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One fine early morning, before the sun’s too high, but the air is sufficiently warm, I block off occupation of the pool in the Manse calendar for an entire hour—all to myself—so I can read my Shakespeare while floating in my inflatable lounger without any risk of constant splashing. Andy’s birthday present—combined with the perfect seasonal weather—has recently led to a renewed worship of pool time amongst my Dwellers, and I’ve had nary a chance to relax without peace.
So, after only twenty minutes of pure bliss, I find myself dozing contentedly, and I slip into a delicious nap. Just after I lapse into the sensation of uncut silence and equilibrium, a pleasant, familiar voice floats through my consciousness and I wake up, blinking through my sunglasses at the sun.
“Madam,” Denis’ voice calls from the edge of the pool. “Désolé, did I wake you?”
I turn my head and adjust my sunhat so I can see he’s sitting with his hands clasped in his lap, his loose jeans rolled up to his knees so his bare feet are submerged in the pool. “Hey, mon rêveur. I claimed the pool to myself on the calendar until—” I check my watch, see I’ve still got 30 minutes left. “11:00.”
Denis grimaces, moves to get up. “Sorry, I didn’t check the calendar. I’ll come back—”
“No, you’re here, it’s OK,” I say with a sigh as I begin paddling with one hand toward him. “As long as you’re not going to splash me anytime soon.” When I reach the edge, he takes my hand to anchor me in place. “Seriously, though, what’s up?”
He smiles apologetically and shakes his head. “Oh, I just, comment dire, wanted to run something by you? That makes sense?”
“Yes, sure, shoot.”
He tenderly holds my wrist with one hand, and roughly massages his own knee with the other. “I had an idea for you. A creative writing idea.”
“Oh?” I say, expecting a line of questioning of an entirely different tack. “Pray tell.”
“Madam, I respect how diligent you are about watching and learning about cinema, and always being interested in how filmmakers see it and what inspires them to do this insane job, but… I wondered what is your story?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, how did films come to mean so much to you? You live life with cinema all the time. You watch more movies than many people—certainly me—by far, and are always thinking deeply about them. It’s your other great passion in life, other than your favorite playwright, non? You must have a story. Why don’t you tell it?”
I slip off my glasses and study Denis’ genuinely encouraging smile. “You… want to know… my story?”
“Yes, absolument oui,” he says with a big nod. “It would be fun for you, anyway, to do a memoir of a kind. But only do it if it is fun. Don’t do it just because I ask.”
“I’m no film critic or historian or in the business at all—”
He waves his hand and chuckles. “Doesn’t matter, ma chérie, because cinema matters to you. It means so much. You see it for what it is. Art always… infuses you, becomes a part of you. And I think you can communicate that feeling very well. Perhaps, even one other person will read it and feel the same.”
I study him a few moments, narrowing my gaze more from suspicion than from the bright sun, but then he just keeps smiling at me, wordlessly, and I know he’s got a point.
“Why should I tell my story?”
“Because you have one. And only you can tell it. No other reason is needed.”
“Where should I start?” I ask, not really expecting a real answer.
He shrugs, kisses my hand, and focuses on me. “What was the first movie you saw in a theatre?”
I lick my lips, close my eyes, searching. “Must’ve been, The Little Mermaid. The Disney animation… 1989, I believe? I would’ve been six years old.”
Denis grins. “That did it somehow. It’s the beginning. I will say, think about it. Write something about that. At least, then, you will have answered a burning question pour moi.”
I chuckle, roll my eyes. “Now you’re flattering me.”
He shakes his head, his grin softening to a serious stare. “I am only telling the truth. You are not merely smitten with film, Madam, you’re deeply, deeply in love.”
It takes all my strength to hold in my laugh at his favorite turn of phrase. “Alright, alright, you’ve twisted my arm.”
Denis immediately loosens his soft grip on my wrist, frowning. “Did I? Mais non, I didn’t mean to hurt you—”
“No, it’s just a figure of speech.”
With a nervous laugh, he makes a show of wiping his brow. “Whew, sorry, I was worried for a moment. What does that mean?”
“If you twist someone’s arm, you’ve convinced them to do something.”
“Oh, OK, good,” he says, patting my hand. “I’m glad I twisted your arm, then.”