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A Siamese cat of a girl, under my thumb
She's the sweetest pet in the world
Somehow it's not like he thought it would be, when he finally sees the finished film. Which he finds a bit odd, really, since he's in it, and it's about what he did. It should be a rush, he thinks, to watch it all up there from this viewpoint, to see himself as others did: ruthless, imposing, fearless. It should be a rush like it was when he was atop that tower, his finger burning on the trigger, sure that every shot would be his last and he'd be taken out any second. He hadn't even had space for fear, really, he was nothing but crackling action and hot metal; it had felt like every nerve in his body was humming, awake, ready to shoot right out of his skin. Even time hadn't behaved naturally; he hadn't even realized that he'd been up there all that time until he'd reached for more ammo and noticed his hands shaking from hunger. And then making the film hadn't been quite real, either—the ludicrous weight of the fake gun, the cameras everywhere, and the utter lack of urgency of it all had just made it seem like make-believe. He used to fantasize about being in the pictures when he was young and his mother would give him a few Reichsmarks to go to the cinema. He'd told her he was seeing funny things, silly comedies about men with big shoes and that American duck, but really it was things like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and The Hands of Orlac. He'd secretly always wanted to play one of those parts, where he'd get to wear a cape and hide in the shadows and make the girls scream when he leaped out to ravish them. Those had always seemed like the most fun roles. And then he'd put those silly childhood dreams away when he'd signed up for the army, figuring it was finally time to grow up, and then they'd asked him to make the picture. Funny how it had all worked out.
But watching this isn't fun. He doesn't feel like an excited little kid in the cinema, nor like a fearless son of Germany who has unflinchingly done his duty. It's not that he's not proud of what he did, because he is, in theory; it's just something about watching it, or rather, watching himself, seeing his own eyes narrowed with hate and concentration; his own smirk. It's not intoxicating, it's just embarrassing, as though it was a private ceremony being displayed up there. And the audience keeps laughing and applauding, as though they had anything to do with it, or as though their catcalls will improve his aim. Somehow, after all this time and effort and anticipation, the whole thing just feels somehow perverted.
He knows where he's going before he even moves, although he's not aware of making the decision. He leans forward and whispers in Dr. Goebbels' ear, and he excuses him kindly, although Fredrick rather thinks he could set fire to the curtains and Goebbels would still call him "mein Junge." That was just how it was now, with everyone—they all smiled at everything he said as if it was all so clever and so noble, and anything he wanted seemed to be his before he'd even finished the thought. He's the golden boy of the Third Reich, the most honorable son, and for a while he'd quite enjoyed it; it was quite fun. All he had to do was mention his name and suddenly free drinks were being pushed into his hand, his back was being heartily slapped, girls were batting painted eyes and lifting their dresses for him behind cafés. With the possible exception of his military superiors, no one ever told him "no" or "enough" or "stop," not for anything. No one except Emmanuelle.
And so for reasons he doesn't quite understand, that's why he's going to her now. It doesn't make any sense, really, but he just needs to be around someone who's not going to gaze at him adoringly or wring his hand and tell him that they're proud, just so very proud. He saw her in the lobby earlier, dressed all in red, catching his eye like a leaping flame, and he just needs to be near her, and to look into those green-gray-blue eyes and see not a fawning smile, but that look of exasperation and impatience that she wears so well.
He rehearses his opening line as he exits the opera box. "Vous etes le gérante de cette cinema?" he'll say, pretending to frown. Are you the manager of this cinema? "Remboursez! L'acteur de ce film n'est pas un clou!" I want my money back! The actor in the movie stinks!
"Oui, je suis d'accord," Emmanuelle will say, biting down on a smile. I agree. "Et il n'est pas si beau. Ils auraient dû choisir cet Errol Flynn. Je le trouve vraiment charmant." And he's not so handsome. They should've picked Errol Flynn, I find him rather charming.
"Vous croyez?" He'll lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, giving her that sly smile that always makes the girls blush. You think so? "Je vous dis un secret: il n'est pas si grand en personne. Les films, ils mentent toujours." I'll tell you a secret: he's not so tall in person. Movies always lie.
And she'll laugh at that, finally, her eyes downcast, not wanting to let him have the full effect. "C'est vraiment inquiétant d'entrendre. Alors, c'est mon cinéma." She'll stand up straight and fold her arms too, imitating him, standing up to him the way no one else will do. That's disturbing to hear. After all, this is my cinema. "Est-ce que vous disez que je dirige une enterprise malhonnête? Je vends les mensonges?" Are you saying I run a dishonest business? That I peddle lies?
"Pas des mensonges, mais des rêves!" he'll laugh. Not lies, dreams! "Ah, maintenant je vous offense. Et il y a peu de choses si charmantes comme un ego blessé d'une belle femme. Je vous prie grâce." And now I've offended you. And there are few things as charming as a wounded ego on a beautiful woman. I crave your pardon. He'll extend a hand solemnly, and after a moment, she'll put her slim fingers in his, keeping her face determinedly straight. He'll lean over her hand—soft, despite her hard work—and hover his lips a half-inch over her skin. After a beat, he'll lift his eyes to hers, and this time she'll look straight back. "Vous fournissez l'espoir de nous roturiers, vous et vos films, l'espoir des mondes améliorés. C'est un tâche tellement essentiel. Que ferions-nous sans des films?" And then he'll kiss her hand, lightly, just enough to make her shiver, and then let go. You provide hope for us commoners, hope of better worlds. It's an essential job. What would we do without the pictures?
She'll give him that tight-lipped smile again, her eyelids lowering in wry amusement. "'Peu de choses si charmantes,'" she'll mutter. "Vous pensez que vous êtes vraiment charmant, non? Je suis surpris que vous deviez même utiliser un fusil. Vous auriez pu les flatter à la reddition." 'Few things as charming...' You think you're pretty charming, don't you? I'm surprised you even had to use a rifle; you could've just flattered the enemy into surrender.
"Probablement," he'll agree. "Il semble réussir avec tout le monde sauf vous. Comment est-il que vous êtes immunisé de moi?" Probably. It seems to work on everyone but you. How is it that you're immune to me?
"Je vous connais trop bien," she'll shrug. "Je vous connais mieux que tout le monde, et maintenant, j'en ai marre de vous. Tant pis." I know you too well. I know you better than anyone, and now I'm sick of you. Shame. She'll look at him sideways and give him that cocky little moue, but he'll hear the double meaning in her words, and know she's right. The reel behind her will give a loud click, maybe, and she'll turn quickly to look at it, her graceful neck swiveling. "Merde. Vous me distraire." She'll fly over to the machine, red skirts swirling. You're distracting me. "Comment serait-il si je gâcherais en présence du Führer?" He'll watch her nimble hands, transfixed, as she unloads the second reel and snaps the third into place, her movements practiced and elegant. How would it be if I messed this up in front of the Führer?
"Je vous défendrais," he'll say swiftly, stepping into the booth and closing the door quietly. I'd defend you. "Je lui dirais que bien que votre habileté extraordinaire, vous auriez distrait par mon bavardage, et s'il veut m'abattre, ainsi, je mourrai avec dignité." He'll draw himself up to attention and salute her smartly, and she'll get the message, if the film didn't make it clear: he's willing to die for what matters to him. I'll tell him that despite your prodigious skill, you were distracted by my idle chatter, and if he wants to have me shot for it, so be it; I will die with dignity.
"Comment honorable, Monsieur Sydney Carton," she'll say, still in that dry way of hers. How honorable. Then she'll glance over her shoulder. "Ai-je dit que vous pourriez entrer?" Did I say you could come in?
"Non," he'll admit. "Mais vous n'en pas besoin." But you didn't need to.
And that's when he'll cross the room in two paces, quickly enough to make her let out a tiny gasp despite herself. He'll be close enough to look into those stormy-sea eyes, to see the constellation of freckles across her throat and chest up close. He'll lay his hand lightly against her upper arm. "Que fais-tu?" she'll say, almost in a whisper, dispensing with the niceties. And then, just so she can tell herself later that she said it, "Laisse-moi." What are you doing? Let me go. But he knows better, he knows her too well now to not know what she really means, what she really wants when she bites down on those berry lips of hers. She wants him—not the hero on the screen, not the famous avenging son of the Fatherland, but him, the man, Fredrick. Unlike all the others who just hand him whatever he wanted, she made him earn it first, but now she'll be gentle, silk in his hands, and he'll kiss her, soft at first and then rougher, one hand at her waist and another seeking out her small breasts as her back arches towards him. She'll bite his lip, maybe, mingling tang and salt with the taste of champagne in his mouth, and he'll reach with burning fingers for her garter, and all the while the reel will spin beside them, keeping time with his hammering heart and telling a tale that only has the vaguest bit to do with him, while they write their own story right there on the brown leather chair beside the door.
He can almost taste her neck already as he walks to the door, straightens his jacket and knocks. "C'est qui?" she calls, and she already sounds irked. as if she knew he was coming. Perfect. "Fredrick!" he calls back. This movie, at least, will play out just the way he wants it to.