The wind blowing over the grass carried the scent of lilacs.
"The lady in the painting is an abstract concept," the painter said, catching his breath on a warm outcrop. "That’s where the sentimental value or the supposed magic is."
’An abstract concept.’
Those words seemed to click something in Averie’s mind.
Inspiration struck. It felt like all his questions were answered.
Finally, there was a clear image in his mind.
"She never shows her true inner self," the old man lamented. "She is magical because she is mysterious. If we take that away, we take away the myriad possibilities that the spectator may envision."
Averie remembered Celli.
When he first saw her, and until the day they met, he thought she could be his muse.
That word slipped past his lips naturally.
"It is not unlike what teenagers call love at first sight," the painter commented, his eyes turning slowly towards his guest. "Does that help?"
He had a beautiful smile on his lips. It was mysteriously incongruous with the twinkle of brilliance in his eyes.
Watching him, the painter rued the day, for he could not paint the man in front of him.
Climbing the hill overlooking the sea, the pair talked for hours while enjoying coffee and tea.
They walked through the valley and discussed their respective artistic visions.
Mr. Cao was genuinely fascinated by the young actor’s deep understanding of the topic.
"May I ask you something, Mr. Auclair?"
"Why do you chase after art?"
A gust of wind blew between them, bringing with it the distinct scent of pollen.
"Of course, everyone has their reason. But from how I see it, people like you and me—the eternally obsessed artists—tend to be a little more sensitive. We end up building walls around us."
’Because it is easy to be swept away in the sorrows of others.’
He left those words unsaid.
"The painter must glance into the inanimate world beyond the frame, and so, he is always lonely. The sculptor must chisel away even the tiniest detail, and so he is manic. I say this with utmost respect and worry, Mr. Auclair, but what about the actor?"
He spared the old man a cheeky smile. "We have glamor; what can we complain about?"
"But you have your demons. What about them? The actor must live as someone else, and so, he loses himself."
Averie raised a brow. "You think that is how actors are?"
"No, these rules apply only to the best of the lot. You are one such actor, Mr. Auclair. And it is a sad thing, your fate. You are brilliant yet so young. Unlike your peers, your suffering will begin sooner, and it will only persist in its intensity."
The frown on the man’s forehead was genuine.
"I appreciate the concern." Averie smiled. "But the worst days of my life are behind me."
’I have lived in Hell and experienced Lilith’s Womb. What more do I have to fear?’
The next morning, the group departed the island.
On the ferry, Averie spent most of his time lost in thought, his gaze lingering on the distant land.
It was Director Groux who approached him.
"Did you find what you came for?" he asked mechanically.
"Yes." Averie shifted his gaze. "You will have the pleasure of witnessing a Lady beyond dreamlike."
The director did not reply. He studied the man. There was no fascination in his eyes, nor was there a semblance of interest.
Despite all the excuses he had given Averie, there were two prominent reasons why he had hired the diabolical man.
’You were right, Madame Monet.’
The old actress had repeatedly mentioned Averie’s character and charisma.
’An actor who could be likened to the Devil.’
The old woman had praised him quite generously.
She had gone so far as to speculate that "if he had been born in the eighteenth century, the mob would have lynched him for having been possessed by the Devil. And if he were to be somehow spared, he would become a figure on par with Niccolò Paganini."
The director had never thought about the Devil, but he was not one to question the great actress.
She had experienced an era of cinema that he could only romanticize. When it came to characters in the industry, she had more knowledge than anyone else in France.
’Intuition, do not fail me; I have left everything up to your guidance.’
The second reason he hired Averie was because of his gut feeling. It was illogical, but it wasn’t the first time someone in the industry had made a choice on their gut feeling alone.
"Is something the matter?" Averie asked.
The good director shook his head. His gaze turned to the package wrapped in newspaper and tied by a simple string.
Averie was embracing it tightly, as if it would slip away into the dark depths of the ocean if he relaxed his grip.
"Is that a painting?"
The good actor slowly nodded. "Mr. Cao gifted me one."
He did not show it, but the director was surprised.
’He isn’t in the habit of gifting his work on first meetings.’
"Director," Averie called, pulling the man away from his thoughts. "When the film is made and you submit it to the festival, will you keep the main role’s gender—my gender—from them?"
"You would like me to lie to the board?"
He tilted his head. "Judges are people, too. It is easy to have biases."
The earnestness in Averie’s gaze was something to behold.
’It’s like watching the Sun.’
He felt like he could observe something past human understanding in them. It was as if a shadow completely out of this world was glancing back at him.
"At first, I was looking for an actress," the director murmured, "but not finding one may have been a boon as well."
He cleared his throat.
He could not admit it, but he wanted the same.
He wanted the audience to witness the enigmatic figure without prejudice.
He did not want them to question, for even a second, whether the mysterious girl on the screen was a woman.
’There is nothing better than subverting expectations. If a man could play her better than any woman,’ he thought, ’the film could become something more than what I had hoped for.’
"It is a good thing that you are not as well-known in the West yet, Mr. Auclair."
But Mr. Auclair was already lost in a world of his own.
One moment he was envisioning the lady he would portray, and the next moment he was back in time with Mr. Cao.
Whether he wanted to or not, the previous night kept vividly coming back to him.
"May I confess something, Mr. Auclair?" the old painter had said as the pair returned to the villa from their lazy stroll.
Hunger was starting to twist his stomach, but Averie was not averse to conversation.
The smell of capsicum and corn being barbecued played in the air, and excited voices resonated from the open-air grill in the backyard.
"I may not be able to help you anymore."
All the sounds suddenly became distant, and the good actor could finally smell the scent of an old friend wafting from the painter.
"I have Pancreatic Cancer."
The scent of death was lingering strongly on his new friend.