Free The Dreamers by Gilbert Adair Page A

she looked into Théo’s bedroom, where he and Matthew were reading aloud to each other from back numbers of
Cahiers du Cinéma
. Her beady eyes registered the mounting clutter of books, magazines, underclothes, half-consumed sandwiches and peanut shells. Smilingto herself, she took a cigarette and tapped one end of it against the pack with clipped, staccato violence. Then, with an ostentatious puff, chewing the remark in the corner of her mouth as though it were a wad of bubble gum, she spat out, ‘What a dump!’
    Without raising his eyes from the page, Théo mechanically called back, ‘Liz Taylor in
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf
.’
    Isabelle beamed in triumph.
    ‘Wrong!’
    ‘I am not!’
    ‘Yes you are!’
    ‘In the opening scene of
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf
–’
    Realising his mistake, he broke off.
    ‘Oh, I get it. She’s imitating someone else, isn’t she? Bette Davis?’
    ‘In what, brother dear?’
    ‘God, I should know this. Is it a film I’ve seen?’
    ‘We saw it together.’
    ‘We did?’
    He thought hard.
    ‘Give me a clue.’
    ‘Certainly not.’
    ‘Be a sport. The director’s name.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Just the director’s name.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘The number of words in the title.’
    ‘I said no.’
    ‘The number of words in the title? Is that asking so much?’ He started to wheedle. ‘
S’il
te plaît
, Isa,
s’il te plaît
.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘The first letter of the first word.’
    ‘God, you’re pathetic,’ Isabelle said with a sneer. ‘Isn’t he pathetic, Matthew? Don’t you think he’s pathetic?’
    ‘Matthew!’ Théo cried. ‘I bet you know!’
    But Isabelle quickly put an end to that. Had the Sphinx given Oedipus a clue?
    Théo was forced to concede defeat.
    ‘
Beyond the Forest
,’ said Isabelle. ‘Directed by King Vidor. 1949.’ Then: ‘Forfeit.’
    ‘Okay. How much?’
    ‘Not this time,’ she replied, still imitating Bette Davis. ‘This time I want to be paid in kind.’
    ‘How do you mean, paid in kind?’
    Isabelle lowered her movie-star glasses down the bridge of her nose.
    ‘I dare you to do now, in front of us, what I’ve watched you do’ – she removed the glasses altogether and waved them in the direction of the oval portrait of Gene Tierney – ‘in front of her.’
    This challenge – mystifying to Matthew, who could none the less sense the hovering play of strange new shadows about the room – was met with a silence so absolute it was more than capable of holding its own amidst all manner of extraneous, earthbound sounds. In vain Trenet’s voice attempted to interrupt it.
    Ce soir c’est une chanson d ‘automne
    Devant la maison qui frissonne
    Et je pense aux jours lointains.
    Que reste-t-il de nos amours?
    Que reste-t-il de ces bons jours?
    Une photo, vieille photo
    Da ma jeunesse.
    Glancing first at Matthew, Théo then turned once more to his sister, his mouth disfigured by a hard ball of sullenness .
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    ‘Oh yes you do, my pet,’ Isabelle continued suavely.‘Only,
voilà
, you didn’t know I knew. Those afternoons when you come home from school and you bolt your door and the bedsprings start to jangle – good grief, do you fancy I’m too thick to guess what’s going on? Besides, your bed is directly opposite the keyhole.’
    Bonheurs fanés, cheveux aux vents,
    Baisers volés, rêves mouvants,
    Que reste-t-il de tout cela?
    Dîtes-le-moi.
    Un p’tit village, un vieux clocher
…
    ‘Forfeit,’ Isabelle repeated calmly.
    ‘I won’t do it.’
    ‘Won’t do it?’
    ‘You wouldn’t.’
    Isabelle grinned. Looking up at the portrait, she said, ‘Gene Tierney isn’t my type.’
    ‘What a bitch you are. A bitch and a sadist.’
    ‘No, I’m a Sadian. Not quite the same thing.’ She yawned. ‘Are you going to pay the forfeit or chicken out – which, you realise, will mean the end of the game?’
    Théo’s eyes took in each of them in turn – Isabelle, Matthew,