* * *
It was nearly midnight by the time they left the Chaudhari apartment, bearing armfuls of leftovers. The false pageant of her mother’s banquet had irked Mina. It was pretty obvious she was angling to be in the film, a turn of events she had not anticipated.
On the way down in the elevator, George said he had half a mind to do a documentary on the Indian diaspora in Montreal.
Mina laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll forget all about it when you get back to Athens.”
The door opened and they were thrust into a vast marble lobby, reminding George of an Etruscan frieze. His one true talent was to grasp situations as a single image. That night he saw Mina, arms outstretched, running toward some god-like beast slightly out of frame, him following, reaching out for her, licking her long black hair as it flew in the wind, their bodies frozen in eternal movement. He wondered why he had not seen this treasure before.
* * *
Shortly afterwards, George came to Mina with a crisis. The guy who owned the studio loft he’d been staying in was tired of snorkelling in the Bahamas and had returned to Montreal. He wanted his property back. The apartment George had formerly shared with friends was no longer available. With the film heating up, he simply did not have time to scout around for a place. He wondered if he should bunk at her place, pay half the rent. With lower overhead, she could work fewer shifts at the bar and spend more time on her writing. He presented the arrangement as a mutual convenience.
How could she say no?
The snorkeller hired a van to help George move. Within twenty-four hours, her apartment was stuffed with boxes, suitcases, odd pieces of sentimental furniture and mounds of film paraphernalia. He said he had a new insight into the script and wanted to get it down before the brilliance faded. The funding agencies were expecting an outline by the end of the month. He set up his computer on the coffee table, using the sofa as a chair, a printer and filing cabinet at his side. He had an awful lot of toiletries, even more than she did. A day after his arrival, the bathroom was a mess, but being around George at work was exhilarating.
When he was writing, he wore a ragged bathrobe and slippers. He drank back-to-back coffees, did push-ups, typed in maniacal bursts then hit the gym. Mina signed up for afternoon shifts at the bar so she could be home when George wrapped up his day. The tips were minimal but she figured it was worthwhile, for the sake of the screenplay. If they were both home, she shut herself in the bedroom which was too small for a desk, so she worked in bed, her laptop on a pillow. Mostly, she scribbled notes and thought about what to write.
After two weeks of furious typing, the rhythm fell apart. George stared at the screen, paced, made phone calls, a loud cycle of abuse, pleas, apologies. By the end of week three, he admitted the outline had hit a wall. The premise was brilliant, the characters and context rich, well developed, clear on the page. But the architecture wasn’t there. His ideas refused to rise up and walk.
Mina was mystified. “What do you mean — there’s no plot?”
“No! Architecture! Structure! Storyline! Okay, call it plot.” She’d never seen him so distraught. He was always the picture of confidence.
“Maybe you could hire a writer,” she said.
“Maybe you could hire a writer.” George mimicked her voice in a cruel, high-pitched whine.
“Well, I’ve heard of such things,” she shot back. It stung.
He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed his coat and stormed out without saying goodbye. She went into her office bedroom and cried.
A few hours later, George came home in a better mood. He apologised for blowing up. He told her nicely to get dressed, they were going out to dinner. It was already ten p.m. She wasn’t faintly hungry, but agreed. Obviously, he’d had some kind of breakthrough.
Over calamari and pinot noir at Milos, George explained how creativity works in the film business: in fits and starts. It’s a collaborative art form. He appreciated her suggestion about hauling in a screenwriter. Of course it was obvious, but a good clear idea often hurts when it lands. He would need her help to pull this one off.
“There’s only one person who can salvage this picture,” he said, smiling into her brown eyes. She had taken a screenwriting course in university, but had not exactly finished a script. Still, a lot had happened since then.
“Who do you have in mind?” she said.
“I think you can guess.” He was still smiling.
She waited, figuring it was best not to be wrong about this one.
His answer: “Lenore.”
Lenore?
“I know, you’re going to tell me it’s obvious, because you are one smart lady and that’s partly why I love you.” He reached over, took her nose between his index and middle finger and twisted lightly. She pulled back. He had never used the word love before. He had never mentioned Lenore.
“Your ex-girlfriend?”
“No!” He blushed slightly. Or so she thought. He definitely looked sheepish.
“That was ages ago. Hey, this is about the work. Lenore got a writing credit on my first picture, remember?”
She was tempted to say: you mean your last picture.
“I really think Lenore can do something with the concept. I mean, it’s practically a chick flick, but with edge. She’ll give it, you know, juice. Flesh.” “Plot,” Mina said.
“Yeah, that too. Which is where you come in, my dear. I need you to get Lenore.”
“Me?”
“Sure. You two are buddies, right? After all, she introduced us.”
Mina shivered. They were sitting at a table near the bins of ice on which fresh fish had been spread out, ready to be chosen by patrons, grilled or poached. She placed both hands around the glass candleholder and looked into the flame.
“Why can’t you get her yourself?”
He laughed. “Well, let’s not get into all that. I am sure she would definitely rather speak to you.”
“You mean, after the Sundance Festival, things turned sour?”
“Not right away. But believe me, they did.”
“When?” This was a question Mina had long wanted answered.
He shook his head. “Don’t ask me, I don’t write these things down. Look, Lenore and me, we go back. We were in university together. Did she tell you that? I got her into screenwriting. She was wallowing around in little stories when I showed her my first draft. She ran with it. She’s good. Why does she waste herself on prose? Prose is dead as a dormouse. There’s no market. Look, Mina, we can both benefit from getting Lenore onside. You’ll be great in this film. She likes you. She’ll bust her ass to make you look good. Win-win-win.”
He poured another round of wine. The matter was settled.
3
A lot had happened in Lenore’s life since the day she and Mina first had lunch. She’d accepted a position as editor of an online literary magazine. The pay was low, job insecurity guaranteed, but it was a welcome break from teaching sessional courses and revising her novel. The magazine had no headquarters. Its staff worked at home and attended monthly meetings in various cafés, which was how she got to know the webmaster, Dean, a tall, nerdy guy a bit younger than her. He was not the type she normally went for, neither ironic nor insecure. He had four jobs and a condo in Mile Ex, the newest hot neighbourhood willed into existence by a twenty-something crowd and eco-friendly developers. They’d been hanging out together for almost a year before the whole thing burst into flame. It was scary at first. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop but it didn’t. Then suddenly they were pregnant. Dean’s phraseology. He thought it was cool, a word he used without averting his eyes. After a long conversation over green tea and a follow-up breakfast, it was clear co-parenthood was definitely an option. She wanted it too. The circumstances could hardly be better.
Mina’s email popped up as Lenore was sifting through a deluge from the roster of writers who wrote for the magazine. Glancing at the subject: “work-related meet up?” she assumed
Mina was looking for an assignment. Fair enough, new blood. But the subject was film, a possible writing gig. She wrote back immediately suggesting late afternoon drinks at the Whisky Bar.
Mina was flattered by the instant reply. Then, bothered. It was actually called the Whisky Café but it was a bar all right, she’d worked there for years. Walking in with Lenore and having the staff greet her like family would not be fun. The whole exercise of meeting her onetime mentor and, to be frank, role model, over a request from George was unsettling. She spent the day on hair and makeup, discarding all hipster traces in favour of corporate casual, a trim black coat over a slim-fitting dress, so she wouldn’t feel like an idiot handing out one of the business cards she had insisted George produce for the occasion. She didn’t want to self-present as a girlfriend running the boss’s errand. She got there early. The place was packed. She waited outside. Ten minutes later Lenore arrived, out of breath. She had walked over from Dean’s condo on slippery sidewalks. Glancing at the crowd inside, she declared it too loud, so they picked their way along the ice to the Olimpico. It too was full, but miraculously a guy in the corner booth closed his laptop just as they walked by. Lenore told Mina to grab his spot; she’d get two lattes.
Of course, Lenore knew about George’s film. He’d emailed her a synopsis a few months earlier, followed up with a call. It must have slipped his mind. A Hindu, a Muslim and an atheist? The idea had not struck her as interesting, at all. Also, she hadn’t been thrilled to find out he’d picked up her young acolyte at a party to which she had been invited. Although everybody was invited. It was a fundraiser. But now there was Dean, their future. She’d heard George had raised tidy sums for his follow-up to the Sundance success. If this meeting was about script work, she could make a lot of money. Under the circumstances, Lenore decided his idea must be brilliant. Glancing over at Mina, she remembered the novel-in-progress, hoped she hadn’t been too harsh. Giving criticism is always mistake, she thought. It comes back to bite.
* * *
Mina watched Lenore standing in the line-up for coffee. Even in mid-winter, her face glowed. Maybe she’d been to a tanning salon. She felt embarrassed to have shown her a very early manuscript, one she couldn’t stand behind now. No chance of making that mistake again. Most of the stories she’d started since then were, in some way, about Lenore.
* * *
They exchanged a few preliminary grumbles about the weather. Lenore mentioned George. Was he was still housesitting that gorgeous loft on de Gaspé? Mina reported the snorkeller’s return, the reason George was crashing at her place.
“Oh my gawd!” Lenore groaned. “He’s such a pig.
Maybe he’s changed.”
“No,” Mina said. “He’s still a pig. It’s temporary.”
Lenore hadn’t meant to insult Mina’s taste in men, or get into the personal at all. She sized her up: a feisty little raven, not yet thirty. Smartly dressed for a serious job, or at least for finding one. She remembered the night Mina had inserted herself into the book club drinks meeting, asking for comment on her manuscript. A George-like move. Yes, they might be good together. Then she realised where the club had met. Shit! I hope she didn’t think I was trying to put her down by suggesting we meet at her bar. Just then, Mina slid a business card across the table: M.J. Chaudhari, Associate Producer, Athena Film.
Well, well.
* * *
As far as Mina could tell, Lenore was genuinely intrigued by the prospect of working on the script. She wasn’t teaching until fall, so she had time. She seemed impressed to hear they already had interest from a distributor and funding from the agencies. It would be digital, of course. Not a meagre budget. George was aiming to shoot next summer. On the way out the door, he had given Mina an envelope. If the meeting went well, she was to give it to Lenore. Judging the moment had come, she handed it over. Lenore ripped it open and dove into the first page of single-spaced type.
Watching Lenore read, the faint movement of her eyebrows while she played with a strand of hair, Mina cringed. She had no idea what was in the outline. Why hadn’t she insisted George let her read it? How was she supposed to deal with comments? Why had she spent so long dressing for the part? How was she going to get through this meeting?
After an excruciating few minutes, Lenore put the document on the table face down. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “I guess I might as well be honest. It needs work.”
“We know that,” Mina said. She had no trouble striking an honest tone.
“It’s a situation, all right, but I don’t really see development. The characters . . . hmm. The Indian mother’s strong. It’s definitely important to create good roles for older women. But the daughter seems weak, one-dimensional. I mean, is beauty really the same as character? And the Muslim guy who’s in love with her. Ha ha, he’s incredibly good-looking, charming, talented. Based on anybody we know? Okay, the characters have potential. But I guess I’d have to say, well, the kitchen scene is — what’s the word — implausible? Bordering on objectionable. They’re having dinner at her parents’ house, he has a tête-à-tête with the mother, charms her, tells her what she wants to hear, enlists her help in snaring the daughter. It seems kind of 1950s Doris Day. Don’t you think?”
Mina took a sip of latte, which was cold.
“I guess that’s why he wants to hire you,” she said. “He’s expecting you to bring edge to the story. Flesh out the plot, get the juice flowing. Would you like another coffee?” Lenore said yes. She was drinking decaf.
* * *
There was nobody waiting at the bar. While the barman made their coffees, Mina struggled with an urge to step outside, call George and yell at him. But it was freezing and dark. What good would it do? She glanced back at Lenore who was re-reading the outline, making notes in the margins.
When she sat down again, the atmosphere had changed. Lenore said: “I don’t know if you’ll be able to convince Athena Film, but I highly recommend this outline be scrapped and we — well, somebody — start over.” Mina agreed. Lenore took charge of the meeting.
* * *
“A Hindu, a Muslim, an atheist — silly, but looked at another way, timely. The agencies are looking for stories of diversity. Immigrants are fashionable. So the Hindu is a young Indian female. Fine. What about the Muslim? Let’s say he’s a Moroccan taxi driver. No, Uber . . . He’s in the engineering programme at McGill. He’s driving to pay the rent. It’s winter, a night like tonight. The Indian girl is on her way to the airport, going back to Mumbai for a funeral. Her father’s. Driver picks her up. Is that plausible?” Mina nodded.
“They get caught up in the weather, miss the flight.” Mina said that sounded cruel.
“Okay, how about this? She’s going over for a wedding. Her wedding. Her parents have chosen a guy she’s never met. He’s older, rich, a Bollywood producer. When she tells the driver the purpose of the trip, he makes a big fuss. How wonderful! You’re getting married. On and on, until she can’t stand it. She spills out her fears.”
“Not to a guy,” Mina said. “You’d have to make the driver a woman.”
“Yes. Even better. She’s wearing a headscarf under a fur hat with flaps. We don’t see it at first. Obstacles, obstacles. . . A major storm, they’re running late, the roads are terrible, crammed with accidents. The driver takes a shortcut through Rockland, a maze of residential streets. Bad decision. It’s worse. Suddenly, a figure leaps out at them. A man, completely white, fierce eyes glaring into the headlights. Driver jams on the brakes, the car skids, plunges into a snow bank. They both get out. They look everywhere but he’s gone. A passer-by helps them liberate the car. They carry on. But the man in white bothers them. The Indian girl is convinced they must have hit him. He could be lying in a snow bank. The driver says she’s crazy, he’s gone. They both looked for him. ‘Because he was wearing white,’ she says, ‘we couldn’t see him. Go back.’ So they turn around, retrace the route, find the street corner. Sure enough the man is there, lying in a s
now bank. Except that he’s not wearing white, he’s completely naked. Thin, translucent, bluish skin, wispy grey hair. They fear he’s dead. No time to call 911. They lift him into the back seat, bundle him up with stuff from the girl’s suitcase, and drive off to the hospital. The emergency room is packed. Miraculously, he’s taken right in. He has no ID. They can’t leave him alone. They have to stay. By now it’s certain the Indian bride will miss her flight. Hours pass. They sit together in the waiting room, they talk. Flashback to scenes from the Indian’s past, flash forward to wedding preparations in Mumbai. We learn how it came to be that she was bartered off by her parents to a man she’s never seen. Why didn’t she resist?”
Noticing Lenore expected an answer, Mina said: “She couldn’t make up her mind. She caved, because they might be right.”
“The driver won’t tolerate this excuse,” Lenore said. “Remember, she’s studying engineering. She has a scientific mind. She’s also married. Cut to Morocco as she tells her story, struggles, victories, exit to Montreal, leaving a husband to tend the family while she gets an education.”
“Is that typical?”
“No,” Lenore said. “It extraordinary. Which is why it’s a film. She tells the Indian girl she’s got to be strong, put her foot down. Make choices.”
“Reject the film producer?”
“Not necessarily. Make him spend time in Montreal, start dating, get to know the city. If they click, they’ll marry. Hold on a minute, I want to get this down. Could you get me double espresso decaf?”
Mina ran to the counter, ordered two of the same and two giant pieces of panettone. While the bar guy worked, she sent George a text telling him things were going well. He answered right back. He was sending for a pizza and would open a bottle of wine. When she got back to the table, Lenore had filled a blank page with scribbles, including a diagram, a line drawing of three half circles linking key words.
Mankind & Other Stories of Women Page 2
