Chapter 1
--Dedicated to Maryvonne Jacquin--
Call of the Twilight Zone
Cleo anchors her eyes on a battered writing desk, etched with the cryptic marks of her predecessors, though she makes no effort to decipher their messages. To lift up her head and look around demands courage. ‘Is she courageous? Yes- and no. There were situations, real and abstract, from which she backed out with the only excuse that fighting for a lost cause would be absurd.’
“I am Antony. And you are?” A voice accosts her with the insistence of a lost child.
She instinctively withdraws.
Refusing to accept the evident, the voice makes a second attempt.
“Are you still there, Cleopatra?”
A hand touches her shoulder; an ankle boot nudges her pump.
‘You wanted the proof of your courage. Here’s your chance, Cleo!’
’She has to stop this pestering before he makes her to do something melodramatic like slapping his face. This guy is overstepping the bounds. She decides to take her defense and, turning abruptly towards him, demolish him with a single glance.
‘Do it, Cleo! You can!’
Taking a deep breath, she lifts her eyes—and is stunned. Sunlight catches his wildly tousled red hair, turning it into spun gold, his sea-green eyes greet her with easy familiarity. ‘Who could be so heartless as to brush away a butterfly resting upon their shoulder? But then, can she tell whether his charm is genuine or just a pose?’
“What’s a girl like you doing among these phonies?”
Cleo examines him more carefully. ‘Could he be an impostor masquerading as a wunderkind?’
He returns her gaze with the innocence of a holy fool.
“I’m here to learn how to write something someone might actually read. And you?”
He flashes the conspiratorial grin of someone sharing a secret.
“Oh, ME! For a dandy like myself, attending a creative writing class seems the safest occupational hazard for my integrity. I tried and failed a couple of so called liberal colleges but believe me, Cleopatra, there was nothing “liberal” in their humbling of my spirit.”
His smirk reveals perfect teeth, dimples framing his confident chin underscore the charm of a born winner, adept at turning fortune with the twinkle of an eye.
A sudden silence envelops the classroom. A man with a long, wolfish face approaches the lectern, positioning himself with the self-importance of a general inspecting his troops.
“I am Ralph Ender.” He grabs a piece of chalk and scrawls his name on the blackboard, wiping his hands nonchalantly on designer jeans.
“Some of you might have read my debut novel, *Obligation*, which made quite an impact in literary circles.”
He scans the audience, clearly expecting admiration, before continuing to describe his course on how to succeed as an author—a trade in which he claims there are no secrets for him.
Cleo tries to concentrate on his clipped, deliberate sentences and is suddenly struck by an insight: Ender is mimicking Hemingway’s minimalist virtuosity.
“Do we really want to stay?”
Cleo moves farther from Antony’s hot breath leaving his suggestion to flee unanswered.
“Did you see the “Cahiers de Cinéma” ’s tribute to Jean-Luc Godard at the Champollion? Aren’t you tempted to worship “Pierrot le Fou*” one more time?” Antony offers her something hard to resist.
“We can still make it if we escape right now.”
Without waiting for her consent, Antony grabs her hand and pulls her toward the door, stepping over the feet of their classmates.
’Is he real or just a figment of her imagination? Cleo wonders about this new acquaintance, just like her lacking in perfection, just like her extraordinary.’
Antony waves down a passing taxi. “It’s the only way we’ll get there on time,” he explains, noticing her hesitation.
In the taxi she draws farther from him. Starting a new relationship is the last thing she is ready for.
They exit onto Rue des Écoles. Ignoring the long queue in front of the cinema, Antony heads directly to the ticket office and confidently flashes his press card.
The lights dim as he guides her to a seat in the front row and, forgetting about her existence, gets engrossed in the shadows flickering over the screen. His arms crossed protectively over his chest, his head tilted forward, he abandons himself to Godard.
Cleo feels gate crashing in Antony’s private realm. Her neck stiffens, her body cramps in the uncomfortable seat while she is witnessing Godard’s aberrant escapades where logic is taken lightly and absurdity with extreme seriousness.
‘What is she doing here, betraying her resolve to learn a skill that might lend meaning to her life? She is feeling like an actress waiting in the wings for her cue.’
She glares angrily at Antony for involving her in his foolishness. Oblivious, he’s lost somewhere she cannot follow, forcing her into second place behind his magnificent obsession. She stands up, she leaves. Perhaps she can still make it to the next lecture.
