The Film Club by David Gilmour Page A

said.
    â€œHuh-huh.”
    Puff, puff. Face averted. “I’m too young to settle on one person, don’t you think?”
    â€œThat’s not really the point, is it?”
    A moment later we heard a soft strumming. A young man sat slumped over a guitar on the cathedral steps, slowly running his fingers over the strings. In the blue morning light he reminded me of a Picasso painting.
    â€œDo you believe that?” Jesse said. “Have you ever seen anything so . . .” he looked for the word “. . . so perfect.”
    We smoked our cigars in silence for a moment, the chords hanging in the soft summer air.
    â€œDad?” he said suddenly.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt’s Rebecca I’ve been phoning.”
    â€œI see.” Pause. Puff. Chirp. “Not that other person you mentioned.”
    â€œI didn’t want you to think I was a loser. That I was obsessed with Rebecca Ng.”
    The sky softened to a lighter blue; the moon fading; strum, strum. “ Am I obsessed by Rebecca?” he asked.
    â€œNothing wrong with being obsessed with a woman, Jesse.”
    â€œHave you ever been?”
    â€œPlease,” I said, “don’t let me commence.”
    â€œI haven’t told my mom. She’ll start crying and talking about Claire’s feelings. Are you surprised?”
    â€œAbout Rebecca? No. I always thought you had a second act there.”
    â€œDo you think so? Is that right?” The idea excited him and I felt a sudden pang of dread, as if I were watching him drive a slowly accelerating car toward a cement wall.
    â€œCan I just say one thing to you?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œLove affairs that start in blood tend to end up in blood.”
    The waiter came over and collected a few chairs from the table next to us and took them inside the café.
    â€œJesus, Dad.”

5
    When I got back from Cuba, I was mildly surprised not to find a phone message from Derek H. The first shoot of the Viagra documentary was supposed to start in a month; we had no final script. I waited a day, then another and sent him a jolly e-mail. (I loathed its tone of phony camaraderie.)
    His answer came almost immediately. He had been offered a two-hour documentary on Nelson Mandela; full interview access to him, to his ex-wife, even some of his cronies from prison. There was a time factor at play, Mandela was eighty-four years old, surely I could understand. He was, Derek concluded, terribly sorry, but he had just “run out of time.”
    I was floored. Not to mention broke after the “celebratory” trip to Cuba. I also felt that I’d been “had.” Lured into a frivolous, undignified piece of work that made me look like a fool. I remembered my words to Jesse in the cathedral square, the missionary’s zeal with which I’d delivered them. “You never get anything worth getting from an asshole.”
    I stomped up and down the living room with my fists clenched and swearing revenge; Jesse listened quietly, numb with guilt, I imagine. I went to bed drunk; woke up at four in the morning to pee; just as I flushed the toilet, my watch slipped from my wrist and whirled down the chute. I sat down on the toilet seat and had a small, private weep. Here I’d let Jesse drop out of school, I’d promised to look after him and now it turned out I couldn’t even look after myself. A bullshitter, just like Claire Brinkman’s father.
    By morning, I could feel a kind of terror spread through my chest like poison, my heart raced; it was as if a belt was slowly tightening around me. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. Just to do something, to move, I climbed onto my bicycle and rode downtown. It was a funereal summer day, muggy and full of unattractive people. I was walking through a narrow laneway, when I crisscrossed a bike courier riding cautiously my way. He was wearing sunglasses, a big bag thrown over his shoulder, gloves without