CHAPTER 187: REJOICE, IT IS DONE

’At least once in our life, at least once while watching our co-stars, every actor thinks, ’I could’ve done that better.’’

Benoit Durand, sitting precariously on the edge of his seat, didn’t want to blink. He was afraid that the magical scene in front of him would disappear if he closed his eyes for even a moment.

’It could be a scene, a shot, a sequence, an accent, a wink, or even just a stare.’

In his more than fifty years of life, he thought he had seen it all. He thought he had seen the peak of performative arts. And not once had he cared to think that there could be something even he would fail to understand, a performance he would deem beyond extraordinary, a feat beyond common sense.

Yet there it was—a man in a woman’s clothing, creating illusions only psychedelics could replicate.

’This isn’t just acting... But what if it is?’

That question tormented him. It made him lonely and happy at the same time.

’If it is, then sadly, there is no more than one actor in the world.’

There, at the edge of his seat, in a busy film studio, he mourned—the death of every actor, leave for one.

He didn’t know it, but he was drooling.

In front of him was no stage and no extras playing the audience. What he saw was a woman playing in a flower meadow under the warmth of a generous sun.

Instead of an umbrella, her face was obstructed by a summer hat. Instead of an Eastern garb, a sundress adorned her.

He didn’t know what he was doing there or why she was glancing at him as the sun repeated its cycles.

He had no reason, no thoughts, and no desire for anything. He was there; he only knew that much.

’Why am I here again?’

It felt like he was forgetting something, that there was a past before he found himself in the meadow.

’How long ago was it? Years?’

Something was wrong; his beating heart was warning him about it. It was telling him to tear his gaze away from that smiling, bewitching woman.

She did a twirl, her hand on the summer hat, and lifted her head.

Astonishingly, she had shrunk.

The actor in his fifties, a man who had seen highs and lows unfathomable to the modern actor, shed a genuine tear. It had been ten years since he did it for anything other than a role.

The woman was now a little girl—his little girl.

’My child...’

It was his daughter, just as lovely as he remembered her.

’Oh darling, how have you returned to your childhood?’

It must have been twenty years since he saw that round, cherubic face.

’How small you used to be, I had almost forgotten.’

He wanted to run to her and hold her in his arms. If she wanted to return to her infant years, he didn’t mind cradling her again.

Such joy, a time precious and long gone, the gift his wife had bestowed on him—all that he thought he could never experience again—lay ahead of him.

Holding her skirt, the girl twirled again.

Her height had reached that of a teenager.

It felt like something was stabbing at Benoit’s heart.

’Ah, this is when you were the most cranky... But I loved you. Don’t believe anything else; I truly loved you.’

Yet, these were the busiest years of his life. A role in a hit film had earned him praise and ample opportunity.

Yet it was a time he always looked back at with regret.

’Daddy was busy, my dear girl.’

He hadn’t meant to, but those years of his life were responsible for the rift between his daughter and him.

’Daddy’s passion got the better of his love, darling. But he always loved you.’

Only in his old age did he realize what he had missed.

’I never meant to relinquish fatherhood, my child. Please understand that.’

But the eyes of the girl staring back at him were cloudy, nothing like those of the bubbly girl from before.

The girl twirled again.

’No, don’t!’

Horror spread over Benoit’s face.

’Not you too...’

He tried to take a step forward, but he couldn’t. It was as if the world was telling him that it wasn’t meant to be.

What had begun as a fairy tale was progressing like a Shakespearean tragedy.

The girl had now grown into a woman—one who would not look at her father.

The old actor felt his heart shatter at the sight of her.

She was ghastly, as if life had been sucked out of her. On her wrists were scars of self-harm. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes were unfocused.

’Where did it go wrong?’

When did they reach a point of no return?

’Had I been there to guide you through those sad years, would it have been different?’

Would she have turned away from addiction?

’Would you have refused to follow your mother to heaven?’

Scalding hot tears flowed down his rough cheeks.

’Why couldn’t you stay little, my little girl?’

How nice it would have been to dip their feet in the river on a summer eve again.

How nice it would have been to wait for his wife to bring sandwiches again.

How nice it would have been to be destitute and happy again.

How nice it would have been to be together again.

Emotions flowed down his face and onto the scene, coloring the flowers a lovely shade of purple and red.

Impassive and unimpressed, the woman twirled.

Having broken the man, The Lady returned to herself.

As she moved away, a grave entered the old actor’s blurry sight.

’My dear girl, my little girl...’

Benoit felt a hand on his shoulder. It was shaking him.

He looked back to find a worried Margaux Delcour looking down at him.

The place had transformed back into the film studio.

He was on his knees, shedding tears like candle wax onto the floor. Perhaps that’s why the senior actress seemed worried. She was worried that he might burn away like a spent candle.

"Are you fine, Ben?" she croaked out.

Her hands were shaking.

Benoit looked behind her. Josephine Petit was sitting there, drooling onto her lap.

’So, I wasn’t the only one.’

He wanted to look back at the stage. He wanted to see what was so potent that it could move three top actors to such a sad state.

But something in the eye of Margaux warned him against it.

It was dangerous.

So, he relented, content to infer what he could from Josephine’s reaction.

She wasn’t in as bad a shape as he, but she was dazed nonetheless, lost in a reverie of her own.

He knew what she was thinking.

’At least once in our life, at least once while watching our co-stars, every actor thinks, ’I could’ve done that better.’’

Before seeing Averie Quinn Auclair walk onto the stage as The Lady, Josephine expected no different.

She had thought that whatever it was he was going to show, she could do it three times better.

Yet, such a thought had been erased from her mind.

What she was seeing was something beyond her understanding. It wasn’t someone expressing sorrow in an emotional scene.

Whatever it was, it ascended acting. It ascended portrayals.

What was in front of her was a fantasy come true.

She was convinced that reality had cracked to bring forth the character in the body of that man.

It was otherworldly. It had her speechless.

Josephine had never wanted to admit defeat as much as she did now. She knew that no matter what, she couldn’t have done it better.

’That single passive expression gives off so many impressions.’

It was like gazing at a portrait.

’A portrait that has come to life.’

And indeed, she was staring at a portrait in an art museum. It depicted a noblewoman.

No one was in the museum. It was only her and the picture looking down at her.

’Such a strong gaze.’

She was lost in the illusion of a painting, and she wasn’t alone.

Watching the unfolding magic while pinching himself—so as not to get sucked into The Lady’s eyes—Director Groux raised his speakerphone.

He didn’t want to use it, but he didn’t think his voice alone could grab the crew’s attention.

There was a genuine fear coursing through him that if he didn’t end it then and there, someone would either lose their sanity or life.

It was charmingly dangerous.

"Cut..."

Even through the speaker, only a whimper escaped.

He took a deep breath and, at the top of his lungs, screamed, "Cuuuuuutttttt!"

Only then did the crew come to their senses.

It was the saddest cut of the good director’s career.

It was painful to end something so beautiful. Yet there was joy in the fact that nothing could ruin it, now that it was captured.

If someone’s phone wanted to ring, it could ring now. If someone wanted to fall to their knees, they could fall now. If someone wanted to sneeze, they could sneeze now.

If someone needed to pee their pants, they could do it now. If someone had to have a heart attack, they could have it now.

’Rejoice, because it is done.’

In the silence that ensued, a hissing breath could be heard.