The day passed with little ceremony. The scenes in the courtyard were beautiful. The exteriors of Paris remain unchanged over the years—there seem to be more building codes and regulations than anywhere else in the world—creating a calming, unified effect. Gray and beige stone mounted together to form a city of cool neutrality. I’d never seen anything so organized look so beautiful.
Contrasted against the gray palette, Lily, the movie’s lead, wore a fuchsia suit. Cinched at the waist with a hat to match, the ensemble was supposed to be a nod to the iconic lime-green suit Audrey once wore inParis When It Sizzles, the original. The remake, incidentally, was just to be called:When It Sizzles.
Lily looked stunning.
Jacques appeared in a slim-cut Prada jacket with a fuchsia pocket square. Watching the two of them saunter through the courtyard was like seeing the first bold swipe of red paint hit a white canvas.
Art, I thought. I’d never seen it so alive before.
The sun was descending by the time we wrapped for the day, which meant it was after nine. In the summer in France it could be light until nearly 10:00 p.m.—the city bathed itself in every pastel color before bed. A slow ritual of yellow to pink to violet to baby blue. The joke on set was that the easiest job in French cinema is the lighting department.
I saw Marguerite carrying some boxes over to a waiting car.
“Is there anything else you need?” I asked Irina. I pointed to Marguerite, who was clearly struggling. “Otherwise I think I’m going to help her.”
Irina looked over. “I don’t want you lifting those,” she said. She studied me. “Suppose you hurt yourself and can’t make it tomorrow?”
I glanced back at Marguerite. Martin had stepped in, they were now loading the boxes together.
“See?” Irina said. “Get a man to do it. That way, they can be good for something.”
We talked about the schedule for the next day, and then I saidgood night and hooked my backpack over my shoulders, preparing to make my way to the metro. The evening was warm, and I didn’t mind the walk, but calculating how many transfers (three) I’d need to make before finally getting to my door sounded a bit insufferable.
“You need a ride?”
Martin pulled up next to me on a Vespa. I thought he was French, but when I heard him speak, he didn’t have an accent. He was American, just like me.
I considered the weight of my backpack, and the many, many metro steps.
“Please,” I told him, and got on.
Chapter Eight
Martin took me to a café close to my apartment, for crepes and fries and cold glasses of beer.
I learned that he had gone to the Sorbonne for acting and had stayed in Paris on a work visa. He was twenty-five, four years younger than me. When he spoke, there was a familiar warmth to him, a lumberjack transported to the streets of Paris.
“What do you want to do?” he asked me. We were a few rounds in already.
“I just started working for Irina,” I said. “So this, for now.” The truth is, when it came to my career, I felt a little like a feather in the wind. It wasn’t that I wasn’t ambitious—I worked hard; I was reliable and resourceful. I didn’t mind long hours or menial labor. I liked to be busy. But I wasn’t sure in what direction that energy should be focused. I felt like I kept sidestepping, instead of leveling up. I’d been an assistant in three different industries now, and in Hollywood, two different roles. I felt like I should beclimbing toward something, or at the very least, climbing. But I loved the job, what little I knew of it. I loved how industrious I had to be, moment to moment. I liked that it required me to be nimble and present.
“I was an assistant at a network before, and it was too corporate for me. My boss was cool, but I didn’t totally jive with the politics of an office.”
“There are plenty of politics on a set,” Martin said. “It’s crazy. Even village has a seating chart. There’s a hierarchy to who can order coffee!”
“Speaking as the person who has to pick it up,” I said, “I appreciate that.”
Martin took a swig of beer. We let the moment stretch.
“I guess I like being where the action is,” I said. “And I’m not super concerned with what my job is within that. I know I’m the lowest rung, but who cares? I get to be here.” I gestured around—to the lively café, the laughing couples, the cigarette smoke, the checkerboard-print tablecloths. To the smell and heartbeat of this foreign, familiar city.
He took another sip. “That’s a fair answer.”
“How long have you been in Paris?”
“Almost six years,” he said. “There was a period after I graduated where I had to leave every three months, but now it’s a lot easier.”
“Did you get married or something?”
