39 with lib oizo? and anyone else in the cast, go wild :3c
39: “I hate you.” - “No, you don’t.”
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Now and then, he wonders where he went so wrong to turn out like this. But given the kind of people he’s surrounded by, maybe it’s a miracle that he managed to turn out this good at all. Mike leans back on his chair and tries, for the umpteenth time, to understand what is being asked of him. “Let me try to summarize this again. You have landed your first film production gig.”
“That is correct.” His companion sips from a straw. “You see I’ve come a long way from adverts, copywriting, or amateur productions. Now imagine: Quentin Dupieux the director, Quentin Dupieux in lights! I thought there was more of a congratulations in order.”
“Amateur productions of what exactly.”
Quentin’s eyes glass over. Mike instantly regrets asking. “Christ, just forget about it. So having landed this gig, you have also been put in charge of the casting. You received this news today at six in the morning. And your first reaction, following that news, was to immediately summon me all the way up to Montmartre so that you could tell me you want me to star as an extra in your film.”
“Correct.”
Mike stares at him. “Why?”
This should not be a difficult question, if Quentin were a true friend of his. That’s what he thinks, anyway. Quentin takes his sweet time answering and Mike despairs, realizing that his implicit refusal isn’t obvious to the other man; he might actually have to explain this, step by step, digging up the bad memories once more in his wake. As it happens, he ends up not needing to do that, but for several minutes the fear is there.
Mike looks around. Vintage teahouse in a vintage district. It’s dark and it smells of mint and dusty spices and everywhere he looks there are flashes of light glinting off earrings, glasses, flecks of granulated sugar. Diverse clientele. Shisha cafe on the opposite side of the road, blurred from the constant cloud of thin white smoke shielding it from view. Eartha Kitt on the radio.
Üsküdar'a gider iken bir mendil buldum, Üsküdar'a gider iken bir mendil buldum...
He has been in so many teahouses like this. He has never once experienced a revelation, or a positive opportunity, of any kind in these places.
Today will be no different.
Mendilimin içine lokum doldurdum, Mendilimin içine lokum doldurdum.
Mike continues to stare in his friend’s direction as he drains his glass. For the first time in Quentin’s presence, he becomes acutely aware just how much he wants the remnants of this life gone: no more starring in things, no more modeling, no more showing himself to others. Show’s over, folks, everybody fucking go home. He suffered enough in static images, why anyone wants to see that on a screen he doesn’t know. He’s probably not that bad at acting, if Quentin really pressed, but even then he wouldn’t want his face onscreen. Mike simply cannot deliver what Quentin is asking for, and it baffles him why Quentin thought he could, knowing all that he’s been through.
“I could answer you in any manner of explanation.” Comes the reply, at long last; Quentin pushes his glass aside and leans forwards, linking his fingers together. Mike raises his eyebrows. “That I asked you because you are a remarkably handsome lad, exactly in the style that’s in vogue nowadays. That I asked you because you are a friend, and therefore more reliable than ninety percent of anyone else I know. That I asked because you manifest the exact kind of misery I’m looking for in this film, and you’re not likely to carry it for much longer.”
Seeing Mike wants to protest, Quentin holds up his hand. “You’ve had a strange life, Lévy. I know too well what happened to you in the revolution, and I know that’s partly why you left the modeling life. Not to mention the fiancé. Is he your fiancé yet?” Mike splutters, his cheeks reddening rapidly. “No? I see. I imagine he doesn’t know about that part of your life yet... and that’s as good a reason to refuse my offer as any. I wasn’t sure whether you’d talked about it.”
A headache is beginning to pound in Mike’s temples. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” Quentin smiles softly, and pats his hand. “You hate something broader than that, and I understand why you would. You ask me why... as I said, I could have given any number of reasons, but none of them really matter when it comes down to it. I think I already knew you wouldn’t say yes.”
“Why did you even bother asking, then?”
Quentin gestures to a passing waiter for the bill. “Honestly? For the sake of the congratulations. You know. The one I was secretly expecting once I gave you the good news.” He puffs himself up proudly. “From you, though, I’m willing to grant that your lukewarm demeanor is more of a compliment than any congratulations you could give me. This was no life for you; good to see you’re sticking to it.”
Mike doesn’t know what to say. But he now thinks Quentin understood something of the misgivings he was having earlier, of the influence his old acquaintances had on him while he was still part of the modeling life. He doesn’t know what to feel about being validated by Quentin of all people, but he’ll take it, even if he’ll never speak up about it.
“Franck knows about some things from back then.” He says instead. He is always so quiet and uncertain when he speaks of his future, anxious not to shatter it as he has done almost every other aspect of his life. “I told him about the... when I was hiding out at the cabin. Me quitting as a model, though not really... like, why, past me just having had enough. But one day I will. He deserves honesty from me.”
“I see.”
A smile drifts to his lips. “Perhaps I will ask you to film our wedding.”
Quentin laughs. “I look forward to it. I will make it gorgeous, cross my heart and hope to die; not only am I excellent with things I’ve made up in my depraved imagination, I am also very good at filming things which happen outside of my will.” He pulls out a homebrew CD from his bag. “As you can see from this amateur production.”
“What the fuck. The fuck is that. Get that out of my face.”
“Amateur theatrical productions, Lévy. What did you think I meant earlier?” A wicked smile spreads across Quentin’s face. “This was from the Jacques Lecoq last winter, the students weren’t half bad, actually. Ever heard of Hamletmaschine?”
Mike groans and stands up, pushing forwards his tip. Twenty percent, out of conscious generosity to make up for all the years he wasn’t. “Please, for the love of God, just kill me.”
