CHAPTER 182: SCENE 7

- Why is he doing a French film?

- I always thought his first film role would be that of a villain in a Japanese or Korean production.

- It’s the arrogance of a successful young actor. What new actor tries his hand at a big art film? Has his career settled already?

- Has he ever done any arthouse work?

- Not to my knowledge.

- He should have done a commercial film. Art films so early on will kill his career.

Hyerin’s resolute voice rang in Ari’s ear. "Don’t read the response."

That was too difficult. It had become a habit of hers to read the online comments whenever something related to her cousin came up.

She turned off her phone. It wasn’t the time to be lost in a screen when the real deal was in front of her.

Occupying one of the round stools of the bar counter, Averie sat with a pensive expression.

’You’re not her—not yet. You’re him, not her.’

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

’Wait a while, my dearest; I will do you justice soon. But for now, you must remain dormant.’

There was a slight and peculiar stutter to the movement of his fingers. It was like watching an unlubricated motor coming to life.

Benoit Durand and Josephine Petite were the first ones to notice it.

But as the distance between them differed, they interpreted it completely differently.

Josephine, in all her self-assurance, considered it an issue.

’Is he nervous? Great, it’s going to be a disaster.’

The expression she made did not escape Ari’s attention. ’What’s with her? Does she have a problem with my cousin?’

Ari scoffed, like a cheap ruffian.

’You’re not even part of this scene.’ She shook her head. ’These people don’t know any better, do they? Just take a seat before he beats you in the parking lot.’

But unlike the girls, Benoit—who was closer to Averie—saw it as a harbinger of something great.

’You are not thinking about the current scene, are you? Your head is somewhere else, but your body is moving like your role’s.’

Even though he could not replicate exactly what Averie was going through, Benoit understood him to some extent. His mind was also someplace else.

Even though neither was aware of it, both actors had two roles each in the film.

Of the roles Averie was entrusted, the current scene required the one he had practiced the least.

’He’s quiet and artistic. Keeps to himself. Mediocre in a sense, misunderstood in another.’

Loose strands of hair tickled the actor’s face, but he let them be.

Director Groux took his place in the director’s chair. There were plenty of directors who hated these tall metal chairs, but the French director felt the most comfortable in them.

He gave a curt nod to the first Assistant Director, who circled a finger in the air.

He swept a gaze across the set. The quiet was bone-chilling.

"Sound."

The sound mixer gave an OK sign.

The Second Camera held a digital clapperboard with Lady Ethereal written on it in front of the main camera.

"Scene 7, Artist, Take 1."

The first AC whispered into the mic of his headset: "Rolling."

The second AC clapped the jaws of the slate shut and removed himself.

Averie sneaked a glance behind him, at the positions of the cameras.

For a single second, that seemed to stretch into eternity, he rested his amber gaze on the tired man reflected in the closest lens.

The director propped up his chin with his clasped hands.

Like a wisp of cigarette smoke, his voice dispersed in the air.

"Action."

In a bar designed with a fusion of rustic and classy themes, a loud group of men sat at the bar.

One of them banged his pint. "One more, barkeep!"

There was a slight accent to the voice.

Benoit, now a well-kempt bartender, gave a nod.

He brought another pint of beer for the gentlemen, his eyes stretched and wide.

"Did you hear," one of the drunks asked, "about the De Roschillian family?"

"The old man is sick, they say."

"He is dying."

"Good riddance," another man muttered. "De Roschillians are not saints."

They were all dressed in tailored suits, which looked a bit too peculiar to be from the current era or even world.

Their bow ties were a bit too high, and their collars were digging into their necks, which were an inch too tall.

The wide-eyed gaze of the bartender turned to the man sitting a seat removed from the group.

Unlike the rest of his patrons, his hair was not cut smartly. They were a faded shade of auburn, long, and tied at the nape.

Although parted neatly, it still left a slovenly impression.

There were patches of black under his eyes, and his skin looked pale and blotchy with red.

He was carrying a brown leather satchel with something heavy and hard inside.

He looked haggard, as if the cruel world had sucked away energy from his life.

The bartender approached him. "What else can I bring you?"

The man turned his gaze upward, away from the cold saucy pasta dish in front of him.

Food in a bar was never tasty, but the bartender didn’t think it was awful enough for the man to poke it with his fork, like a child would with a dead fish, after only a single bite.

"Nothing."

There was a slight French accent mixed into that single word.

It was a precise voice with a rough edge, as if it hadn’t been used much. It went well with the music playing through the old gramophone.

"You don’t look like you’re from here."

The wide-eyed gaze of the bartender travelled all over the man’s body, yet he did not shrink away.

"It’s not too far away from the border. Are you going there, leaving the country?"

The man’s head went side to side like a doll with a spring in its neck.

"I’m visiting."

The man didn’t say anything, and not even the director could interpret through those wide eyes what he was thinking.

The world of the film was intentionally kept vague to create a sense of wonder and maintain a dream-like perspective.

"What are you carrying?"

That sounded less like a casual talk and more like an inquiry.

The amber, unfocused eyes of the man turned to his satchel.

With spidery fingers, he opened the flap.

"It’s a camera."

The man looked lost and depressed. But he said the following words without a second of hesitation:

"I am a drifting photographer."

His gaze met the bartender’s wide eyes, and a question rose in the latter’s mind.

’Is he mourning, or is he contemplating?’

A second later, the director yelled, "Cut."

***

Sophie Moon was breathing heavily, her chest heaving as she lay on the cold riverside. Clutched between her hands was a piece of wet paper.

Episode 5 shows Asmodeus in a foul mood, in bed with one of his servants. He tells her to leave, irritable, unlike his usual self. He asks another servant to call for Sarah.

His attachment to her has started affecting his promiscuous life. When Sarah arrives, he returns to his usual calm self.

They spend the night together.

In the morning, Mammon meets up with policeman Butler and hands him an envelope full of cash.

Meanwhile, Beelzebub is admitted to the hospital. He had a heart attack, the highest contributing factor being his high cholesterol.

The doctor tells him that the results show that this was his second heart attack—it seemed like he had recently had a silent heart attack.

Belphegor is the one who admitted him and is also the one who stays with him. Lucifer visits briefly, blames his eating habits, and leaves to take care of some business.

This is where the two talk about their mother, her murder that happened in front of their eyes, how prim and proper Lucifer was unaffected by it, and Belphegor mentions how perhaps Beelzebub’s eating habits were because of it.

Beelzebub calls him a pansy and uses emasculating names for talking about such stuff. He calls him out on being sensitive and a pussy.

Belphegor responds with a half-hearted laugh, showing how he felt, not being able to talk about his issues.

His mother’s death had affected him the most as he was the youngest. He was only six when she died.

Half an hour later, Asmodeus visits. He isn’t alone. Sarah is with him. He says he was out on an evening walk when he heard the news.

So, he came right away. He leaves soon enough. Beelzebub and Belphegor looked a bit shocked. "Who is that?" Belphegor asks. Beelzebub doesn’t know either.

Sophie Moon smiled even though she was drenched head to toe.

It was a miracle that she had managed to survive jumping off a bridge.

’The water hits hard.’

There was something wrong with her these days.

She couldn’t understand it, and even though she tried, the manic smile would not disappear.