Arthouse: A Novel

Contempt

239 Contempt Jean-Luc Godard (1963) “And my knees, too?” “I really like your knees.” “And my thighs?” “Your thighs, too.” “Do you think I have a cute ass?” “Really.” “Shall I get on my knees?” “No need to.” “And my breasts. You like them?” “Yes, tremendously.” “Gently, Professor. Not so hard.” “Sorry.” “Which do you like better, my breasts, or my nipples?” “I don’t know. I like them the same.” “You like my shoulders?” “I don’t think they’re round enough.” “And my face?” “Your face, too.” “All of it? My mouth, my eyes, my nose, my ears?” “Yes, everything.” 240 J E F F R E Y D E S H E L L When he woke on the couch in the cold light, a sheet wrapped around his body, he knew immediately that Shelby had left for good. He could dress quickly, try to catch her at the ferry, but that would be awkward and ridiculous, and likely useless. The sex notwithstanding, and he was grateful for the sex, he had no arguments for why she should stay with him. She had a life that she had to return to, a life of partying, studying, whatever else coeds did these days. She possessed a future, a career, relationships , maybe babies or whatever with that architect. And what did he have? Eight hundred thousand euros, a fake passport and at least one person trying to kill him. “Sentiment is a luxury few women allow themselves.” He stood up, shivered, and wrapped the sheet tighter around him. He walked to the nearest picture window, the one across from the fireplace closest to the entrance door. Clouds had arrived overnight, and the sky was low, thick and grey, with a few scattered streaks of gold and pink. The sea had changed too, and roiled violently against the sharp rocks across the small bay to the north, the spray rising high into the grey morning air. He noticed his vague outline in the window glass, sheet wrapped around his body. He thought of Bardot and Piccoli, walking around in towels and robes, ready to fuck or fight. But that was in Paris, not Capri. He wondered what Piccoli did after Bardot left him and crashed. Maybe he opened up a factory in Switzerland, married Hanna Schygulla, and allowed a Polish film director to stage living reenactments of Rembrandt’s Nightwatch in his factory to the strains of a late Beethoven quartet. He needed to get dressed, as he wanted to climb the stairs to the roof, and hoped the wind wasn’t too strong and it wasn’t too cold. He was in no hurry to do anything else. It was strange that he felt so at home in the large white rectangular salon with the covered furniture and picture windows Contempt 241 staring out into the now turbulent sea. He hadn’t felt so peaceful in such a long time: not in Pueblo, certainly, what with the drug lab, the gang and his parents. And not in prison, no, not prison. And when he was with Connie, there was always that pressure to get a job, establish his career and bring some money in somehow. In grad school it was all about getting out trying to get things published and go to conferences, and as an undergrad , it was the grades and going to pharmacy school. In high school it was about trying to protect his mother while getting the fuck out of Dodge. Always someplace else. It was only in that little TV room in the library, smelling slightly of the sour apple Jolly Ranchers he’d smuggled in, sitting in the dark and watching Peter Lorre tug at the corners of his mouth, Susan Hayward dance at a party and Jean Belmondo smoke—that was the only place he felt safe, at ease, comfortable, like the immediate world wasn’t arrayed, either by design or chance, against him. That small dark room in the Pueblo library, and here. That was pretty pathetic, wasn’t it? Where would he be without movies, sans le cinéma? He wouldn’t be here, that was for sure. Without Contempt, he’d never have heard of the Casa Malaparte. He’d be working at a drug store somewhere, maybe even in Pueblo, earning a good living, married with a couple of kids, taking care of his mom. No...