Chapter 33 – The Lull Before the Storm
The phone rang in Gwen’s purse, which sat on the stage at The Hall. Sharing the stage with the purse were Peter, Pater, Selgey, and Bart. Henric was on his way, having said he wanted to see where his money was going. Actually he just liked looking at Selgey in her warm-up duds. What a body. All four former ballet dancers were wearing warm-up duds. They didn’t do any dancing, but it brought back great memories of flying through the air to sounds of Stravinsky. At the moment they were sitting cross legged in a circle in the middle of the stage talking about ten year olds. They were debating what percentage of each incoming ballet class was going to be on scholarship, meaning they were too poor to pay the exorbitant fees the other students were going to pay.
Gwen had come down to The Hall to check if Peter and Pater were packing heat, like she told them to. When she came into the theater and went to the stage, the four partners were there, talking. She kissed all of them, European style, and then stepped back to look at Peter and Pater. They weren’t so fatuous as to be wearing leotards, but they were dressed in warm-up dancing duds that were pretty tight around the bods. She started by looking at Bart, who still had the Adonis like body that had adorned the stages of the Royal Ballet. She tried to move her gaze to Selgey and then to Peter and Pater, but it resolutely was stuck on Bart. She badly wanted Bart to pick her up right then and there and carry her to his castle where he would ravish her in the tower bedroom. Selgey broke out laughing at this, being the good sport she was, and being used to it.
When Gwen did tear her eyes away and reset them on Peter and Pater, she was disappointed. Not that they didn’t put on a decent showing in the physical line, but she could find only one prominent bulge on each of their bodies, and there should have been two. One for their….and one for their guns. She looked them in the eyes, and they knew she was pissed. They started whining about being artists, and artists don’t carry guns, and where exactly are they supposed to carry them, and the guns are heavy, and Henric was coming and he probably had three guns on him, the nut, and whine whine.
Gwen listened, and when they wound down the litany of excuses, she said two words: Pmirhs Stirg.
This was when her phone rang, so Peter and Pater were saved from further abuse. “Hello.”
“Bonjour, Gwenny, comment allez vous? C’est Catherine.”
“Hi, Catherine. I am fine. Where are you? Back in Paris?”
“No, dear, I am in your second greatest city, San Francisco. I am through in LA, and I came here for a few days to go to the wine country and drink the sparkling wines you make here. I want to compare them to Champagne. Um, let me rephrase that. I want to see what you are doing with your sparkling wines these days. Do you know who my guide is here? Guess, Gwenny.”
“Robin Williams, he lives in San Francisco.”
“I loved ‘Mrs. Doubtfire.’ But no, not Robin Williams. It’s Ken Burns. He loves wine, and I’ve loved him ever since he made his Jazz series. He had a segment in that about American expatriate jazzers who couldn’t earn a living in the States in the early years, so they came to Paris, where Parisians came out in droves to hear them play. I met Kenny when he was researching in Paris, and we went to Champagne and drank lots of good wine there, and now he is taking me to Napa. How are you and the others in Charleston? Give them my love. How is Anna?”
“Anna is confused, but in a good way. She wants to be too many things. Did you know she plays piano? We just learned that. What happened in LA?”
“Well, Steven and I had some good meetings, but then I had to say, No.”
Gwen didn’t say anything immediately. She had to process. Steven Spielberg offering to work with you in a film, and you say, No? How many people in the world would, could, do that? Gwen started counting: One….that was it. The Deneuve. That’s all. In the world. Say No to Spielberg. Ok, ok, this was processing better now for Gwen, starting to make sense. Yeah, Catherine could do that. Say No. “Why did you say No to Steven Spielberg about making a film with him? You don’t mind me asking, do you Catherine?”
“I said no, at first, because he wanted me to write parts of it from the French point of view, and he would write the other parts. And I told him I didn’t have the time or the inclination anymore for sitting lots of hours writing. And he said he didn’t either, but he would do it if I did it. I said I couldn’t, and he wasn’t too happy, and that was the end of that meeting. Then the next day he came to the hotel and said he would find someone else to write it, if I would be in it, and I said Yes, of course. So now he is out looking for a writer, and we are both happy, and we will start in a few months. And it will be fun. And that is what I called you about. The film. The documentary. Gwenny?”
“I’m here, Catherine.”
“What do you think about Anna being in the film, with me?”
“Please repeat that, Catherine, just for the record.”
“Anna. Anna. To be in the film about Champagne. I need her.”
“Catherine, there are other women in the world with great bodies that can wear expensive black Italian underwear and perform. You know, real actresses. Grownups. Experienced.”
“Gwenny, it’s Anna. You know that. You know she’s got it. I told Steven about the scene in your kitchen with her that reminded me of me in Repulsion, and he flipped out. He knows every film ever made. He said he wants Anna with me. He asked about you, too, Gwenny. I told him about you and Roger holding guns, naked from the waist down, interrogating Anna taped to a chair in her black underwear. He asked me if I had a photo of you like that. Naked from the waist down, holding a gun, 4am.”
“What did you say to him, Catherine? What did you say to Spielberg when he asked you about me, Catherine, please tell me what you said.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone call.
“I said, um, I said that you and Roger were working on a project right now, and he said that was too bad.”
“What project is that, Catherine? You mean my garden project, Catherine? Planting the new vines out on the trellis? Is that the project that would keep me from being in a Spielberg film, even if it’s only a documentary, starring you, about the history and culture of Champagne?”
“Gwenny, dear, it’s got to be Anna. I’m old. She young. You’re in the middle. It’s got to be Anna. She’s the next generation. This is a chance to help the next generation, and she’s got it. Why else would I tell you not to call the police when she came into your house that night? Generally, that’s what I do, Gwen, when someone breaks into the house I’m in, armed with a Walther. I advise calling the police in that circumstance. But I didn’t that night, because both of us saw something special about her. We let her go, remember? You agreed with me. Special.”
Gwen didn’t answer right away, but when she did, she said, “Ok, Catherine. You’re right. It’s got to be Anna. When are you going to tell her?”
“I thought, Gwenny, you should do that. She needs to know right away, and I can’t come back to Charleston, and it should be face to face with her. Will you do it?”
“Ok.” Catherine thought Gwen could have sounded a bit more enthusiastic, but….“Great, thank you dear. Someone from Steven’s office will email you some background information that you can use when you tell her. I have to go now, Gwenny, Ken is here, and we’re off to taste some sparklers. You know Kenny is doing another series? He’s looking for actresses. Talk to you soon. Au revoir.”
Gwen got the impression she wouldn’t be in Ken Burns’ new series, either. Life was hard sometimes, filled with disappointment. She wondered what would happen if she had a photo made of herself, naked from the waist down, holding her Glock, and sent it to Spielberg’s office. Maybe send it to the person who was going to email her information about the documentary. That person may even be Spielberg’s assistant. Send the photo to her, yeah, see what happens.
&n
bsp; Gwen looked over at the former ballet dancers. They didn’t seem to be disappointed at their lot.