Page 135 of You + Me – Against the World

Tugging at my blouse, I stammer a few words of introduction while I look down at my notes and skip every other line, rushing through the ordeal so the film can start as soon as possible. The members of the jury seem skeptical.

I melt into the darkness when Him + Me begins.

No actors to speak of, either. Just Vadim. His striking beauty, his smirk, and sometimes, his voice. That gaze of his that pierces right through the lens of the camera, just as it pierces through me. From time to time, my sister’s cries, my mother’s slow footsteps, Clémentine’s laugh—all the sounds that have filled my life these past few months. All these people I love, captured just living their lives.

And then my emotions, my feelings, filmed from every angle. The unapologetic euphoria of love. The visceral fear of losing him. Desire, absence, passion, all the memories, all the places Vadim and I went together. The university, the beach, the streets of LA and Paris, the raw nature of Santa Catalina, the classroom, my teenage bedroom, his apartment, the park where we meet up, the engraved bench, the deserted cafés, the square, the little steps we wore down together.

Suddenly, the short film that I wanted to be poetic, stripped-down, and minimalistic seems hopelessly romantic to me, full of clichés and melancholy music. A not-quite-silent romance movie, hopelessly old-fashioned. I consider slipping away while it’s still dark.

No.

I hold my ground.

Back straight, head high.

I’m aware of nods and approving whispers during the final frame, in which the camera follows Vadim from behind, his wavy hair blowing in the wind. He walks, hands shoved into his pockets, to the end of the Santa Monica pier. The camera, accompanied by the sound of labored breathing, tries to catch up with him, then stops and lets him walk away, until he becomes a tiny black dot on the horizon.

The lights come back on, and my heart is pounding.

I look around for Vadim, but the jury is already addressing me.

As if it was someone else’s work, I listen as the jurors talk to me about the coming-of-age film they just watched, about the discovery of the other, of oneself, and the quiet intensity of first love. They analyze my images and my soundtrack; they question me about my choice of shots and my sets, and the whole time I have the odd feeling they are directing their words at someone else. But they are speaking to me; they are intruding upon the deepest, most personal parts of me. I let them in, let them praise my artistic choices, my subtlety, my poetry, the fine line between intimacy and voyeurism that, according to them, I never once crossed. They congratulate me for having managed to capture love on film, at my age, with restraint, delicacy, and sensitivity. They tell me that I have succeeded in recording the ephemeral, the elusive, everything we try to hold on to, only to watch it slip through our fingers. Everything that cinema exists for.

I could burst into tears, but I don’t.

That Alma has grown up, I think.

Alongside a young man with gray eyes.

One of the directors on the jury adds that right here, right now, he wishes he were twenty again. The students behind me laugh. I smile too, without really knowing why. It still hasn’t sunk in.

I spot Clémentine, on her feet, gesturing wildly. When I finally reach her, relieved that it’s all over, she squeals that it was magn-i-fi-cent and asks me how I managed not to cry.

“Lancaster… Oh my God. You have magic in your eyes and your hands.”

Vadim’s eyes are shining. He pulls me into his arms, whispering to me that he has never been so proud of me. “I didn’t know you were filming me so often, you little sneak. You’re going to have to pay me royalties…”

***

We all end the day at the Sunset Café, celebrating, congratulating one another, comforting those who are disappointed, and finally letting go of the tension that had been building up for so long. I go home filled with a pride I have never felt before.

Late in the evening, I turn on my computer to meet up with Vadim and Clem online. While I’m logging in, the little envelope icon indicates an unread email. I quickly click on it.

No text, just a photo. In perfect focus.

In a room with beige walls, Vadim is crouching, his face half hidden by another body standing in front of him, legs spread.

A perfect body.

With long, brown hair.

It happened.

And all this time, I thought he loved me.

47

[You + Me, did that mean nothing