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. Margaret’s bags were beside the door. She looked at her watch, then at him. “Thanks again,” she said, “for everything.” “Are you sure I can’t drive you to Gatwick?” he asked for a final time. “No, I mean, yes, I’m 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… I’ve got to go.” “I shall stay, then, and feel your spirit here in the gallery.” “That’s 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 couldn’t 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 Nigel’s 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 book’s crisp pages caught the woman’s attention. She looked at the back cover and, in English but with a Germanic accent, said to Margaret: “You’re 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 he’s making dirty pictures,” the woman said with a conspiratorial guffaw. “So I hear, too,” said Margaret. “I’ll 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 Albert’s latest. Of course – that’s 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, Albert’s face transmogrified into Nigel’s. 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 Gina’s 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 Marco’s departure from the hotel room, consisting mostly of talk, was interspersed with snippets, obviously flashbacks in Marco’s 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 airport’s 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 author’s 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 countess’s 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 Gina’s hotel. At the speaker’s table, Albert and Gina were seated in the center, with Mario on Gina’s side and Sofia on Albert’s. 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 Albert’s 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 Albert’s turn, the questions were mainly in French, as were Albert’s 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 journalist’s “Perhaps you first, Miss George?” “You mean you don’t see it that way?” asked Gina. “I don’t 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, who’s 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. Don’t you agree, Gina?” “Yes,” said Gina, “that’s 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 weren’t really questions but speeches, and while Albert’s 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 Albert’s 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, isn’t it?” Gina said. “Yes, it’s beautiful,” Albert said with a sigh. “What’s the matter?” “I wish I could enjoy the view, but those French critics have killed Paris for me.” “You haven’t even told me what they said.” “It doesn’t 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 that’s 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. “Let’s reshoot the sex scenes, and make them real.” “You mean… real?” he asked. She nodded. “Hard-core?” he asked again. “That’s just what I mean. I’m pretty sure Mario won’t mind.” “You are sure?” “Ask him,” she said with her best Gina George smile. “But… I’ve never done anything like this.” “As we say back in the States, there’s 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?” “Let’s withdraw it. We’ll say that it was a toned-down version for the refined audiences that attend premieres, but that what we’ll release for the regular audiences is the real version. You’re a fast editor; it shouldn’t take you that long to splice the reshoots in. I’ll bet we can have it ready for Park City in January, and all the big American critics will be there, now that Redford’s running the show…” The skepticism in Albert’s 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 don’t 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 heart’s content. Just keep it real.” “And the beach scene? It isn’t 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 Mario’s cold, I’ll 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 I’m sure we can get a body double for the… the penetration shot. Whoever she is, she probably won’t mind getting a chance to… to come to paradise!” And she smiled again. Albert suddenly understood her absence that morning in London.