Her role, Jeremy thinks, and he feels his shoulders relax, his chest expand. Of course. It is makeup-he can see now that new lines have been etched into his wife’s flawless skin.
He can’t remember the story of this film, though he’s sure that she’s told him. Have I not been paying attention? he thinks. But that’s who he is-a man who listens. When did she tell me the story? Last night at dinner? Months ago when she got the script? Why have I forgotten?
“Why is there a bed on the bridge?” he asks in French.
“See,” Dana says. “I knew you spoke French beautifully. Never with me, though.” She turns to Chantal. “I talk too much. See what happens if I stop talking?”
“I’ve been making mistakes all day,” Jeremy says. It is another mistake. Suddenly everything has two meanings. Jeremy feels off balance.
“Le lit?” he repeats.
“Ah, the bed,” Dana says.
“Attention! Atten-ci-on!” Pascale shouts over the loudspeaker. The movie is a French and American collaboration. The cast is half French, half American. Even the dialogue is a jumble of both languages. Jeremy remembers that much.
“I must go,” Dana says, while Pascale shouts something over the loudspeaker. “I’m on right away. I hope we can talk later.” She says this last to Chantal, who seems inordinately pleased to receive the attentions of this actress, even if she is homely, poorly dressed, and the wife of the man who has spent the day pining for her.
I mean nothing to her, Jeremy thinks, and then he catches himself. Of course not. I’m this week’s student. On Monday she’ll meet another student.
Dana hurries off.
“Come on,” Lindy says, breathlessly. “I want to be in front.”
She sounds like a little girl at her first shoot. She should know better-that it will take longer than they anticipate to set up the scene, that something will go wrong right away and they’ll have to find a new lens or bring in the jib or reset the lighting. And if it does rain, they’ll need tarps above the cameramen and director, even while the actors get soaked.
Lindy dashes ahead through the crowd.
“Are you sure-” Jeremy says. He wants Chantal to say, Let’s leave. Let’s go someplace quiet.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see them film!” she says. Of course, she is starstruck. Everyone is. Except for him. Can he love his wife and hate the star?
Jeremy takes Chantal’s elbow and they maneuver through the crowd. Pascale has cleared a large space in the middle of the bridge. The bed sits there, with a single rose-colored sheet covering it. No blanket, no pillows. The sheet is rumpled as if already used.
The sky darkens and thunder rumbles-the crowd lets out a collective Ooooh! They are waiting for drama and the approaching storm feeds their expectation. Nothing is happening yet on the set, but onlookers have quieted. Jeremy sees that gawkers on both sides of the Seine, lined up three or four deep, are obediently following the demands of the signs that have been lifted by young crew members. Silence!
Jeremy finds Lindy at the front edge of the set and he helps Chantal squeeze in beside her. He then fits himself in the space between them. He knows only a few of the film people who hover near Pascale-he recognizes them from the last film Dana made with her, four years before. One of them was at dinner last night-a young Frenchman who worked with Pascale on the script. “He’s brilliant,” Dana told Jeremy while the young man told a long story about the immigrant revolution brewing in the banlieue of Paris. And pompous, Jeremy thought, but he didn’t say a word. Now the young man fixes Dana’s oversize shirt, unbuttoning two of the top buttons. He’s not from the costume department, Jeremy thinks. What business is it of his? But Pascale looks over and nods-apparently Dana should look horrible and bare her breasts at the same time.
Pascale calls out some commands and then takes her seat on her director’s chair. The chair reads BIG BOSS. It was a gift from an earlier crew and Pascale uses it for every film now. It is the “big” part that Pascale likes. She is barely five feet tall.
Again, the sky grumbles and Pascale claps and raises her hands to the heavens. A few people laugh.
And then they are ready to film the scene. Jeremy wonders how it has happened so quickly, but perhaps things have changed since the last time he watched a shoot. We’ll watch a scene or two and then move on, he thinks.
There is quiet and then a man and a woman walk onto the set. They are wearing bathrobes. They take off the robes and hand them to a young woman at their side. They are naked. There is a muffled gasp from the crowd. Pascale raises a hand and everyone quiets. A woman smacks the clapper board and the cameras roll.
Jeremy glances at Chantal-she is transfixed. And then Lindy-her mouth has fallen open. Jeremy wants to cover her eyes. But of course, she’s twenty, she’s seen naked boys before. Men.
Chantal shifts her weight and he feels the pressure of her arm on his. She doesn’t move away.
The woman is very young, barely older than Lindy. She’s blond and her skin is ghostly white-she looks like some cross between angel and child prostitute. Her body is impossibly perfect-small and curvaceous with breasts as round as apples. Jeremy sees that her pubic hair is shaved! No wonder she looks like a child. There’s something unsettling about what she offers-sex and innocence-something pornographic, he thinks.
She walks to the bed and lies down. She doesn’t seem to have any self-consciousness about her nudity. Jeremy wonders about children along the quai watching this. But we’re in Paris, he thinks. And for a moment, he wonders what kind of rating this movie might have. Of course, Dana has never done an X-rated film-it would kill her career. She’s a classy actress, like a younger Meryl Streep with a little more sass. She has never even done a sex scene in the nude.
Will someone cover the girl’s bare crotch?
The man walks around the bed, looking at the girl. He, too, is comfortable with his naked body. He has a large uncircumcised penis that weaves as he walks. Jeremy’s body tenses. He shouldn’t be here with these two girls at his side. Dana should not have invited them. He feels like a prude-this shouldn’t even be a public event.
He looks up. A camera moves in close. Dana is hidden from sight. No one has spoken a word.
The man is older than the girl, by a good twenty years. In fact, his body is a little slack-Jeremy sees with wicked pleasure that the man has a bit of extra weight around his waist. But it doesn’t concern him; he’s circling the bed and the naked girl as if he’s a lion tamer. Or the lion himself. The girl is his prey.
Dana steps forward. Someone has poured water on her and she’s dripping wet. Her clothes cling to her; beads of water drip from her chin. This is no summer rainstorm-it looks as if she’s stepped from the shower. Jeremy expects Pascale to stop the filming, to yell at the person responsible for overdoing the effect this way-but the camera keeps moving, Dana keeps walking toward the man, and the man keeps circling the girl on the bed.
“Look at me,” Dana says, her voice a throaty whisper.
The man doesn’t look. He walks by her and keeps walking. The girl on the bed makes a moaning sound as if she’s already having sex. Jeremy is disgusted. What is this? The girl follows the man’s eyes with her own-her pleasure comes from his attention. She’s aroused; even her nipples stand out from her perky breasts. How did she do that? Can a woman make her nipples erect as part of her acting training? She can’t possibly be aroused by this fool with the big dick, Jeremy thinks.
“Regarde,” Dana says, her voice more insistent.