Once, in a story supermarket, I took a lift in which two attractive girls of about 25 or 27 were going down. They were really active and were chatting that a moment ago, before I entered the lift, Leszek Możdżer, a brilliant Polish pianist, got off. Indeed, I could sense a subtle, intoxicating smell of top‑quality men’s eau de toilette, probably from some Parisian boutique on Champs-Élysées…
It was raining cats and dogs, and I’d left my car outside (I’ve done it since my Ford Capri – limited edition, 1977 – was crushed against a car park’s ceiling in Rotterdam city centre). I was carrying a plaid umbrella with a wooden stick. One of the girls was wearing flat, black, leather ballet pumps, which exposed her slightly tanned feet. I decided to direct the umbrella spike towards one of her feet to get her attention. When cold raindrops fell from the umbrella on her left foot, a few of them, maybe three, I adjusted my glasses and pushed the STOP button with my elbow when I noticed that one of them was looking at me in the mirror. To make long story short, I was the most cunning one in this bloody city of rats, eating everything and shitting rainbows after every victory, which didn’t mean a thing three hundred kilometres left from Poznań, when standing in front of the map, towards America, where I’ve been living for eleven years. The lift pulled sharply, and one of the girls vomited like in Masłowska’s novels…
***
In the 6th century, Carcassonne was conquered by the Visigoths, who expanded the fortifications that can still be found in the city. In spring 2019, I came here with my second wife, who was on an international tour with Batsheva Dance Company, where she was the first soloist. Afra was Lebanese, and for the second time in my life, I felt that love was the most important thing to me…
I wrote ‘A girl from a lift’ for her, and it was going to be made into a film by a gifted American director of Japanese origin, Horitu Ayashi, personally an extremely fucked-up guy and friend of Tom Cruise – the one from scientologists.
When I told him that in the lift scene, one of the girls must vomit after a sharp pull because we’re referring to the works of Masłowska, a Polish writer, he didn’t know who I meant and told me that nobody would understand it and I had to move the climax somewhere else. I slammed the caravan door because I knew he was right. That day, we left off shooting, and Hollden called me and made a big fuss. Afterwards, he asked me to dinner and apologised. I came home and began to change what I’d written. I promised to send the script to Ayashi and the cast by midnight, but I couldn’t remember the event that had made me tell that story… So I began where I left off. I had to get rid of Masłowska, unfortunately. I began with a scene where the protagonist spots that one of the girls is looking at him in the mirror. I rushed to describe all the details, but I failed to describe the most important thing I’d seen in that mirror. I also forgot to mention that the lift I’d entered was very large and could house up to several dozen people, but there were only three of us then, or at least I thought so.
I recalled that I began to be afraid, and the trick with raindrops falling from the umbrella wasn’t the theme; nor was it erotic, which I thought at first. I recalled that I went to that huge supermarket to replace lenses in my glasses, and my glasses were super steamed-up due to the rain outdoors. I didn’t smell Leszek Możdżer’s eau de toilette anymore, but I recalled that I was listening to his music in the car and I still had it in my head. One of the girls saw my gaze in the mirror and pushed the STOP button. When I recalled that and tried to write it down –it was past midnight – Afra called me and complained that I had been ignoring calls from Hollden. I was terrified and told her I couldn’t describe what had happened then because that story would no longer be a comedy…
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to tell you we’re all waiting for it. Ayashi had a heart attack, you must leave off the shooting. Hollden said you had to change the Polish plot, replace Możdżer with someone else and move the story somewhere else; nobody cares about Poland, focus on the details of the event!’
‘If you are writing it for me, it better be good,’ she said.
So you see, I need to correct some things, except for Masłowska.
Unfortunately, I’ll have to get rid of her.
