. It didn’t matter. He was grateful for any reason to get some air. Anything to distract him from the waiting.
Alice, Gertrude’s lover, cook, and editor, answered the door. She was a mousy woman, often stooped. Her shoulders were always a little hunched, but a ready smile lit up her features more often than not.
“Hello. Is Gertrude home?” He tried to peer over her shoulder.
“Hello there. She is, in fact.”
She pulled open the door wider. He took it as an invitation and walked inside.
“Owen’s here,” she called into the room.
The flames from the fireplace crackled and hissed. Beside it, Gertrude sat in a giant armchair. Her figure filled the furniture, like the seat had been custom-designed for her. She had the habit of owning a room wherever she went.
