by Dan Rhodes
‘All I want is to marry you on a mutual friend’s llama farm in Avignon. Is that really too much to ask?’
‘Yes, it is, and you know it is.’
As Lucien held her he closed his eyes. He could smell her hair, and feel the shape of her back beneath her duffel coat. He knew her body would be as incredible as her mother’s, and he couldn’t help imagining her in a short, tight red dress, the kind a prostitute might wear. She would look unbelievable.
He opened his eyes, and it was his turn to feel that one of the worst things imaginable had come to pass. Standing just an arm’s length away as this tender scene unfolded was Toshiro Akiyama.
Sylvie felt Lucien’s body stiffen, as if he had suddenly gone into a state of rigor mortis. She hoped he hadn’t died in her arms of a broken heart.
‘Er, Sylvie,’ he said, as she felt his arms slowly let go of her body and return to his side. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’
He took her by the shoulders, and turned her around. And there he was, Toshiro Akiyama, even more handsome in real life than he had been in the photographs. It all took a moment to sink in. When it did, Sylvie opened her mouth and let out a scream of unbridled horror.
As the scream was going on, a crowd of passers-by gathered, wondering what to make of it. When at last it was over, Toshiro Akiyama said something in Japanese, and he and Sylvie Dupont stood there just looking at one another.
‘What did he say, Lucien?’
Lucien said nothing.
‘Tell me, Lucien. What did he say?’
Lucien, his eyes glazed, told her. ‘He said, I am sorry. I seem to have misunderstood the situation.’
‘Tell him he has misunderstood the situation, but not in the way he thinks.’
Lucien turned over a sentence in his mind: Yes, you have misunderstood the situation. The lady and I are very much in love, and your presence is not welcome, so please return to Japan on the next available flight.
But he didn’t use it. Instead he marshalled all his inner strength and goodness, and in faultless Japanese he explained the situation to Toshiro, ‘Sylvie was consoling me because I am in love with her but she doesn’t love me in return.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Sylvie.
He told her, and the onlookers let out a sympathetic Aaaahhhh.
Lucien’s statement made sense to Toshiro. He couldn’t imagine anybody not being in love with Sylvie Dupont. It didn’t quite fit the story, though. He had surprised his parents outside the cathedral, tracking them down via a text message exchange in which he neglected to mention that he was in Paris too. Once he had endured his father’s lecture, which he had predicted word for word, about how there had never been room for spontaneous behaviour within the large corporation in which he had spent his working life, and once his mother’s shock had subsided, his parents had delivered a short presentation, illustrated by photos on his mother’s phone. As part of this they had told him that Lucien, the nice but slightly gawky interpreter, was in love with Akiko.
Toshiro had felt sorry for him, because Akiko had told him, though not yet her parents, that she was going strong with a boy she had met at work. When the slideshow was over, his parents had directed him to Sylvie’s stall, and when he got there he found his sympathy for this interpreter had waned quite considerably as he found out just how fickle he could be.
He supposed he would find out later what was going on with him, but for now it was low priority. He had flown halfway around the world with a clear mission in mind, and the moment had come. Sylvie Dupont was right in front of him, in a duffel coat and hat, and looking even more perfect than she had in the photograph. He spoke, this time in French.
‘Hello, Sylvie Dupont.’
‘Hello, Toshiro Akiyama.’
‘How are you?’
‘I am very well, thank you. How are you?’
‘I am very well too.’
The language changed to Japanese.
‘Hello, Toshiro Akiyama,’ said Sylvie.
‘Hello, Sylvie Dupont.’
‘How are you?’
‘I am very well, thank you. How are you?’
‘I am very well too.’
And there it is, their first conversation. In years to come they will re-enact this meeting for their children’s amusement. There will be the surprise, and the scream, but they will always omit one detail: the presence of the heartbroken interpreter looking on.
Sylvie will always wish that things had ended differently for him, that her two boys and her girl might have known him as uncle Lucien, that they would have played with his own half-Japanese children. They wouldn’t have been Akiko’s, because she will have ended up marrying her new boyfriend, but that wouldn’t have mattered. He should have found somebody. Her thoughts will often turn to poor Lucien. She had only known him for a short while, but she had liked him very much. She had even loved him, in a funny sort of way.
XXVII
Le Charmant Cinéma Érotique had been more or less consistently full since Life had opened its doors, and late on the Sunday afternoon four hundred and seventy-one people were in the auditorium, every one of them looking intently at the bald man’s body and listening to the thunderous sounds that were coming from inside him.
Then, at last, it happened.
He picked up a glass tray and placed it in the centre of the stage. Until that moment the few people who had noticed this tray had assumed it was an oven dish. Most of them had not given it another thought, but some had idly wondered why he had an oven dish but no oven. Now, though, it became clear that it was not there for culinary purposes.
Spotting the cue, the sound designer brought the volume right down. The only microphone he kept in the mix was the one Le Machine had swallowed on the Friday night. These moments were to be the only ones in the whole of Life where the background gurgling and thumping of a body at work were brought down, allowing the possibility of moments of near silence. Because this microphone was a new addition to the show, the crew were on tenterhooks, hoping it would all work out. They had been wondering whether the audience would get excited and start to cheer or shout things out, but everybody watched in rapt silence as Le Machine crouched over the glass tray.
Aurélie Renard stood in the middle of the crowd. She hadn’t known what she would think about Life; she thought it could well turn out to be a load of pointless, pretentious rubbish, but it wasn’t. To see and hear a body at work, presented in this way, had been really moving. She thought of her mother, and Herbert, and herself. She looked at Professor Papavoine, and he seemed to be close to tears as he watched Le Machine squat down, getting ready for the big moment.
For Le Machine, this part of Life had become routine, so much so that he wondered why people went on about it so much. Everybody did it, so what was the big deal? Normally he went once a day, and he had expected to have done it by this point, but for some reason he had been a bit blocked up. As he crouched, it became clear that this was not going to be an easy one. He started to strain. The microphone picked up a small squelch of movement, and the audience gasped in anticipation, but it seemed to be a false alarm. There was still some way to go. There was a loud pop as some gas forced its way out, and a while later there was another squelch as his faeces crept towards the exit. He could really feel it coming now. All he needed was a big strain, and it would be out. He readied himself, and went for it.
Like everybody else, Aurélie was watching him intently, and willing him on. Le Machine had won her over, not only with the nature of his show, but also with his perfectly sculpted body. Come on, she was thinking. You can do it . . .
Le Machine strained harder and harder, and as he did so the sight of him suddenly made her feel uneasy. But even so she couldn’t look away. His pained expression seemed familiar, but she couldn’t recall where she had seen it before. And then it struck her. She had seen it two days ago, as she had stood beside a pair of policemen and shouted at him to go away. She pictured Le Machine with clothes on,
and eyebrows, and hair on his head, and before she had a chance to stop herself, she started to call out to him: ‘Léan—!’ As she heard her own voice reverberating around the room, she put her hand over her mouth.
Le Machine looked up, to see where the sound had come from.
Murmurs began to spread through the crowd: Who was that putting him off? and Some people have no respect for art, and Oh no, he’s sucking it back in.
Le Machine stood up. His sound designer wasn’t sure what to do as he watched him pace to the edge of the stage and scan the faces in the audience. And then Le Machine did something he had never done before – he put his hands over his genitals, hiding them from view as though he were suddenly ashamed to be naked. He took a step back, a look of horror on his face.
He stood there, covering himself up, his eyes following Aurélie as she made her way out of the auditorium, pushing through the crowd. And somebody was there in her wake, accompanying her through the mêlée with a hand on her shoulder. It was Papavoine . . . He tried to work out what was going on.
He felt an urgent biological need to return to his glass tray and crouch back down. Le Machine strained and strained. The audience cheered, and began a slow but supportive hand clap, and finally out came a small brown pellet, about the size of a kidney bean. It had happened. The room erupted, and the interruption was forgotten. Another pellet dropped into the tray, this one the size of a broad bean, and the chanting began: Le Ma-chine! Le Ma-chine! Le Ma-chine! Le Ma-chine! And when these dry lumps and others had finally passed, they were followed by a softer, more substantial stool. The audience was ecstatic. Not only had they been there for his first poo of the run, but the rumours were true – not one drop of wee had come out at the same time.
When he had finished he went over to the bidet and cleaned up, then with a pair of tweezers he picked out the tiny microphone, which had done its job very well. He would swallow another one the next time he drank water. Using his special spatula, he transferred all the waste from the glass tray into the big bottle.
And there it sat, for all to see.
XXVIII
Monsieur Eric Rousset was sitting at the dinner table with his wife, his daughter and his daughter’s friend Thao, whom he had met in passing a few times before and had always found to be very pleasant.
‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ he said to Élise, his eyes glassy.
‘I think you did. But just in case you really didn’t, I’ll say it again: Thao and I are moving in together. We’ve found a place, and we’re getting the keys next week. It’s a one-bedroom apartment. With one bed in it. A big bed. It has to be a big bed because it’ll be for both of us.’
‘You mean . . . you and she . . .?’ He made what looked like peace signs with two fingers from each hand, then bumped them together like duelling scissors.
Élise nodded.
‘I had no idea. Nice place, is it?’
‘It’s wonderful,’ said Thao. ‘It’s exactly the kind of apartment we’ve been looking for.’
‘So you’ll be needing some help with the move. I’ll get some cardboard boxes from the cinema. They’re taking deliveries of new stock for the shop every day, so they have plenty going spare. And I can drive you around, and help you up the stairs, and all that kind of thing, don’t worry about that.’
‘Thank you,’ said Thao. ‘That’ll be very helpful. My dad’s offered too, so Élise and I won’t have to do anything much. We’ll just mix some cocktails, sit back and let you two get on with it.’
He laughed, and looked from his daughter to Thao, and back again. ‘Well, I never . . .’
‘Dad, I’m sorry.’
‘You shouldn’t be sorry. What’s there to be sorry about? I’m very open-minded. I’ve always said there should be a lot more girls like you two in the world. But above all, I’m glad to see you happy.’ He pointed at Thao. ‘She’s nice.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you a long time ago. It’s just . . .’
‘Just what? You thought it would break your old dad’s heart?’
‘No . . .’ She knew she had to tell him the truth. ‘Well, yes, in a way. I didn’t want to ruin your love of lesbian porn, that’s all. I know how much it means to you, and I thought that if I told you about myself it might make things too real for you and stop you from enjoying the fantasy.’
‘I do love my lesbian porn.’ He stared into space and smiled for a moment, before snapping out of it. ‘You know your old dad too well. But why would it ruin it for me? I know it doesn’t have much to do with reality. Unless you two are in any of the films, now that would be a bit much. Have you ever . . .?’ he asked Thao.
‘Been in a porn film? No.’
‘Good. Then everything’s going to be fine. You can be too protective, you know.’
Madame Rousset and Élise exchanged relieved glances. He was right; they had been overprotective of him.
Élise smiled, and squeezed her father’s hand. Then her pager beeped, and she apologised and checked it. ‘I’ve been called to the cinema. Le Machine has asked to see me.’ She kissed Thao and her parents goodbye, hurried out of the apartment and off to work.
Monsieur Rousset hoped Le Machine’s ailment wasn’t anything serious. Even though he had very suddenly had to abandon his dream of having him as a son-in-law, he was still very fond of him, and wished him only well. So now it was just the three of them: Monsieur Rousset, Madame Rousset and Thao.
‘So,’ said Monsieur Rousset to Thao, ‘you and Élise . . . How long have you been . . .?’ Not knowing quite what to say, he made the scissoring gesture again.
‘About nine months now, Monsieur Rousset.’
‘Nine months, eh? Nine months. Well, fancy that. Oh, and you must call me Eric. Or Papa. Whichever you prefer.’
‘Thank you,’ said Thao. ‘Thank you . . . Eric, I think.’
‘Then Eric it is.’
Anybody watching disc 16 of the DVD box set of Life: Paris will see Le Machine’s Doctor, Élise Rousset, emerge from the wings, and a short consultation take place. In the editing suite they will make sure that none of the words that were spoken make their way on to the soundtrack, and that the angles chosen do not give away any of this confidential encounter to lip readers. One of the strictures of Life was that Le Machine was not allowed to make any private communications. Anything he did or said had to be shared with everyone in the auditorium, hence the presence of the whiteboard, and the only exception for this was for his visits from the doctor. The sound designer bumped up Le Machine’s heartbeat in the body of the auditorium to almost deafening levels, but because of the positioning of the speakers it was still possible for them to hold a conversation on stage.
After a short talk to Le Machine, the doctor walked over to the large faeces bottle, and had a good close look at what had come out. She returned to her patient, and passed a comment on the condition of his stools. Then he pointed to his knee, and said something to her, and she prodded it, and massaged it, and asked some questions, and he answered them. Three minutes after arriving on stage, she went away.
She didn’t go straight back to her parents’ place, though. First she went to Le Machine’s dressing room, which doubled as the official sick bay, so her presence there would not have been regarded as suspicious. There was nothing irregular about her unlocking the medical cupboard and looking inside. What might have arrested the attention of an onlooker, though, was the sight of her opening the bag that contained the few personal belongings that Le Machine had brought with him to the venue, then picking out his wallet and going through it. Apart from a thick wad of euros, it didn’t contain much, and she soon found the card he had told her about, and slipped it into her pocket and zipped the bag shut. Only when this was done did she enter the details of her visit in the official medical log.
As she left the backstage area she ran into his manager, and reassured her that he was fine, that while the first stool had been a little hard it was nothing out of the ordinary, and that h
e had just sprained his knee a little on his debut crouch.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she said, and she headed back into the night. She turned her task over and over in her mind. She was going some way beyond the boundaries of her duty, but what the hell?
She dropped into a bar that she went to from time to time, ordered a beer and took the card from her pocket.
XXIX
Professor Papavoine hailed a taxi, and he and Aurélie got in. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you know Léandre too?’
‘Too?’
He nodded.
‘We’ve met. And it turns out there’s plenty I don’t know about him. He never told me he was Le Machine, for a start. So he’s your best friend, is he?’
‘He was a student of mine a few years ago. One day I made the mistake of betraying a lack of enthusiasm for an idea of his, and he stormed out of the room and out of college. I hadn’t seen him since, not until he surprised me with a visit on Friday, on his way to the venue. That’s how we got the tickets. So what did you think of his work?’
Aurélie had reached her verdict before realising she had fallen out with the star of the show, and she had to admit that she thought it was wonderful. ‘I loved it. But once I knew who it was up there I had to get out in a hurry. Sorry about that.’
‘That’s OK. I agree though, I think it’s incredible what he’s doing.’
‘You seemed quite choked up.’
He nodded. ‘Léandre came to me to apologise for having been such a hothead when he was younger, as if that was something he needed to apologise for. I can never understand people who aren’t hotheads when they’re young. Then I apologised for not having seen the potential of his proposal, which, incidentally, was for what we just saw, and he apologised for pitching it so crudely. Apparently his original plan was to paint a picture inspired by his hero, who happens to be Eugène Carrière, but in the moments before he came to see me about this, he heard some other students talking a load of pretentious crap outside my office and felt intimidated by it. He thought I would throw him out of college for being unambitious, for just wanting to paint a picture. He thought he needed a grand concept, so he came up with a new idea on the spot. Does that sound at all familiar?’
