Disoriented, I stand up straight. Russell casually nudges me.
I'm looking over at him, confused. He's pretending to smile at someone.
Jamie Fields is walking uncertainly toward us, clutching a small white paper bag-no makeup, sweatpants, hair pulled back with a scrunchie, Gucci sunglasses.
Behind her the French film crew is piling equipment into a blue van that's double-parked on Avenue Verdier.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, lowering her sunglasses.
"Hey," I'm saying, gesturing mindlessly.
"What's going on?" she asks, a little mystified. "Victor?"
"Oh yeah, y'know, just hanging," I'm saying vacantly, semi-stunned. "I'm just... hanging, um, baby."
Pause. "What?" she asks, laughing, as if she hasn't heard me. "Hanging?" She pauses. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, baby, I'm fine, I'm cool," I'm saying, gesturing mindlessly. "It looks like rain, huh, baby?"
"You're white," she says. "You look like you've been... crying." She reaches out a hand to touch my face. Instinctively I pull away.
"No, no, no," I'm saying. "No, I haven't been crying. I'm cool. I was just yawning. Things are cool."
"Oh," she says, followed by a long pause.
"Whoa," I add to it.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"Well, baby, I'm here with"-I glance at Russell-"my friend and we're..." I land on, "Well, I'm taking French lessons from him."
She just stares at me. Silence.
"You know, baby, I can't speak a word of it. So." I shrug.
She's still staring at me. More silence.
"Not-one-word," I say stiffly.
"Right," she says, but now she's staring at Russell. "You look totally familiar. Have we met?"
"I don't think so," Russell says. "But maybe."
"I'm Jamie Fields," she says, holding out a hand.
"I'm Christian Bale," Russell says, taking it.
"Oh right," she says. "Yeah, I thought I recognized you. You're the actor."
"Yeah, yeah." He's nodding boyishly. "I recognized you too."
"Hey, looks like we're all famous, huh?" I chuckle dreadfully. "How about that, huh?"
"I really liked you in Newsies and Swing Kids," Jamie says, not at all facetiously.
"Thanks, thanks." Russell keeps nodding.
"And also Hooked," Jamie says. "You were great in Hooked."
"Oh thanks," Russell says, blushing, smiling on cue. "That's so nice. That's so cool."
"Yeah, Hooked," Jamie murmurs, staring thoughtfully into Russell's face.
A long pause follows. I concentrate on the film crew lifting a camera into the back of the van. The director nods at me. I don't nod back.
From inside the van ABBA's "Knowing Me, Knowing You" keeps playing, a reminder of something. I'm squinting, trying to remember. The director starts moving toward us.
"So what are you doing in Paris?" Jamie asks Russell.
"Oh, just hanging," Russell says confidently.
"And... teaching French?" Jamie laughs, confused.
"Oh it's just a favor," I'm saying, laughing with her. "He's owing me a favor."
Behind us, walking out of the front entrance of the apartment building on Avenue Verdier, are Palakon, Delta, Crater-all in overcoats and sunglasses-without the Japanese man. They maneuver past us, walking purposefully down the block, conferring with one another. Jamie barely notices them since she's preoccupied with staring at Russell. But the director stops walking toward me and stares at Palakon as he passes by, and something in the director's face tightens and he worriedly glances back at me and then once more at Palakon.
"It's a favor," Russell says, putting on Diesel sunglasses. "I'm between roles. So it's cool."
"He's between roles," I'm saying. "He's waiting for a good part. One worthy of his skills."
"Listen, I gotta split," Russell says. "I'll talk to you later, man. Nice meeting you, Jamie."
"Yeah," Jamie says tentatively. "You too, Christian."
"Peace," he says, moving off. "Victor, I'll be in touch. Au revoir."
"Yeah man," I say shakily. "Bonjour, dude," I'm saying. "Oui, monsieur."