Free The Same River Twice by Ted Mooney Page A

unduly intimate with him, their maker, this woman was not at all like them. It would be desirable, he thought, to avoid her on the way out.
    He continued to take questions for the better part of an hour. His audience was intelligent and well informed; he tried to give them worthy answers. Yet the more he talked, summoning up and consulting his younger self, so confident, even arrogant, the more he wished to be rid of this and all his other films. By the time he cut off further questions, he was fatigued—if grateful for the applause.
    “That was really super good,” Jacques assured him as they walked back up the aisle together to the lobby. “And,” he added, brandishing a fist-sized vidcam, “I’ve got it all on disk. You really have to publish it as an interview.”
    “What about the film?” Max asked. “Do you think it holds up?”
    “You’re joking, right? It’s a classic.” He eyed his employer suspiciously. “What is this, a test?”
    In the lobby they found, to Max’s discomfort, that a modest reception had been prepared for the occasion. The program director at once reattached himself to his distinguished guest and resumed his critical musings while Max pretended to listen, nodding thoughtfully from time to time. Several members of the audience waited politely to engage his attention, but at last he felt his patience exhausted.
    “Jacques,” he said, catching his assistant by the elbow, “this gentle man”—hepulled the program director firmly forward—“has quite a lot to say about film. You two really ought to get to know each other better.”
    Jacques shot him an indignant look, but already it was too late for protest.
    This handoff effected, Max turned toward the exit but instead found himself face-to-face with the henna-haired young woman. He supposed the encounter had been inevitable.
    “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you just now,” she said. “That wasn’t my intention.”
    “You didn’t embarrass me,” he replied.
    She held out her hand. “Marie-Claire.”
    “Hello, Marie-Claire. Pleased to meet you.”
    She had the pasty white complexion of a film enthusiast and was modishly dressed in a black-and-white-print miniskirt, a tailored denim jacket buttoned to her neck, and red patent-leather pumps. Max scanned her oval face for signs of madness.
    “I admire your work very much,” she said. “I didn’t know that the other version of
Fireflies
was … unauthorized, if that’s the word. What happened? Did you have trouble with your backers?”
    “I always have trouble with my backers,” Max answered, looking belligerently around the room as if one or two might be present. “Tell me, Marie-Claire. Where did you see this other version of the film, with the ending you describe?”
    “At university. In Bordeaux.” She frowned. “But also it’s in the video stores, though you can’t tell from the packaging. You just get what you get. I’ve rented both.”
    “Really?” He looked at her anew. “So my films interest you?”
    She blushed and with her fingertips hooked her hair back behind her ears. “Yes, very much. I am writing my thesis on you.”
    Max received this news as gracefully as he could. “Oh. Well, I’m honored. Prematurely, I hope, but definitely honored.” After looking thoughtfully at her, he inspected his cigar, then let his gaze float away. “And who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one to clear up this confusion over
Fireflies
. If that’s what it is.”
    Encouraged, she started to ask another question, but he cut her off. “Look, Marie-Claire. There’s only one version of
Fireflies
, and you just saw it. Anything else is horse manure, okay?”
    She stared at him.
    “If you’re going to write about film, you have to start with the facts.” His anger embarrassed him. The conversation was over. He left the theater.
    Dusk had settled over Paris, and the rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh and cutting. He walked south on rue Claude Bernard past the