12
The show of New Oils by
Margaret Blackwood was in its last week, and attendance at the gallery was
sparse. A significant number of paintings bore sold tags, and Nigel
concentrated on the ones that did not. He had decided that he would buy one or
two, but not right then, not with Margaret there. Next time she came to London
he would again invite her to his flat perhaps she would even stay with him
and she would be surprised by seeing her work on his wall.
Margarets bags
were beside the door. She looked at her watch, then at him.
Thanks again, she
said, for everything.
Are you sure I
cant drive you to Gatwick? he asked for a final time.
No, I mean, yes,
Im sure, I really do need to be alone.
Well, to Victoria,
at least? As he said it, he remembered that Victoria was the name of her late
mother, and wondered if he had committed a faux pas.
You know, she
said, not seeming to have noticed, by the time you get your car from the car
park
Ive got to go.
I shall stay,
then, and feel your spirit here in the gallery.
Thats lovely,
she said. She stood between her bags, but did not pick them up; she seemed to
be waiting for something. He approached her and began to bend his knees so as
to pick them up for her, but stopped in mid-bend, just as his face was at the
level of hers. He grasped her around the waist and they clinched in a long,
intense kiss.
No further words
were exchanged between them. He watched her pick up her bags they were not
very heavy and walk out of the gallery. He knew that, in that location, a
taxi would stop for her within thirty seconds.
He went back to
look at the paintings. He tried hard to limit his attention to the unsold ones,
but he couldnt help noticing two or three that he would have loved to own but
that would have other lucky owners. By a process of elimination he narrowed his
choice to four, and decided to come back the next day to pick two of them.
Walking out of the gallery into the London rain, he thought that snow might be
rather nicer. He would visit Margaret over Christmas, as she had suggested, and
perhaps go skiing with her. She had said that she would give him his first
lesson.
That afternoon, a long line
of mostly young people holding tickets in their hands stood waiting outside
Filmoteca de Catalunya. The marquee read MARIO FARGA GINA GEORGE SOFIA
MARÉS / LADY G IN PARADISE / ALBERT BOSCH. When the four people so named
arrived with an entourage of local notables to take their seats in the cinema,
enthusiastic applause broke out.
Margaret had arrived at
Gatwick with plenty of time to spare, time that she decided to while away by
browsing in the bookshop. Her flight would not be long enough to warrant a
novel, and she was so eager to get back to painting that she did not want to
take the risk of buying one that she might still be engrossed in when she got
home. She did not need to get a newspaper; she had already skimmed Nigels Daily
Telegraph.
There was a small
section of foreign-language books, and on a waist-high shelf she noticed a
series of thin paperbacks called Maîtres
du Cinéma. And there, between Ingmar Bergman and Robert Bresson, she saw
Albert Bosch.
The photograph on
the back cover was one that she was familiar with; it had been taken at Cannes
several years before she met him.
Once she was
comfortable in her aisle seat, she held the book between her hands for a while
before opening it. The author was a French critic whom Albert had several times
mentioned as being one of his admirers.
The middle seat, on
her right, was empty, and a woman slightly older than she was in the window
seat. The rustling of the books crisp pages caught the womans attention. She
looked at the back cover and, in English but with a Germanic accent, said to
Margaret:
Youre reading
about Albert Bosch? Once he was my favorite director.
Mine too, said
Margaret, looking at the woman with a smile.
I hear that now
hes making dirty pictures, the woman said with a conspiratorial guffaw.
So I hear, too,
said Margaret.
Ill let you read
about him, said the woman as she took a thick book out of her large purse and
opened it somewhere in the middle. Margaret opened hers, but for the time being
limited herself to looking at the design of the frontispiece.
She then opened the
book to its middle, where there were several pages of photographs. The first
page showed a very youthful Albert Bosch, pretentiously holding a pipe (he
never smoked in real life). The following pages held stills from some of his
films. One of them showed some French actors with Sofia Marés, the actress
Margaret had just seen in Alberts latest. Of course thats why she had
looked familiar! And on the last page, a recent picture showed him with
herself, at a film festival.
She was startled to
read in the legend that Albert Bosch was accompagné
de son amie anglaise, le peintre Margaret Blackwood. What the bloody hell
did that writer mean, le peintre? The
French people that she hung out with would have said la peintre. But then they sneered at the Académie française and did not hesitate to use English words
galore: le business, le shopping, le
footing (by which they meant jogging).
She closed the
book, but the picture remained in her mind. And, by an impulse coming from deep
inside her soul, Alberts face transmogrified into Nigels. She already knew
that she would dream about Nigel that night, and one of these days she would,
from memory, paint a portrait of him. It would be ready for his Christmas
visit.
Inside the cinema, the
mostly young Mediterranean audience was being treated to scenes that Margaret
had denied herself by walking out of the London premiere: Marco licking Ginas
breasts, mutual unbuttoning of pants, complete undressing, much groping, Gina
slipping under the sheets, Marco following her, and extended, though covered
and simulated, sex. The audience was for the most part enraptured, and young
couples got excited.
The action that
followed Marcos departure from the hotel room, consisting mostly of talk, was
interspersed with snippets, obviously flashbacks in Marcos mind, of a sex
scene between him and Sara, the character played by Sofia. Near the end another
episode of sex between Marco and Gina took place, this time on a deserted beach
and with both of them naked; between orgasmic gasps they could be heard saying
good-bye to each other. A close-up of a tearful Gina at the airport was followed
by a fadeout of her walking away from the camera toward the gate. Her
voice-over was saying Yes, I found
paradise. But it is not the place for me. And, over a shot of a smiling
Gina amid the London bustle, My place is
in hell.
Margaret had left her car
in the airports long-term parking garage. It was only afternoon, but the
November dusk was approaching. She would not be painting that day; she would
start bright and early the next morning, as she had been envisioning over the
past five days. She had a drink at an airport bar and read some of the book.
There was actually
not very much in it about Albert, and nothing that she did not know. Mostly, it
was the authors metaphorical musings and pseudo-Freudian analysis of the
films, redolent of Derrida and Lacan, and reminiscent of the way French art
critics had reviewed her show in Paris a couple of years before.
By the time she
turned off the route nationale onto
the mountain road leading to her house, the moon had risen. She was now within
receiving range of her favorite classical-music station, and she flicked on the
radio. The sound of a beautiful soprano voice could it be Margaret Price?
singing Dove sono from Le Nozze di Figaro filled the car.
Margaret had once thought that the words Dove sono meant Where am I, but
she knew by now, having seen the opera, that in this aria they meant Where are
they, referring to the happy times in the countesss past. She wondered if she
would ever feel such nostalgic longing for her first year with Albert; she
certainly did not feel it now. She felt quite contented as she hummed along
with the diva, who turned out to be Kiri te Kanawa.
The post-premiere press
conference was held in a large, beautifully appointed meeting room called the
Blue Room in Albert and Ginas hotel. At the speakers table, Albert and Gina
were seated in the center, with Mario on Ginas side and Sofia on Alberts.
They were further flanked by the regional dignitaries and the assistant
director, Nacho, whose formal name was Ignasi Ponts.
The introductory
speeches, as well the journalists questions to the speakers and the responses
to the questions, were delivered in Catalan and translated in a whisper by
Mario and Sofia to Gina and Albert, respectively. They dealt mostly with the significance
of having an international film by a famous director made in their region
(which they persisted in calling their country) and prominently featuring
dialogue in their language.
A few questions
were then addressed to Mario and Sofia. Gina George could hear her name and
Alberts sprinkled throughout the questions and answers, and deduced that they
referred to what it was like for the local actors to be working with
international stars. There was some good-natured laughter.
When it was
Alberts turn, the questions were mainly in French, as were Alberts responses.
Albert Bosch was a multilingual filmmaker, but his most prominent work was in
French, and people tended to associate him with French cinema, though he went
to great lengths to deny the association.
A young woman
journalist, however, spoke in very good English.
I would like to
put this both to Mr. Bosch and to Miss George. I remember that during the
shooting you said that this film is a feminist statement. Would you clarify?
Albert and Gina
looked at each other in order to ascertain who would be the one to reply. He
gave a ladies first smile, which was reinforced by the journalists Perhaps
you first, Miss George?
You mean you dont
see it that way? asked Gina.
I dont know,
said the journalist. I think we should like to hear it from you. You see, we
have different
definitions of feminism, and we should like to know what you
meant.
Well, said Gina,
hesitant at first, I think it shows the main character as an independent
woman, whos in control of her
of her
sexuality
I mean
she decides
who she goes to bed with
Albert took up the
relay without waiting for a prompt. Lady G is a feminist icon because, he
said, when we call something feminine we sometimes refer to active aspects and
sometimes to passive ones, and she embodies the active aspects of femininity
and negates the passive ones.
So that is how you
define feminism? a male journalist asked.
Yes, said Albert,
emphasizing the active aspects of femininity. Dont you agree, Gina?
Yes, said Gina,
thats exactly right.
On getting into her house,
Margaret dropped her bags in the foyer, turned on the electric heater she
would light the fireplace later and poured herself a drink from the first
bottle she saw without looking at the label. But before taking a sip she set
the glass down and walked out and into her studio. Without turning on the light
the moon was shining brightly through the window she undraped the canvas
that was on the easel nearest the door, looked at it, and covered it again. She
did the same with another canvas, which was leaning against the wall. She
returned to the house, put on the radio there was more Mozart and sat on
the sofa to enjoy the drink. With a great deal of mental effort she managed to
drive away any conscious thought of Nigel. But not for long.
The Paris premiere the
one that would really matter, as Albert Bosch had told Gina George was
preceded, as is the habit there, by a screening for the critics that was
followed by a press conference. Gina sat prominently next to Albert, but she
seemed to perform a purely decorative function. All of the questions were in
French, and all were addressed to Monsieur Bosch. It often seemed to Gina that
the questions werent really questions but speeches, and while Alberts
responses sometimes provoked some seemingly appreciative laughter he was
probably funnier in French than in English, she thought much of the time he
seemed on the defensive.
The contentious
press conference dragged on well past its allotted time, leaving no time for
dinner before the public premiere. Gina, Albert and Alberts French distributor
barely had time for some snacks in a café. Albert seemed despondent, and the
distributor, whose name was Michel, tried his best to cheer him up in French.
He also tried his best, in his limited English, to include Gina in the
conversation, by telling her some nasty gossip about some of the critics.
The audience at the
premiere applauded politely at the end, some personages from French cinema came
up to Albert and Gina to shake their hands, and then they were finally alone in
their hotel room. It was late evening, and the Eiffel Tower loomed in their
window.
Beautiful, isnt
it? Gina said.
Yes, its
beautiful, Albert said with a sigh.
Whats the
matter?
I wish I could
enjoy the view, but those French critics have killed Paris for me.
You havent even
told me what they said.
It doesnt really
matter they were just being French intellectuals at their worst, including
the one who wrote a book about me; I hated that book, by the way, though it was
supposed to be complimentary. But the public in Europe reads them and listens
to them. You know, one of them even complained that the film is mostly in
English, so that he had to read subtitles, the poor guy.
I could never
imagine seeing a film of yours and not reading subtitles, said Gina with
a laugh.
But you Americans
are so open, said Albert. The French think that they are so very cosmopolitan
and universal, but they are really very provincial. Sometimes I have felt like
screaming at them: I am not French, I am not French
Albert, I have an
idea, Gina said after a silence. An idea thats going to save us.
And what might
that be? Albert asked, in a tone that Gina at first heard as slightly
condescending, but then decided that it came from his not being a native
English-speaker.
Lets reshoot the
sex scenes, and make them real.
You mean
real?
he asked. She nodded. Hard-core? he asked again.
Thats just what I
mean. Im pretty sure Mario wont mind.
You are sure?
Ask him, she said
with her best Gina George smile.
But
Ive never
done anything like this.
As we say back in
the States, theres a first time for everything. This will be the new Albert
Bosch, bolder than ever
But what about the
version that has already been shown?
Lets withdraw it.
Well say that it was a toned-down version for the refined audiences that
attend premieres, but that what well release for the regular audiences is the
real version. Youre a fast editor; it shouldnt take you that long to splice
the reshoots in. Ill bet we can have it ready for Park City in January, and
all the big American critics will be there, now that Redfords running the
show
The skepticism in
Alberts face was dissolving.
All we need is
Mario, Gina went on, me and the cameraman in a hotel room; he can use a
hand-held camera with natural light and fast film. And if your cameraman is too
squeamish
No, I dont think
so
I was going to
say, I could get someone experienced with this stuff to come from Hollywood.
And then you can edit to your hearts content. Just keep it real.
And the beach
scene? It isnt exactly beach weather these days. The weather along the
Mediterranean was, in fact, sunny but chilly.
Sure it is. I go
swimming all year round, and if Marios cold, Ill get him warm.
But what about the
scene with Sofia? I doubt very much that she would agree. She is a married
woman, or practically
You can leave all
the foreplay as is, and Im sure we can get a body double for the
the
penetration shot. Whoever she is, she probably wont mind getting a chance
to
to come to paradise! And she smiled again. Albert suddenly understood
her absence that morning in London.
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