Cameron’s breath puffs out loudly across the airwaves. “Fucking hell, whatever. You won. Youwon.”
“Absolutely, I did,” Arthur says, sounding completely confident, like there wasn’t any other option. “I had to.”
His words slide through me, cutting through the noise, the cheering, everything. “What are you talking about?” Cameron asks.
“I had to help someone make up her mind,” Arthur replies, a smug smile dripping from his voice.
There’s confusion after a Grand Prix. Music plays, fans jump from seats to walk the circuit itself, celebrities scamper between doorways, avoiding photographers’ telephoto lenses; after the relentlessness of a race, the living, breathing creature that is Formula 1 momentarily stops to catch its breath. My path to the winners’ podium—an actual stage above the crowd for Arthur and company to stand on—is blocked by a massive gaggle of Ignition fans taking a selfie with the racing simulator. “Doc crew? Over here,” says a tired-looking employee in an orange pantsuit, waving me through a hidden doorway vinyl-wrapped with AmEx ads.
Eventually, I make it to the crowd below the stage. The angle is bad. I’m crowded into one place, away from the front. When a particularly tall gentleman in a drenched rain jacket blocks my camera completely, I move to the single sliver of space between two metal poles, slip my foldable stool from my backpack, and hop on it.
I’m clicking through my settings as Arthur appears, grinning, to take the podium at center stage.
My fingers still.
When I’m gettingtheshot, the footage I have to get or the movie won’t matter, I always hold my breath. It started out of fear of jostling the camera, then became somatic. I hold my breath when Arthur waves to the crowd chanting his name, their voices blending with the British national anthem, growing louder, that final “God save the King” reverberating my ribs. Then I keep holding it through the rest; a quieter Star-Spangled Banner for Ignition as the winning team, a distant cousin of the British royal family appearing to give Arthur a tire-shaped trophy, then a trophy to Cameron of all people, then the other two drivers in second and third place. I hold it even when, out of nowhere, Georges Bizet’sCarmenoverture begins, and the three drivers grab the champagne bottles at their feet, pop them, and spray each other with the frothy white bubbles that perfume the humid breeze.
It’s a silly celebration. It’s exciting. Despite my angle working against me, this footage is gold. I imagine someone like me, lonely and jaded, watching this years from now and feeling what it’s like to stand in this very crowd, where nothing matters more than cheering on the champagne-covered winners. When I find Arthur afterward, talking to a journalist, an Ignition baseball cap is pulled over his damp hair, one or two wayward golden waves sticking out from it. Our eyes meet for a second between sentences, and I catch that smell again. Arthur’s cologne. Sweet, floral, fizzy.
It isn’t car fumes, never been toxic. Even before now, Arthur’s smelled like champagne.
He narrows his eyes at me. Mouthshello. Then looks back to the reporter.
Breathlessly, I move my camera up to my eye and look at him through my viewfinder. Not him in a car or him on a podium. Just Arthur.
The first few times you film someone are intimate. I bite my lipas I pull him into focus, the outline of his body sharpening. Broad shoulders, muscular neck, argumentative face, winning smile. This is when I get to know his shape, how he fills the world. And without whispering a word out loud, I’m saying that Arthur matters. He’s in focus. So much work goes into freezing moments in time; chemicals are used in darkrooms to develop film, and digital cameras require energy, time, effort. Most people go their entire lives without anyone else wanting to record that they existed.
Myself included.
The reporter asks another question, just outside my camera’s view. “But how did you feel out there today? What was it like to be back on the track?”
Arthur’s eyes stray to me again, then dart away. “It felt brilliant. I was very excited to have this chance to race for Ignition. But today’s only one day. I’m looking forward to the rest of this season and next year.”
“Really?” The journalist sounds taken aback, which is funny. Someone else miffed by Arthur’s rebellious optimism. “This season won’t last forever. Don’t you find it difficult to remain hopeful about your chances?”
I hold my breath. I hold the shot. Arthur gives the reporter a funny look, as if something just occurred to him. “There’s still time,” he says, smiling.
July
Chapter Twelve
I probably can’t explain how borderline illegal it is to be a documentarian dating your subject matter. To the general public, no one thinks about the people behind the scenes, the first eyes that see the shots, the hands that stitch the story together. A relationship between a muse and an artist might even sell movie tickets if it got really scandalous. But to me, the idea has always been repulsive on two levels: One, it’s taking advantage of someone’s trust. Subject matters crack open their rib cages and let us stick our grubby little fingers into their life story.
Then there’s the career-decimation aspect of falling for someone you’re supposed to be an arm’s length away from. Documentarians are similar to journalists in that way; we operate on a code of ethics that creates a wall between us and the rest of the world. I’m not supposed to interfere. If the camera is rolling, and we’re documenting how life really is, is it right to slip cash to someone on a street corner asking for help? Make sure the children I’m filming have winter clothes and enough food to last through tomorrow?
Or is it better to sharerealimages of the world, knowing that you’re documenting pain, and that you could change thousands of hearts by sharing reality?
When I debated ethics in college, I always landed on the side of the latter. I told myself that when push came to shove, I would be in control. Detached. An arm’s length away, always.
So it’s beyond weird to be literally standing side by side with Arthur at an airport.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” he mutters.
“Talked you intonottaking your private jet from England to Monaco? It’s a two-hour flight, Arthur. You won’t combust being pressurized with poor people.”
“Two hours and thirty minutes,” he corrects. “And I don’t think you’re poor.”
I snort into my oat-milk latte. “Lying to someone about their own bank account isn’t flattering.”
