The Writer & The Filmmaker

Manu Bodin

The writer & the filmmaker

A novella

Translated from French by Kim Whatley

1  The writer & the filmmaker

2  By the same author

The writer & the filmmaker

Some Sunday afternoons I like to kill time in a local bar not far from where I live. There I watch people go by in the street and write. I write a bit about everything, especially human relations. I am inspired by snatches of people's lives that I happen to overhear, and I write about their gestures and tics. I also draw upon the more theatrical elements in the lives of my friends or from my own experiences. In recent years, writing has become indispensable to me. It presented itself one day without warning as an escape from the sterility that I saw in contemporary society, that made me feel anxious and sick, and filled me an unspeakable desire to flee to the other side of the world to hide, far away from everything, free from constraints and contradictions, with simple people satisfied with a humble and modest life.

As I entered the bar, I noticed a girl with resplendent blonde hair sitting in the corner. A lot of guys seemed to be looking in her direction. In front of her was a free table, the one I immediately chose to get comfortable at.

I walked past, briefly checking her out and kept on moving, admiring her plunging neckline. She was absorbed in her mobile phone, texting I don't know what to I don't know who. On the table was a large, bright yellow handbag, half open, revealing the mess inside. Next to the bag was a glass of white wine and several bar tickets waiting to be settled, piled up under a metal ashtray. The pretty little thing seemed to have placed a lot of orders. She glanced at me furtively as I hung my jacket on the back of the chair in front of her, looking away and pretending not to notice me every chance she got, then she turned her attention back to her phone and her thumbs began dancing once again over the screen.

With my back towards her, I sat down. I took an A4 notebook and ballpoint pen out of my backpack. From where I was sitting, I could see the crowd of passers-by in the street - valuable raw material for my writing.

Inspiration struck and I started to string a few words together. Sentences gradually formed, paragraphs followed one after another, blank pages darkened. I was on a roll; I had to admit that it wasn't always like that.

After a while, in one of those deep moments of reflection known to every writer, I heard a 'hey!' come from behind me. I came to my senses, filed my thoughts away, at least for a while, and turned my head.

"What are you writing? Are you a writer?" asked the pretty blonde I had spotted when I arrived.

This time she was staring at me straight in the eyes and was determined to strike up a conversation.

I answered her with a weak 'yes', disturbed by her dazzling aura. Her emerald green eyes had completely bewitched me.

"So, yes? You're a writer, aren't you?" she asked in a vehement tone.

To better face her I swivelled round, leaning against the back of my chair.

"Yes, that's it. I'm working on a novel."

As soon as the words left my lips, I saw her pupils start shining. She jumped up, grabbing her drink and handbag. The speed of the gesture caused the bag to hit the ashtray and the three bar tickets still waiting to be paid fluttered to the floor. It seemed to me the last thing on her mind was paying her tab.

She took a few steps closer and I found myself face to face with a sex bomb, small in stature, barely over five feet. Her ample chest must have been flirting with 36D, if not a little more. After admiring the top half, I lowered my head to take a look at her thighs. Her short, pastel blue skirt barely covered her backside. And what a backside! Very nice, all plump and fleshy. Her long blonde hair ran right down to her buttocks. Her legs glistened. Just the kind of girl I'd like to spend the night with.

"I love writers. They're so imaginative... Do you mind if I sit with you? I'm bored on my own. My ex keeps bugging me with pathetic texts justifying his leaving me hanging and not showing up for our date. What an asshole! I swear, you guys... Honestly sometimes I have such a hard time understanding you. Well, I don't mean you, I don't even know you. But in general... You know what I mean, right? You get it."

Hypnotised, I watched her sit down on the chair in front of me, at my table, all the while continuing her crazy torrent of words. I couldn't quite believe what was happening.

Her voice was pleasing to the ear, the dulcet tones contrasting with the boundless energy that seemed to be overflowing from within.

"So, tell me. What are you writing about?"

She devoured me with her big green eyes, seemingly fascinated. Her lips shone, just asking to be kissed and sucked.

Without even waiting for me to explain what the story was about, she was bent over my shoulder, trying to decipher what I had scribbled down on the sheet of paper, filled with crossings-out and random arrows connecting framed and numbered blocks of text.

"It's a bit of a mess, it's not very easy to understand..."

"It's just ideas and notes which I'll give form to later at home, copying and structuring them into intelligible paragraphs."

"Hmm...it doesn't really say much. It's just a load of descriptions mixed up with random of thoughts. You don't write anything more exciting than that?"

"I prefer introspection."

"Well...it doesn't seem that introspective and even a bit smutty in the more romantic bits..."

This last sentence resounded gently in the hollow of my ear, in an almost lustful tone. She had whispered the words in the same way a woman would tell her beau that she loved him, that she wanted him to take her, right here right now, with everyone around oblivious to what was happening. It was clear I'd met a girl who needed a guy around to satisfy her frequent urges. Her date with her ex must have been nothing more than a booty call between two old flames. In my opinion, he was still an idiot for not showing up. Her sensual voice and warm breath began to stir the lust in my crotch. I suddenly felt a little less comfortable. My dick was tucked over to the right inside my trousers, I'd have to shift it to the centre or else I'd risk a pretty painful situation. But how could I do it without her noticing the surge of eroticism that had just invited itself between my legs?