Hollywood Boulevard by Janyce Stefan-Cole Page A
Authors: Janyce Stefan-Cole
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Suspense fiction, California, Contemporary Women, Actresses, Los Angeles, Hollywood (Los Angeles; Calif.), Hotels, Hotels - Califoirnia - Los Angeles
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thought we'd stood on something like hallowed ground that day.
    We went to the market for fresh goat cheese, bread, fruit, wine, tomatoes, and olives for a picnic at the base of Mont St. Victoire. I recall stopping the car to pee in the woods, and the glassy light in the forest, the reddish tree trunks and a wash of silver in the air. I remember thinking Cézanne had seen that light and captured it on canvas. We laughed out loud arriving at the view he'd painted so many times, the tumbledown boulders of St. Victoire. I said to Joe, "That's it, that's cubism right there; he painted what he saw!"
    "Good old crotchety Cézanne. And Hortense, his wife: the ball and chain," Joe said with a wink.
    "Hey!" I shot back. "What about 'Theory shits,' what he said to his painter pals in Paris, Monet and Pissarro and the others, before he took off for the south, never to look back."
    "A man who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to go after it," Joe said.
    We worked to patch things up under that pale Provençal sky that seemed as if it could cleanse any human sin. I thought Joe was angry at me for thanking Andre and everyone else first at the ceremony, but he sneered at that. "Andre?" he said, exaggerating the name ( Ahhhhhndray ). "All right, the man has talent, but all Andre does is Andre."
    I decided I'd skip that part. "Is this about you taking that electrical work? You don't have to."
    " Really? You took an apartment in Los Angeles; now we have two rents to pay."
    "It's just temporary, and I can handle both, Joe; it's way cheaper than a hotel." I made my voice small because money talk could cause an avalanche.
    "Do you think about what you're doing, Ardennes?"
    "Taking the apartment? I'll get more work if I'm out there. . . . I wish so much you'd come, just for a little while. The cats could fly out too."
    "I'm saying: Is this what you want ?" His tone was like a clamp on my throat.
    "It's what I do , Joe; I'm an actor. It's just, Iâ what do you want me to do, act in documentaries?" I'd done everything in my life to be doing what I was doing; what was I supposed to make of Joe's question? Was I any different than Cézanne going after his art? "I don't see your writing saving the world from hungerâ"
    "âJust forget it!" he cut in. (That was his fallback position.)
    After a tense silence I said, "I couldn't have done the award without you. I can't do anything without you."
    He dismissed that idea. "Ah, cut it out. You won all by yourself. Just keep me out of the cheesy stuff is all I ask. I'll boost my own career."
    Oh, I said to myself, I shouldn't have called him a writer. He is a writer! I felt so helplessly sad. It was impossible to keep guessing at what was going to work with Joe. It seemed like I was wrong seventy- five percent of the time. I must have looked like unhappiness incarnate, my face falling like a car wreck. Joe put his arms around me. "It's all right, don't fret, Ardennes."
    I brightened like a dumb flower that can't help itself when the sun peeks out from behind a cloud. I muttered the word cerise into his warm shoulder. We finished our picnic in peace and that night had magnificent c'est ci bon French sex. The next morning I was briefly recognized for my prizeâ it was all over the newspapers that week. I was afraid Joe would get mad again, but he was quiet as I thanked the concierge of the inn for congratulating me. He presented us with a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape, asking first if I preferred red or white. Then he asked us to wait one moment while he ran back inside to present us with a bottle of white as well, kissing first me and then Joe on each of our cheeks.
    Joe beamed. " Looks like pretty
    We went to the market for fresh goat cheese, bread, fruit, wine, tomatoes, and olives for a picnic at the base of Mont St. Victoire. I recall stopping the car to pee in the woods, and the glassy light in the forest, the reddish tree trunks and a wash of silver in the air. I remember thinking Cézanne had seen that light and captured it on canvas. We laughed out loud arriving at the view he'd painted so many times, the tumbledown boulders of St. Victoire. I said to Joe, "That's it, that's cubism right there; he painted what he saw!"
    "Good old crotchety Cézanne. And Hortense, his wife: the ball and chain," Joe said with a wink.
    "Hey!" I shot back. "What about 'Theory shits,' what he said to his painter pals in Paris, Monet and Pissarro and the others, before he took off for the south, never to look back."
    "A man who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to go after it," Joe said.
    We worked to patch things up under that pale Provençal sky that seemed as if it could cleanse any human sin. I thought Joe was angry at me for thanking Andre and everyone else first at the ceremony, but he sneered at that. "Andre?" he said, exaggerating the name ( Ahhhhhndray ). "All right, the man has talent, but all Andre does is Andre."
    I decided I'd skip that part. "Is this about you taking that electrical work? You don't have to."
    " Really? You took an apartment in Los Angeles; now we have two rents to pay."
    "It's just temporary, and I can handle both, Joe; it's way cheaper than a hotel." I made my voice small because money talk could cause an avalanche.
    "Do you think about what you're doing, Ardennes?"
    "Taking the apartment? I'll get more work if I'm out there. . . . I wish so much you'd come, just for a little while. The cats could fly out too."
    "I'm saying: Is this what you want ?" His tone was like a clamp on my throat.
    "It's what I do , Joe; I'm an actor. It's just, Iâ what do you want me to do, act in documentaries?" I'd done everything in my life to be doing what I was doing; what was I supposed to make of Joe's question? Was I any different than Cézanne going after his art? "I don't see your writing saving the world from hungerâ"
    "âJust forget it!" he cut in. (That was his fallback position.)
    After a tense silence I said, "I couldn't have done the award without you. I can't do anything without you."
    He dismissed that idea. "Ah, cut it out. You won all by yourself. Just keep me out of the cheesy stuff is all I ask. I'll boost my own career."
    Oh, I said to myself, I shouldn't have called him a writer. He is a writer! I felt so helplessly sad. It was impossible to keep guessing at what was going to work with Joe. It seemed like I was wrong seventy- five percent of the time. I must have looked like unhappiness incarnate, my face falling like a car wreck. Joe put his arms around me. "It's all right, don't fret, Ardennes."
    I brightened like a dumb flower that can't help itself when the sun peeks out from behind a cloud. I muttered the word cerise into his warm shoulder. We finished our picnic in peace and that night had magnificent c'est ci bon French sex. The next morning I was briefly recognized for my prizeâ it was all over the newspapers that week. I was afraid Joe would get mad again, but he was quiet as I thanked the concierge of the inn for congratulating me. He presented us with a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape, asking first if I preferred red or white. Then he asked us to wait one moment while he ran back inside to present us with a bottle of white as well, kissing first me and then Joe on each of our cheeks.
    Joe beamed. " Looks like pretty
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