Free The Other Language by Francesca Marciano Page A

and made her feel lonelier because she knew she would never be able to access it or grasp its fabric. It wasn’t something one could either pull apart like a doll, or study its components and reproduce. You couldn’t just learn it. The dying man had always had this gift and he had been able to pass it on to others, in different forms, throughout his life. This was probably why—though he had only a few months left to live—he was able to stare straight into the camera. He had given all that he had taken, his accounts were even.
    Pascal placed the rubbery sandwich in front of her, tightly sealed in its plastic wrap.
    “My gluten-free regime has gone out the window.” He sighed as he bit into his sandwich. “I feel so bloated already.”
    Her short film was a laughable attempt at creating something poetic. She had been nominated, but what did it mean? Wasn’t it all a farce? A mediocre, worthless farce?
    Right there and then, as her heart sank even deeper, her gaze landed on a handsome face. A young man holding a glass of Champagne standing at the counter next to a couple of interesting-looking women who spoke Italian with a heavy French accent smiled at her. Thick dark hair tied in a short ponytail, impeccable gray suit over a black T-shirt, round glasses with a thick frame. A studied Johnny Depp look. He excusedhimself, moved away from the women and maneuvered through the crowd toward her.
    “Caterina!”
    “Hey!” she waved joyfully. She had no idea who he was, though she had a feeling she ought to.
    “Congratulations. I’m really happy you made it with the nominees.”
    “Thank you, thank you so much. Yeah, that was a big surprise …,” she said shyly, her brain still in a blank.
    “I just wanted to say that I loved your short and that I voted for you.”
    “Oh my God! Did you? I’m so …,” she gasped, wishing his name would pop up any second, so she could relax. Was he on the jury panel for the awards? His face was vaguely familiar; she frantically scrolled an invisible contact list but nothing showed.
    “God, thank you so much. Wow. Really. I mean … what can I say? That’s so generous of you.”
    The handsome man smiled, leaned a tiny bit closer and Caterina was enveloped in an expensive aroma of leather, cedar, musk.
    “You have an unusual eye. Your short reminded me of Jane Campion’s early films.”
    “Oh my God! That’s like … Jane Campion? … She’s my favorite director ever. That’s the biggest compliment. Thank you so, so much.”
    She could feel Pascal staring at her with reproach. Surely he meant to flag that something in her demeanor was bothering him. She had a feeling it must be the way she kept wriggling and squealing. She was aware of doing something funny with her feet, pointing them inward and twisting her ankles, an annoying reflex that came up whenever she was anxious.
    “I’d love to talk to you about something. Which hotel are you staying at?” the man asked.
    “Hmm … we are staying at the … at the …” She turned toPascal for help but he signaled a nearly imperceptible no with his head.
    An ascending cymbal ringtone floated between her and the man. He took out the phone from his pocket and glanced at the display.
    “Sorry, I have to take this. I’ll tell you what, just give me a call at the office when you come back, that’ll be easier … It was really lovely to see you, Caterina.”
    He turned around and walked toward the exit.
    Pascal shook his head, frowning.
    “Why do you start every phrase with Oh my God ? You sound like a twelve-year-old. You’ve got to stop doing that. It’s really bad.”
    “Who is he?” she asked.
    “Are you kidding? Giovanni Balti.”
    “Oh my God!”
    “You see? It’s like a tic. And stop acting like you are an impostor. It’s so irritating. He voted for you because you are good at what you do.”
    “I was confused, I kept thinking who the hell is this guy? I just couldn’t concentrate. Balti? I wish