The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr
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Название: The Resistance Girl

Автор: Jina Bacarr

Издательство: Ingram

Жанр: Контркультура

Серия:

isbn: 9781838893781

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ of living in the past and filling it with shades of regret that I miss living in the here and now.

      It's late afternoon when my phone chimes. A text.

      Ridge.

      I do a quick read and my heart skips a beat. Then two. Oh, my God, he’s identified the woman in the photo… ma grand-mère.

      Yes, he has located the blonde in the photo, yes, she was a French film cinema star.

      Then a short text. Very short.

      Call me ASAP. Important.

      Then, for some reason I can’t explain, gut instinct if you will, I choke up with a new fear. Why didn’t Ridge text me more info? Or a link… several links. A bio, more photos. He’s keeping something from me.

      One way to find out. I call him. He answers on the first ring.

      ‘Hey, Juliana, how soon can you meet me at the studio?’

      ‘What’s up?’ I ask, surprised. Why not meet him at the film company where he works?

      ‘I have more info about the blonde in the photo.’

      ‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’

      ‘No.’

      I flinch. That was direct. ‘Can’t you give me a hint?’

      ‘No.’

      I swallow hard. I have a feeling he’s trying to protect me from something about to blow up in my face.

      ‘This can’t wait, Juliana. You need to see this.’

      I’ve never known Ridge to be so insistent. He’s used to facing a high level of danger and doing stunts in one take without rehearsal. Now he sounds downright panicked.

      I let out a cleansing breath and try to remain calm, but inside I’m exploding with a hot fever I haven’t felt since the night Maman passed.

      ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

      6

      Sylvie

      Ooh, la la! The girl goes to Paree

      Delacroix Studios, Paris

      1928

      I struggle with the thick rope, sweat streaming down my face from the hot lights, my hands tied to the back of a chair, and kick out my legs. My angel-white hair flies around my face while I fight off the mad doctor.

      Why is the damn rope so tight around my wrists? The script doesn’t call for my hands to go numb.

      ‘You’ll never make me talk.’ I narrow my brows. ‘I’ll never tell you where I hid the orphans. They’re safe from your evil deeds.’ I lift my chin, flutter my long, fake lashes.

      ‘You’ll talk, Ninette, or I’ll cut your throat,’ sputters the mad doctor in his perfect, deep baritone pitch, hovering over me. Pierre Limone comes from the stage and is a seasoned character actor. He’s a master of makeup and disguises and insists on delivering his lines with fervor. He’s taught me what it means to ‘become’ the character you’re playing on the screen. ‘No one is coming to save you.’

      ‘Save me? From you, Doctor Heidelberg?’ I throw my head back and laugh. ‘You can’t fool me… Lucifer.’

      ‘Your angel magic is not powerful enough to escape me. Now you shall die…’

      He raises his knife, bringing it down toward my throat, cackling and laughing, his eyes bugging out… oh, God, he’s overacting, milking the part… Why not? I’m still struggling with the damn rope knots. This is the part where I pull myself free and overpower the devil disguised as an evil scientist and save the two orphans.

      I can’t budge.

      The shooting pain in my arms from the tight ropes around my wrists is making me helpless. I keep struggling and kick out my laced-up boots. I nearly get Pierre in the crotch.

      He jumps back.

      ‘Now you shall die…’ he repeats, coming close to nicking the skin on my bare neck. The insane look in his eyes and that smirk tells me it’s no coincidence I can’t get loose.

      He paid off the prop man to make the rope too tight. Giving him more screen time on his big scene. I can’t blame him. His lines were cut so Emil can get the film out in the theaters two weeks earlier than planned while the public is still hot for my films.

      Word around Paris is, talkies are in… silent two-reeler serials on their way out. Les Orphelins Perdus (Lost Orphans) is my final Ninette film. A serial about a seamstress, an angel sent to earth to do good deeds while the devil in various disguises tries to undo those deeds and get rid of her. We’ve made ten two-reelers and two features (four reels) in the past two years.

      ‘I am going to die if someone doesn’t loosen these rope knots, Emil,’ I say, trying to find my director. Pierre is getting too close for comfort. Another minute and my career is over. I have to smile, reflect on this crazy life I’ve chosen while the prop man races to my side and works on loosening the rope knots around my wrists, never looking me in the eye when I offer to pay him twice what Pierre did if he puts ground pepper in my co-star’s phony beard. It’s part of the game in the world of cinema. With Pierre and me, it’s innocent pranks. With others, it’s survival if you want to make that next picture.

       Always watch your back because no one else will.

      Advice I got from Sister Vincent (she used more pious language) when I sneaked over to the convent when we were shooting on location nearby.

      I strain my eyes, but I can’t see through the blaze of lights or the eyelashes. Where is Emil? He’s never far from my side. Not since that day I ran away from the convent.

      I had no idea then what I was getting myself into.

      Was it two years ago I was that dumb kid who would do anything to be an actress?

      I often think about how simple getting into pictures seemed to me then. Go to Paris… do what Emil says… become a movie star.

      It didn’t work that way. I had a lot of bumps in the road and my endearing dream of finding a father figure in Emil… well, let’s say it wasn’t what I hoped.

      Things moved quickly when we arrived in Paris with Emil getting me a place to live in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, a working-class district in the suburbs of the city. I was in heaven. First floor apartment. Ivy-covered walls. My own bedroom with a sink and tub. Tall, beautifully carved wood garderobe I thought I’d never fill. Soft bed with a daisy quilt. Even an icebox in the tiny kitchen where I found ice slivers for my swollen eye and split lip. He wasn’t СКАЧАТЬ