“I will pass you links. I’ll also be in Toronto to premiere this film at Renegade. Would you be my guest? Then you can see it—with you in it!—on the big screen, with an audience.”
Sabine nodded. She’d deal with how that would make her mum feel later.
“This is Place Marcel Aymé,” said Yves, stopping in a square where, out of a stone wall, a bronze man emerged. “He is known asLe Passe-Muraille. A man who can walk through walls. I will tell you all about him over dinner.”
They went to Le Refuge des Fondus, a Montmartre restaurant painted fire engine red with gold lettering. They pulled open the gold doorhandle, which was shaped like a baby bottle, and found it to be a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall, big enough only for two long tables along either wall. Customers all basically dined together.
“Bienvenue!”said the owner, holding Sabine’s hand for balance as she stepped over the table and onto a bench. He helped Aubin over the table, too, and soon after, brought overbiberons: baby bottles filled with wine.
“Because I never had a chance to feed you with abiberonwhen you were little,” said Yves, toasting Sabine, “a decision I forever regret, I bring you here so I might have a chance to offer you abiberonin a different way.”
Sabine felt the warm glow of something. Love? The joy of finding a lost parent.
“The man passing through the wall is from a story by Marcel Aymé,” said Yves. “He lived in Rue Norvins and wrotenovels, stories, plays, articles, even screenplays. Many works have been based on his material. I can only dream of reaching so wide an audience.”
Appetizers arrived in little bowls:saucisson, olives, and toothpicks to stab them with. Another round ofbiberons. Then baskets of baguette, skewers, and pots of oil and cheese fondue. Sabine was tipsy, happily so. She and Aubin were close, fingers interlocked. A tiny electric current passed between them. Then he pulled their hands onto his thigh, and the electric current turned up to ten.
“The story is about Dutilleul, a clerk no one pays attention to, who gains the power to pass through walls. He goes from a small life to grand adventures. At first, he gets pills because he thinks he’s going mad. But since he likes his new ability, he doesn’t take them. He is able to seek revenge against his mean boss, pull tricks, steal money, make love to another man’s wife—until one day, he mistakes the pills for aspirin. They take away his ability, and he’s trapped forever in the wall. He made ill use of his gifts. What is the word?”
“Squandered?” offered Sabine.
“Exactly. I often think, what is my gift? How do I not squander it?”
“I don’t want to squander anything either,” said Sabine, squeezing Aubin’s hand beneath the table, but also gazing momentarily in her father’s direction. This moment, with both of them, was perfection.
Marlow headed to the kitchen to drown her sorrows in wine or patisserie, whichever she stumbled upon first. She found Guillaume opening a bottle of red. Like he’d read her mind.
He pulled a second glass from the cupboard as she regaled him with a blow-by-blow report of the performance review, gestures and impersonations included.
“If you decide to give up on festivals,” he said, “you may have a calling as a performer.”
“Thank God,” she said. “It’s clear I won’t be back as the manager of the industry office.”
“You never know. Meanwhile, two things. One: you remember I had a friend who works at Cannes? Estelle. She finally got back to me—she’d been away—”
“Like every self-respecting French person.”
“—and, as it happens, there’s an opening in the industry office there. It is only contract, but I offered to introduce you by email.”
“Are you kidding?” Marlow fended off feelings of guilt about even contemplating staying in France and leaving Noah on his own back in Toronto, and hugged Guillaume. They stayed like that a moment longer than they should have. The feel of him sent a tingle through all her extremities. “And two?” she asked, pulling away, trying to behave.
“Is that my shirt?”
She burst out laughing and explained how she came to be wearing it. He didn’t mind. In fact, he was happy to see her in his clothing.
“Speaking of which,” she said, “I need to get home to clean up. Not only did I stink when I got here, but I perspired my way through that train wreck of a meeting with Oscar. As my Grade 6 teacher used to say, if you can smell yourself, it’s time to shower.”
“Shower here. Stay for dinner. It’s just leftovers. Madame Klein is out for the night.”
Dangerous but too good to pass up.
“Why not call Yves to pass along this invitation from your boss?” asked Guillaume. “Can we discuss it as an intellectual exercise?”
“Fine. Even as my resistance rears its ugly head, dazzle me with it.”
“I know he didn’t help raise Sabine. And it’s upsetting having her visit him in Paris with my terrible nephew. But if we take emotion out of it, why not ask him to the summit? It could be a win-win.”
“You’re not serious.”
