tweaking (chapter 25, part 1)

(image courtesy Becky F)

If this seems confusing, maybe it’s because you haven’t read what came before. This is the 25th chapter of What Would Water Do, a novel. To begin at the start, click here. I also write short stories, personal essays, and other bits. Look in the categories, above, to see more.

If Lang continues at this pace she should be done with the director’s cut of Deep Water by the end of the week. It is almost 3 a.m. according to her wristwatch: she should go home to rest, cook breakfast, see Elle off for her lessons and come back to meet with Liz, the film editor. Then they can spend the day going over her notes and tweaking things.

She pops another pill from the vial in her pocket and swallows it with a swig of tepid coffee. Her little screen is filled with the golden, delicious figure of Adele Ratignolle, Edna Pontillier’s best friend. For this part Lang was very pleased to use Juliette Bouchez, one of her favorite women and a magnificent actress whose heavy French accent works perfectly for this film set in high Creole society. The first time they met at a party in Paris five years ago, Juliette had twitched clear across a crowded room with her arms outstretched to greet Lang in her voluptuous embrace. Juliette had said, “Where have you been all my life? I am so glad to finally meet you!” Rosemary and Eleanor immediately liked her, too. Juliette would bring her husband and kids over to their apartment to cook delicious meals. When Lang and Rosemary had their little tiffs, Juliette was always sympathetic but never took sides. “That is how it goes,” she would say with a little shrug and a smile. “Ah. You poor, poor idiot. You should know this by now.”

To Lang, Juliette is the ideal woman, the kind who will laugh in your face regardless of the little lines around her eyes and mouth or the garlic you had for lunch, with the hope that you’ll join her. Juliette makes the perfect mother. Among her other roles, she was brilliant as Jesus’ mother, Titian‘s muse, and Oberon’s queen. Not only was she perfect for the role of Edna’s pregnant friend but she also happened to be in the third trimester of her very real pregnancy with her third child when they shot this scene, which starts with an eyeful of Juliette/Adele’s enchantingly full figure clad in a frilly apricot silk dress, swooning back against the pillows on the divan with her blonde hair dripping down from its chignon and a fan busily flipping to cool her flushed cheeks. She appears to be in quite a bit of discomfort but smiles valiantly at her companion nevertheless.

Mae/Edna perches stiff and straight in tailored black on the wooden chair beside the sofa; she and her friend Adele are having an argument. This is at the end of the film, in the last scenes leading up to the finale when Edna drowns herself in the Gulf of Mexico. Edna has become estranged from her husband and children and has lost all interest in her art and hope in reuniting with Robert, whom she loves. She spends her days walking aimlessly around town like a sleep-walker, trying to discover meaning for her life. Edna insists, “But I would never sacrifice myself for my children or for anyone else. Perhaps I would give up the inessential, but not myself.”

Once again, Lang is amazed by the transformation Mae achieved. Since they began in April it had been like watching the fast-motion evolution of a flower blooming and drying up, from juicy adolescence to the onset of menopause. By the time they shot the final scene, Mae was bone thin and pale as a ghost. She had stopped bathing and brushing her hair and teeth and it was Mae who suggested they get rid of her corset and eschew all makeup except powder. Lang had heard the rumor that Mae had struck up a relationship of some kind with William Markham, the composer, a brilliant and brooding man, a bit too old for Mae but perhaps the perfect match for Edna. Lang suspects that liaison as the explanation for Mae’s newfound attachment to the Ipod she wore at all times, removed for the take but then reinserted right after the cut. The people who pay to see the flippant, frivolous young sexpot are going to be disappointed, but the Academy will certainly swoon.

Next to Edna, Adele looks like a piece of ripe fruit. She fans herself and chuckles. “But you have two wonderful boys. Perhaps I don’t know what you mean by essential or inessential, my friend. Please enlighten me.”

Edna grips her chair. “I would stop painting if I had to. I would confine myself to my house or give money or even my life for my children, but not myself.”

“But a woman who would give her life for her children could do no more than that, I think. Your bible tells you so. No one asks more than that.”

“Oh, yes they do!” Edna almost sneers. “Everyone expects so much more than that!”

For this scene, William Markham wrote a piece of music that alludes to Beethoven’s second sonata. A piano and cello quarrel while the camera dwells on the women’s faces. Liz did an excellent job juxtaposing Adele’s good humor with Edna’s introspective melancholy; Juliette’s full French lips, lovely dimpled knuckles and generous flesh with Mae’s unpainted mouth pulled tight, paper thin skin and gnawed cuticles. Juliette, the plumper, older, less famous woman manages to steal this scene away from the young and suddenly serious actress. Something about the hormone-induced glow or how Juliette’s knowing eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, the inarguable gloriousness of her midsection and the easy naturalness of it all conspire to make Edna look like a paper doll in comparison. Lang remembers that Mae had seemed moody and petulant on the days they had filmed with Juliette. Mae must have known then that she was being upstaged.

“Well, what, then?” Adele leans forward to pat Edna’s hand. Adele’s hand displays a prominent wedding ring so big it flashes on film. “What more could I give? Will you please instruct me how to be a better mother?”

Edna doesn’t pull her hand away. “I could never instruct you on that account. You are the ideal. We should all strive to emulate your tender ministrations.”

“What do you mean, then?” (Smiling, petting.) “Don’t mock me, my friend.”

“Well. I would not give my children every thought in my head. I would let my mind wander away from them, perhaps even out of their sight. I would even let myself imagine life without them—“ Adele gasps mockingly, clutches her breast. “Please, Adele, we are speaking of thoughts, not actions, aren’t we? I think it is important to allow myself to desire other things beyond the company of my children. Maybe I can’t make it any more clear. I am only beginning to comprehend. But I will not let them possess me.”

Adele puts down her fan. “I am afraid that I don’t understand you, my friend. Perhaps I am too simple. What is wrong with allowing oneself to be changed by others? Every day, my children change me for the better. They teach me patience, service, faith. They teach me how to love. I look forward to their endless interruptions. Doesn’t one get tired of thinking only of oneself?”

Edna takes her hand back. She stares into her lap. “Maybe change is impossible. Perhaps people don’t change, only circumstances.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” Adele leans forward, trying to catch her eyes. “Think of the children, Edna. Oh, think of the children!”