1 Smokescreen
Late June 2007
It was something extraordinary, really, that led me to him. A twist of fate. A twist of luck. But pure chance, certainly not. Especially here, there, in my home town.
She popped up from the shooting as if a devil was chasing her, using the back door to escape something… scary. For her beautiful features were set in fright. Yet… with the long hair trailing down her back and the medieval dress, she looked every bit the part of a noble lady. Hell, this whole hotel could have belonged to her. Despite her youth, twenty-five, perhaps, the lady commanded respect. Her reddening cheeks, thought, were attuned to the fast pace of her rising chest. Something was wrong. I lowered the cigarette from my lips, exhaling the smoke as I frowned.
My movement caused her to spot me; her expression changed from panicked to mortified. Had she recognised me ? After playing this villain in that famous spy movie, I was starting to have trouble remaining incognito. Even in France, even in this beautiful village called Châtillon sur Chalaronne where I was co-producing a medieval movie that seemed promising.
The young woman lifted her hands, taking a step back in the deserted paved street.
— “Oh ! Excuse me sir. I didn’t think someone would be there… I’ll leave you in peace”
— “No ! Don’t go on my account.”
I showed her the short length of my cigarette stump, not even realising that she had addressed me in english. Weird, I’d thought her a local; she wasn’t part of the cast.
— “I won’t be long.”
She paused, nibbling on her lower lip – very rosy one – before sending me an uncertain smile.
— “All right, if you’re sure”
— “I am.”
As I took another drag of my cigarette, relishing in the quietness of the nearby street, the young woman sat on the first step of a little porch. Everything in this town was so beautiful, the half timbering of houses, the paved streets, history pouring out of every single building. The hotel we were shooting in was astonishing. The ‘Hotel de la Tour’ stood proudly in the heart of Châtillon - little castle, in French - offering its timber façade and medieval setting for a few scenes before we moved to a grander place the castle of Berzé-la-Ville, 40 minutes north. The ambiance inside was droolworthy enough; it was little wonder Lance Amstrong – the cyclist who won the Tour de France – always asked to be housed here whenever a a stopover fell near.
Beside me, the little woman seemed quite flustered. And from the looks she wasn’t addressing me, it wasn’t because of my presence. Meaning she had not recognised me. Nice. Perhaps I ought to make sure she wasn’t going to explode on the doorstep, or nothing had gone amiss in the shooting while I was taking that 5 minutes break.
— “I’m sorry if I seem forward but…”
The young woman almost jumped in fright at the sound of my voice. Her hand flew to her chest in an attempt to quell the fear, and her chocolate eyes met mine. Damn, I’d never had such a frightful effect on someone!
— “I was wondering if anything had gone wrong inside…”
A deep blush crept upon her cheeks, and I had to admit that she looked damn adorable with her skin so flushed. The fiery hair bounced on her back when she shook her hand, yet her voice wavered.
— “Ah no. It’s just me. I…”
It was then that my guardian angel tapped on my shoulder – figuratively – to give me an answer.
— “Oh ! Jitters ?”
Her blush intensified, and I cringed at my own bluntness. Way to go, Tristan. But then, just as I though she was going to melt or start crying, she lifted her chin in a resolved expression that might have frightened a lesser man.
— “Yeah. Stupid, really.”
Well... she had some guts after all, so I rushed to reassure her.
— “Not at all. Stage fright is a natural part of having to perform”
— “I get that. I just thought…”
A slight glint of anger passed in her gaze, soon replaced by a thorough schooling of her features. Not unlike a noble lady would have done in front of others. So when she started anew, her diction was much clearer, and her accent a little more pronounced. Albeit it didn’t sound French. Weird.
— “I’ve been performing for seven years now, in theatres. Four of them in front of my junior high school – several hundred people plus parents. I ought to be able to read a few lines in front of a camera but… hugh ! I just… broke down. And my text is flying out of my ears, and…”
Her ramblings had given me the answer I was seeking.
— “Oh ? You’re from here then?”
My question seem to startle her out of her pity fest, and she cocked her head aside, studying me with a look that was far too clairvoyant for my own comfort. Then her features softened.
— “Yes. And for the record, this alley leads to the best chocolate maker ever”
I turned around in the direction she was pointing, my tongue aching already. The French were renown for their craft in pâtisserie, but again, also for their chauvinism. How exaggerated were her affirmations ? I stood abruptly, there was only one way to find out.
— “How far ?”
My interest must have shown, for her eyes sparkled mischievously. Yet, she didn’t move from her spot. Like a cat who knew he owned the place.
— “Two hundred meters, give or take fifty ?”
My heart started beating wildy, responding to my mock rush of interest. Anything for chocolate… and to be honest, I was also playing the clown, a little, to get the lady to shed her jitters.
— “Why was I not informed of this ? Come, fair lady ! You must escort me. How long until your scene ?”
This time, she chuckled and stood gracefully, the layers of dark velvet settling around her form like a soft sheet.
— “Forty five minutes. I’ve got time”
She didn’t ask, but the question was there. Did I have time ? Not really. But to hell with it, I was only co-producing, and using this as a pretext to spend a little time away from a steamy ambiance at home. It’s not like I was directing.
— “Well. I’ll make time. Chocolate is an emergency. And I’m sure it does wonder to stage fright. You can even show me around as I chew on my findings”
The young woman studied my face an instant too long, as if she was reading me, assessing my motives, wondering if she could trust me. I didn’t rush to her side, letting her come to my side instead. Just in case. She wasn’t a short woman, pretty average, but without heels her face came level with my shoulder so she lifted her head to meet my eyes.
— “There’s a path around the river. But we’ll be too short to see the castle”
— “I’ve been there”, I answered.
The young woman shrugged.
— “All right. The river it is. But first, chocolate”
And this is how I tasted the best chocolate I ever had, and endeavoured to devour it as a lovely maiden took me on a tour around the river, ducking below secret passageways that only a local could know, and across bridges so heavily laden with flowers that I wondered how they could support their weight. We returned through the fifteen-century covered market that sat against the church while she told me how, as a child, she used to enjoy Saturday mornings to come and see the animals – ducks, hens, and rabbits... mostly rabbits – in the market. I certainly didn’t voice the fact that she still was close enough to being a child in my eyes. Still… I could picture her, with a mop of blond head – white, she said – trying to caress the rabbits while her mother shopped for food. It was picturesque.
We made it back in time, and if I thought Châtillon sur Chalaronne was a beautiful place before, it had definitely blown my mind by the time my little guide recited her three words in front of the camera. And she did well. With the taste of a treat still coating her tongue, I guess.
She’d lifted my spirits just as much as I had lifted hers; this, I had not expected to happen. Especially since I still didn’t know her name. Perhaps I could take the children here, perhaps my wife would love the place, and we could enjoy a little bit of family life. Yes. That would certainly be nice. And I’d drag them to the chocolate shop, and win her heart again.
