stopped listening altogether and contemplated my options. Then I
slowly half-stood, cleared my throat and said, "Excuse me
I began to gather my bags, "
I'm sorry but I have to leave."
I nodded toward the window hoping they would understand. "The
" I said, "it's coming down so fast
stopped. Everyone stared. How could I leave a moment early only
to return to my quotidian life? What was I thinking? Let the damn
car disappear. Take a taxi. But I didn't have the money for that.
Still. How could I compare the cost of taxi rides with the incalculable
worth of Godard's time? "I'm sorry, but my car
neck poked out of his collar. "You have a car?"
I nodded, "and it'll be buried soon, so I apologize but I have
to say goodnight. And thank you for coming, Monsieur Godard."
Mademoiselle, you have a car?"
only awhile longer," I pointed outside.
could drive me to my hotel perhaps?"
class held its collective breath.
House?" Godard rose. "Could you drive me to there, please?"
at my colleagues, at their cheeks rosy from alcohol and excitement,
their eyes, rimmed in dark circles, suddenly opened wide with wonder
course," I said.
outside I fumbled with my keys and reached to unlock the passenger
door. Godard stood beside me. He smelled like Gauloises, and he
seemed sad, and very small.
I said, as the door creaked halfway open. "It only opens this
far." He slithered in sideways while I ran to the driver's
side. I climbed in, rammed the keys into the ignition and turned.
Nothing. I cracked my knuckles, prayed silently to my car that had,
from day one, been a finicky beast. "Please, car." I tried
again. "Damn," slipped out before I could stop, and then
"Sorry." I glanced at him. He was staring ahead, watching
the tumbling snow. "Once more," I held my breath and turned
the key. "Damn, damn, damn, damn." I slapped the steering
wheel. "Damn you, car."
His voice surprised me. Among our raucous group he had seemed soft-spoken,
romantically foreign, but here in this cramped, humid space he sounded
like a great director. "You must not be upset with her. She
at him. "Sorry?"
"They are sensitive, the cars. Like animals."
and stared at him.
is what, a Volkswagen?" he asked.
"A Karmann Ghia."
bowed his head, then touched a gloved hand to the cold dashboard.
"Please," he whispered, "Karmann Ghia, you will start
for us now. We must to go home." The tone was firm.
he peered over his steamy eyeglasses at me. "Try her again,"
he prompted me. I hesitated. Maybe he was mad? Perhaps all those
rejections and ringing phones had undone him. I loved my car but
I'd long understood it was a certified, if pretty, lemon. Still,
who was I to resist direction from Jean-Luc Godard? "Go on,"
this is true: My car purred.
to peer at him and whispered, "No one will believe this."
He nodded. "What others believe does not matter."
then I turned so that the front wheels nudged aside a drift, and
out of the space we trundled. We talked only a little. He mentioned
a pair of Labradors friends of his owned; they were vicious, he
said. What did I make of that? Did I like dogs? He did, but not
these two, and he wondered what created viciousness.
skidded across 23rd Street, buffeted by the relentless wind and
snow. Usually the Ghia's windshield wipers worked only sporadically,
but that night they swished across the front window, silently, effortlessly.
writing schools," he said, "what are they for?"
north on 6th Avenue. "Probably so we nobodies can meet somebodies,"
I said, only half-joking.
who?" he asked.
you for instance."
I wished I could say something wise, something profound, but the
only thing I could think of saying was: "Monsieur Godard, I
hope you'll call your girlfriend tonight. I think tonight you'll
smiled. And then we were quiet, listening to the tires hiss as they
skimmed slippery roads.
to the curb outside his hotel. He leapt out. "Bonsoir Mademoiselle,
merci beaucoup." And he was gone.
always wondered if he reached her that night. Whether he did not
not, he has not only survived all these years, he has grown still
more inquisitive and brave, still more determined to push his audiences
to look hard at our world, and Notre Musique, his symphonic
treatise on war, reminded me that Heaven exists, still, despite
Hell and Purgatory, and reminded me, too, that I should try to keep
the cynicism that has crept in since those heady and perhaps more
hopeful days, a little at bay.
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