The Destiny of Nathalie X Read online

  “You can’t stay down by the airport,” Prevost said. “Not anymore. You can shoot in Westchester but you can’t live there.”

  A young woman emerged from the front door. She had short chestnut hair, a wide white smile and was wearing a spandex leotard and heavy climbing boots.

  “This is Nancy, your assistant.”

  “Hi. Good to meet you, Aurélien. Did I say that right?”

  “Aurélien.”

  “Aurélien?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “The office is in back of the tennis court. It’s in good shape.”

  “Look, I got to fly, Aurélien. You’re meeting Lanier Cross 7:30 a.m. at the Hamburger Heaven on the Shore. Nancy’ll fix everything up.”

  To his surprise Kaiser Prevost then embraced him. When they broke apart Aurélien thought he saw tears in his eyes.

  “We’ll fucking show them, man, we’ll fucking show them. Onward and upward, way to fucking go.”

  “Any news of Delphine?”

  “Who? No. Nothing yet. Any problems, call me, Aurélien. Twenty-four hours a day.”

  MATT FRIEDRICH. Le Destin de Nathalie X was not as boring as I had expected, but then I was expecting terminal boredom. I was bored, sure, but it was nice to see Paris again. That’s the great thing they’ve got going for them, French films, they carry this wonderful cargo of nostalgic Francophilia for all non-French audiences. Pretty girl too, easy on the eye. I never thought I could happily watch a girl drink herself drunk in a French café, but I did. It was not a wasted hour and a half.

  It sure freaked out Prevost and Berger, though. “Extraordinary,” Prevost said, clearly moved, “extraordinary piece.” Berger mused awhile before announcing, “That girl is a fox.” “Michael Scott Gehn thinks it’s a masterpiece,” I said. They agreed, vehemently. It’s one of my tricks: when you don’t know what to say, when you hated it or you’re really stuck and anything qualified won’t pass muster, use someone else’s praise. Make it up if you have to. It’s infallible, I promise.

  I asked them how long they wanted the synopsis to be: sentence length or half a page. Berger said it had to be over forty pages, closely spaced, so people would be reluctant to read it. “We already have coverage,” he said, “but we need a document.” “Make it as surreal and weird as you like,” Prevost said, handing me the videocassette. “That’s the whole point.”

  We walked out into the Alcazar lot and went in search of our automobiles. “When’s he meeting Lanier?” Berger said. “Tomorrow morning. She’ll love him, Bob,” Prevost said. “It’s a done deal.” Berger gestured at the heavens. “Bountiful Jehovah,” he said. “Get me Lanier.”

  I looked at these two guys, young enough to be my sons, as they crouched into their sleek, haunchy cars under a tallow moon, fantasizing loudly, belligerently, about this notional film, the deals, the stars, and I felt enormous pity for them. I have a theory about this town: our trouble is we are at once the most confident and the most insecure people in the world. We seem bulging with self-assurance, full of loud-voiced swagger, but in reality we’re terrified, or we hate ourselves, or we’re all taking happy pills of some order or another, or seeing shrinks, or getting counseled by fakirs and shamans, or fleeced by a whole gallimaufry of frauds and mountebanks. This is the Faustian pact—or should I say this is the Faust deal—you have to make in order to live and work here: you get it all, sure, but you get royally fucked up in the process. That’s the price you pay. It’s in the contract.

  Aurélien No was directed to Lanier Cross’s table in the dark rear angles of the Hamburger Heaven. Another man and a woman were sitting with her. Aurélien shook her thin hand. She was beautiful, he saw, but so small, a child-woman, the musculature of a twelve-year-old with the sexual features of an adult.

  She introduced the others, an amiable, grinning, broad-shouldered youngster and a lean crop-haired woman in her forties with a fierce strong face.

  “This is my husband,” she said. “Kit Vermeer. And this is Naomi Tashourian. She’s a writer we work with.”

  “We love your work,” Kit said.

  “Beautiful film,” echoed Lanier.

  “You’ve seen it?” Aurélien said.

  “We saw it two hours ago,” Lanier said.

  Aurélien looked at his watch: Nancy had made sure he was punctual—7:30 a.m.

  “I called Berger, said I had to see it before we met.”

  “We tend to sleep in the day,” Kit said. “Like bats.”

  “Like lemurs,” Lanier said. “I don’t like bats.”

  “Like lemurs.”

  “It’s a beautiful film,” Lanier said. “That’s why we wanted to meet with you.” She reached up and unfastened a large plastic bulldog clip on the top of her head and uncoiled a great dark glossy hank of hair a yard long. She pulled and tightened it, screwing it up, winding it around her right hand, piling it back on the top of her head before she refastened it in position with the clip. Everyone remained silent during this operation.

  “That’s why we wanted you to meet Naomi.”

  “This is a remake, right?” Naomi said.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Excellent,” Lanier said. “I know Kit wants to put something to you. Kit?”

  Kit leaned across the table. “I want to play the waiter,” he said.

  Aurélien thought before answering. “The waiter is only in the film for about two minutes, right at the end.”

  “Which is why we thought you should meet Naomi.”

  “The way I see it,” Naomi said, “is that Nathalie has been in a relationship with the waiter. That’s why she goes to the restaurant. And we could see, in flashback, you know, their relationship.”

  “I think it could be extraordinary, Aurélien,” Lanier said.

  “And I know that because of our situation, I and Lanier, our marital situation,” Kit added, “we could bring something extraordinary to that relationship. And beautiful.”

  Lanier and Kit kissed each other, briefly but with some passion, before resuming the argument in favor of the flashback. Aurélien ordered some steak and french fries as they fleshed out the relationship between Nathalie X and her waiter-lover.

  “And Naomi would write this?” Aurélien asked.

  “Yes,” Lanier said. “I’m not ready to work with another writer just yet.”

  “I think Bob Berger has another writer—Matt Friedrich.”

  “What’s he done?” Kit said.

  “We have to let Matt go, Aurélien,” Lanier said. “You shouldn’t drink beer this early in the morning.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m an alcoholic,” Kit said. “It’s the thin edge of the wedge, believe me.”

  “Could you guys leave me alone with Aurélien?” Lanier said.

  They left.

  LANIER CROSS. I have a theory about this town: the money doesn’t matter. THE MONEY DOESN’T MATTER. Everybody thinks it’s about the money but they’re wrong. They think it’s only because of the money that people put up with the godawful shit that’s dumped on them. That there can be only one possible reason why people are prepared to be so desperately unhappy. Money. Not so. Consider this: everybody who matters in this town has more than enough money. They don’t need any more money. And I’m not talking about the studio heads, the top directors, the big stars, the people with obscene amounts. There are thousands of people in this town, possibly tens of thousands, who are involved in movies who have more money than is reasonably acceptable. So it’s not about money, it can’t be, it’s about something else. It’s about being at the center of the world.

  “She loved you,” Kaiser Prevost said. “She’s all over you like a rash.”

  “Any news of Delphine?”

  “Who? Ah, no. What did you say to her, to Lanier? Bob called, she’ll do it for nothing. Well, half her normal fee. Sensational idea about Kit Vermeer. Excellent. Why didn’t I think of that? Maybe that’s what swung it.”

  “No, it was
her idea. How are we going to finish the film without Delphine?”

  “Aurélien. Please. Forget Delphine Drelle. We have Lanier Cross. We fired Friedrich, we got Tashourian writing the flashback. We’re in business, my son, in business.”

  NAOMI TASHOURIAN. I have a theory about this town, this place. Don’t be a woman.

  Aurélien sat in the cutting room with Barker Lear, an editor, as they ran what existed of Seeing Through Nathalie on the Moviola.

  Barker, a heavy man with a grizzled ginger goatee, watched Delphine sit down at the pizzeria and order a beer. She drank it down and ordered another, then the sound boom, which had been bobbing erratically in and out of frame for the last few minutes, fell fully into view and the screen went black.

  Barker turned and looked at Aurélien, who was frowning and tapping his teeth with the end of a pencil.

  “That’s some film,” Barker said. “Who’s the girl, she’s extraordinary.”

  “Delphine Drelle.”

  “She a big star in France?”

  “No.”

  “Sorta hypnotic effect, she has …” He shrugged. “Shame about the boom.”

  “Oh, I don’t worry about that sort of thing,” Aurélien said. “It adds to the verisimilitude.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You’re meant to know it’s a film. That’s why the end works so well.”

  “So what happens in the end? You’ve still got to shoot it, right?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what happens. Neither does Delphine.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “She gets drunk, you see. We watch her getting drunk. We don’t cut away. We don’t know what she might do. That’s what makes it so exciting—that’s ‘the destiny of Nathalie X.’ ”

  “I see … So, ah, what happened at the end of the first film?”

  “She goes to the café, she drinks six or seven beers very quickly, and I can see she’s quite drunk. She orders another drink and when the waiter brings it she throws it in his face.”

  “You don’t say? Then what?”

  “They have a fight. Delphine and the waiter. They really hit each other. It’s fantastic. Delphine, she’s had this training, self-defense. She knees this guy in the couilles. Boff!”

  “Fascinating.”

  “He falls over. She collapses, crying, she turns to me, swears at me. Runs off into the night. The end. It’s amazing.”

  Barker rubbed his beard, thinking. He glanced at Aurélien covertly.

  “Going to do the same thing here?”

  “No, no. It’s got to be different for the USA, for Hollywood. That’s why I gave her the gun.”

  “Is it a real gun?”

  “Oh yes. Otherwise what would be the point?”

  BARKER LEAR. I definitely had him for a wacko at first, but after I spent an afternoon with him, talking to him, it seemed to me he really knew what he was doing. He was a real calm guy, Aurélien. He had his own vision, didn’t worry about other people, what other people might think of him. And it was the easiest editing job I ever did. Long long takes. Lot of handheld stuff. The walk had a few reverses, a few mid shots, dolly shots. And the film was kind of exciting, I have to admit, and I was really quite disappointed that he still hadn’t shot the end. This girl Delphine, with this crazy blond fringe over her eyes, there was definitely something wild about her. I mean, who knows, once she got loaded, what she might have done. Maybe Aurélien wasn’t a wacko, but she definitely was.

  You know, I have a theory about this town, this place. I’ve been working here for twenty-five years and I’ve seen them all. In this town you have very, very clever people and very, very wacko people, and the problem is, and that’s what makes this place different, our special problem is the very clever people have to work with the very wacko people. They have to, they can’t help it, it’s the nature of the job. That doesn’t happen other places for one simple reason—clever and wacko don’t mix.

  Aurélien stood by the pool with Nancy enjoying the subdued play of morning light on the water. Today Nancy’s hair was white blond and she wore a tutu over her leotard and cowboy boots with spurs. She handed him a pair of car keys and an envelope with a thousand dollars in it.

  “That’s the new rental car. Celica OK? And there’s your per diem. And you’ve got dinner with Lanier Cross at 6:30.”

  “6:30 p.m.?”

  “Ah, yeah … She can make it 6:00 if you prefer. She asked me to tell you it will be vegetarian.”

  “What are all those men doing? Is it some kind of military exercise?”

  “Those are the gardeners. Shall I make them go away?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “And Tim Pascal called.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s an English film director. He has several projects in development at Alcazar. He wanted to know if you wanted to lunch or drink or whatever.”

  The doorbell rang. Aurélien strode across the several levels of his cool white living room to answer it, and as he did so the bell rang twice again. It was Delphine.

  KAISER PREVOST. I have a theory about this town; it doesn’t represent the fulfillment of the American dream, it represents the fulfillment of an American reality. It rewards relentless persistence, massive stamina, ruthlessness and the ability to live with grotesque failure. Look at me: I am a smallish guy, 138 pounds, with pretty severe myopia, and near average academic qualifications. But I have a personable manner and an excellent memory and a good head of hair. I will work hard and I will take hard decisions and I have developed the thickest of thick skins. With these attributes in this town nothing can stop me. Or those like me. We are legion. We know what they call us but we don’t care. We don’t need contacts, we don’t need influence, we don’t need talent, we don’t need cosmetic surgery. That’s why I love this place. It allows us to thrive. That’s why when I heard Aurélien had never showed for dinner with Lanier Cross, I didn’t panic. People like me take that kind of awful crisis in their stride.

  Aurélien turned over and gently kissed Delphine’s right breast. She stubbed out her cigarette and hunched into him.

  “This house is incredible, Aurélien. I like it here.”

  “Where’s Holbish?”

  “You promised me you wouldn’t mention him again. I’m sorry, Aurélien, I don’t know what made me do it.”

  “No, I’m just curious.”

  “He’s gone to Seattle.”

  “Well, we can manage without him. Are you ready?”

  “Of course, it’s the least I can do. What about the pizzeria?”

  “I was given a thousand dollars’ cash today. I knew it would come in useful.”

  MATT FRIEDRICH. I have to admit I was hoping for the Seeing Through Nathalie rewrite. When Bob Berger fired me and said that Naomi Tashourian was the new writer, it hurt for a while. It always does, no matter how successful you are. But in my case I was due a break and I thought Nathalie was it. I’ve missed out on my last three Guild arbitrations and a Lanier Cross film would have helped, however half-baked, however art-house. Berger said they would honor the fee for the synopsis I did (obfuscation takes on new meaning), but I guess the check is still in the post. But, I do not repine, as a great English novelist once said, I just get on with the job.

  I have a theory about this town, this Spielraum where we dream and dawdle: one of our problems—perhaps it’s the problem—is that here ego always outstrips ability. Always. That applies to everyone: writers, directors, actors, heads of production, d-boys and unit runners. It’s our disease, our mark of Cain. When you have success here you think you can do anything, and that’s the great error. The success diet is too rich for our digestive systems: it poisons us, addles the brain. It makes us blind. We lose our self-knowledge. My advice to all those who make it is this: take the job you would have done if the film had been a flop. Don’t go for the big one, don’t let those horizons recede. Do the commercial, the TV pilot, the documentary, the three-week rewrite, the
character role or whatever it was you had lined up first. Do that job and then maybe you can reach for the forbidden fruit, but at least you’ll have your feet on the ground.

  “Kaiser?”

  “Bob?”

  “He’s not at the house, Kaiser.”

  “Shit.”

  “He’s got to phone her. He’s got to apologize.”

  “No. He’s got to lie.”

  “She called Vincent.”

  “Fuck. The bitch.”

  “That’s how bad she wants to do it. I think it’s a good sign.”

  “Where is that African bastard? I’ll kill him.”

  “Nancy says the French babe showed.”

  “Oh, no. No, fuckin’ no!”

  “It gets worse, Kaiser. Vincent told me to call Tim Pascal.”

  “Who the fuck’s he?”

  “Some English director. Lanier wants to meet with him.”

  “Who’s his agent?”

  “Sheldon … Hello? Kaiser?”

  GEORGE MALINVERNO. I got a theory about this town, this place: everybody likes pizza. Even the French. We got to know them real well, I guess. They came back every night, the French. The tall black guy, the ratty one and the blond girl. Real pretty girl. Every night they come. Every night they eat pizza. Every night she ties one on. Everybody likes pizza. [Bitter laugh] Everybody. Too bad I didn’t think of it first, huh?

  They film one night. And the girl, she’s steaming. Then, I don’t know, something goes wrong and we don’t see them for a while. Then he comes back. Just the black guy, Aurélien and the girl. He says, can they film, one night, a thousand bucks. I say for sure. So he sets up the sound and he sets up the camera behind the bushes. You know it’s not a disturbance, exactly. I never see anybody make a film like this before. A thousand bucks, it’s very generous. So the girl she walks up, she takes a seat, she orders beer and keeps on drinking. Soon she’s pretty stewed. Aurélien sits behind the bushes, just keeps filming. Some guy tries to pick her up, puts his hand on the table, like, leans over, she takes a book of matches, like that one, and does something to the back of his hand with the corner. I couldn’t see what she did, but the guy gasps with pain, shudders like this, just backs off.