Araluen (50 page)

The story never reached the press. The cockney journalist had indeed been after a pay-off, and Rebel’s reputation was already as tarnished as Michael had painted to Franklin. But it was a sobering experience for all concerned.

Six months after Emma returned from Paris, an American film unit landed at Nadi Airport on Viti Levu, the main island of Fiji. Michael had decided to play it safe and had chosen Fiji as the major location for
Earth Man
rather than any of the French territories in the Pacific. Given the controversial
subject matter of the film, he didn’t want to risk incurring the wrath of the French government.

The unit stayed at the capital, Suva, for two days while final arrangements were made and then travelled by boat to Moala Atoll, the chosen location for the scenes depicting Mururoa Atoll prior to the nuclear testings.

As executive producer, Michael didn’t accompany them but remained in New York controlling the project’s finances. Emma, as associate producer, was put in command of the location shoot.

‘You’re the one Gireaux trusts,’ Michael had instructed. ‘You’re the one to keep him on side.’

Although Michael had been delighted by Emma’s coup in securing Gireaux for the movie, on their one meeting in Paris the two men hadn’t got on particularly well. Purely a matter of egos, Emma supposed; they were both supremely confident and used to commanding the top roost.

‘Besides,’ Michael added when she looked a little dubious, ‘you’ll have Stanley to back you up and Derek doesn’t seem a bad sort of bloke.’

Derek was the English director, approved by both Marcel and Michael. Strangely enough, it had been Marcel’s idea to choose the Englishman over several French names which had been suggested. ‘A French person may be too biased one way or another,’ he said, ‘either too guilty or too defensive – who can tell? Derek will be more objective. Besides,’ Marcel shrugged a little dis-missively, ‘he is a typical Englishman, detached, remote. That will work to our advantage with such an emotive theme.’ Marcel had made several
films with Derek and deeply admired his talent and technique but he didn’t particularly like the fellow. No matter, one didn’t need to like the people one worked with.

Derek and the crew left for Moala Atoll and Emma and Stanley remained in Suva for a further two days awaiting the arrival of Marcel.

‘Emma!’ As he came through customs, Marcel spotted her immediately and was effusive in his greeting.

‘Marcel,’ she said as he kissed her on both cheeks, ‘welcome to Fiji. This is Stanley Grahame, one of Ross Entertainments’ associate directors – ’

‘And stunt man extraordinaire,’ Marcel added, ‘and special effects genius.’ He shook Stanley heartily by the hand. ‘Your work in
Halley’s
and
Blue Water History
was remarkable, my friend.’

‘Thank you.’ Stanley was taken aback by the man’s expansiveness. He’d expected something a little more aloof, a little more grand. But Gireaux obviously didn’t intend playing ‘star’ at all.

During the interminable drive from the airport to Suva, Marcel was in excellent spirits and as engaging as a child on summer holidays.

‘Look!’ he said. ‘Look! We are in paradise.’ Palm trees and lush tropical growth flashed past as the cab zoomed along, narrowly avoiding stray cows and goats and dogs. ‘I love Fiji. I have been here twice before. Paris is gloomy,’ he said. ‘Dank and gloomy and oppressive.’

‘I’ll bet it’s not as bad as New York,’ Emma
remarked. She was picking up on his mood -indeed, it was difficult not to feel abandoned in Fiji. ‘It was snowing when we left. The first day of spring and it was still snowing.’

Marcel, seated beside the driver in the front seat, turned and grinned at Stanley. ‘And here we are in Nirvana. And paid to be here! Ah, Mon Dieu,’ he corrected himself with a grin, ‘you are the producers – I am not supposed to say things like that.’

They laughed and waved out of the windows at the Fijians, who called ‘Mbula’ as they passed.

‘Mbula,’ the hotel staff said in welcome when they arrived.

‘Mbula,’ Marcel replied. He was having a wonderful time.

Marcel Gireaux was not as complex a man as many people perceived him to be. Admittedly he was intelligent, committed and his background was academic, but his very ideals and education were a result of his simple origins.

He came from peasant stock, the son of a fisherman. Although his childhood in Marseilles had been a happy one, he’d aspired to greater things. With the help of his family and a scholarship, he’d attended university, ultimately achieving a PhD in French literature, majoring in the seventeenth century poets and dramatists, and then he’d progressed to his status as a major classical actor. But the peasant boy was always there. The greater the hero he became to his people, the more he realised he could use his status to serve their cause.

He became quite a power in the fight for the rights of the lower classes and, from there, he progressed to the fight for human rights and then to the plight of the environment. They were heady times – particularly when, as a young man, he realised that leaders and politicians were vying for his support.

Marcel’s image as a hero of the people was important to him. So was his reputation as France’s premier classical actor. Inevitably, the roles became interwoven and there were occasions when he lost touch with reality a little. Just what was a role and what wasn’t? It was sometimes difficult to tell.

Not for Annette, his wife. Annette was firmly in touch with reality.

Annette and Marcel had met at university, where she’d topped the law course. She’d seen him through all of his formative years. From an academic middle-class family herself (who had initially opposed her association with Gireaux), Annette was fully aware of the effects of fame upon the peasant boy she loved.

When she saw his roles as an actor and as a leader of the times had become interwoven, she didn’t try to disillusion him. Why should she? He was happy, he was serving a purpose, and the fight was a good fight.

But when, after five years and two children, the adulation afforded Marcel posed a threat to her marriage, Annette took a stance. ‘Grow up, Marcel,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind if you play the hero off the screen but I will not have you play the lover.’

It was the first time she’d caught him out having an affair with his leading lady. She’d never believed the tabloid and film magazine rumours before but now she wondered whether she should have. Wisely, she didn’t press the issue. What had happened had happened. She knew the depth of his love for her and she was prepared to believe that this was the first time.

‘I won’t have it, Marcel,’ she warned. ‘I won’t have it, you understand me?’ Marcel did and, for a year or so, he was terrified into submission. He worshipped Annette and the thought of life without her and his beloved children was more than he could bear. But, eventually, in a remote location, far away from the real world, the adulation of a beautiful young leading lady once again proved too much for him and he became infatuated.

Annette took the children and left him twice over the ensuing five years. Both times, when he begged her forgiveness, she succumbed and their marriage survived. It still survived after a fashion, but it was not the marriage they’d once had. Marcel loved Annette and Annette loved her children and her children loved their father. It was happier for all concerned, she decided, if she turned a blind eye to his odd dalliance. And he was very discreet; he never strayed when he was close to home – he never wanted to. Besides, the discipline of working in the Paris theatre reminded him of his craft and his dedication.

Annette called it ‘la folie du filmage’ – ‘movie madness’. She was aware that it was the suspended reality of filming in exotic locations which affected
Marcel. For those several weeks or months, he genuinely became infatuated with the person and the situation that presented itself.

She remained loyal. She never undermined Marcel’s public image, but Annette hardened herself to the fact that her marriage could never be what it once was.

‘Have you ever seen anything more beautiful!’ It was the following day and Emma, Stanley and Marcel were standing in the bow of the boat as it ploughed its way through the aqua waters of the Koro Sea towards Moala Atoll.

Marcel held his arms out wide and breathed in the balmy heat of the day. ‘This is truly heaven on earth.’

Emma breathed in deeply too. He was right. The sea was so clear that she could see through the aquamarine of the water to the white sand below with its dark patches of weed and shimmering sea grasses. The tide was not yet full and, as the skipper skilfully manoeuvred the boat through the surrounding reefs, she marvelled at the vivid coral and neon-coloured fish darting amongst the rich vegetation. Such colours!

Gradually Viti Levu, with its towns and tourists and resorts, slipped away behind them until it was no more than a narrow strip of white sand with silhouettes of tiny palm trees in the distance.

It was a five-hour boat trip to Moala Atoll. Finally, they saw it, low on the horizon. A tiny, lush green outcrop surrounded by coral reef, beckoning to them in its wilderness.

‘That would have been what Mururoa Atoll looked like before the testings,’ Stanley mused. ‘Pretty shocking, isn’t it?’

‘Shocking?’ Marcel turned angrily on the two of them. ‘It is obscene! Only man could commit such an atrocity. Do you know that the birds affected by the radiation are rendered infertile? That they make nests and tend eggs which will never hatch? Do you know that the giant sea turtle loses her sense of direction? That when she has laid her eggs and, exhausted, should return to the sea, she heads inland instead and slowly bakes to death?’

Stanley and Emma exchanged a glance. Marcel’s eyes burned with all the passion of a zealot.

‘I am sorry,’ he said as he recovered himself. ‘You have researched your film, of course you know all of this – it is just that such a crime makes me angry.’ He relaxed and smiled, his mood having dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. ‘I shall not lecture you any more, I promise.’ He looked about again at the picture postcard surroundings. ‘It is far too nice a day.’

The film unit was comfortably ensconced in a small village of prefabricated cabins which had been built on the southern side of the atoll. There were two larger cabins constructed for communal purposes. One was a dining hall and the other a general recreation area which doubled as a viewing room when the film rushes were shown.

There were men’s and women’s ablution blocks set up and no one complained about the lack of
privacy or the fact that Marcel, Emma and Derek had cabins with private amenities. It was accepted that the star, the producer and the director should have superior accommodation. Indeed, Marcel was to be admired for the fact that he hadn’t demanded a Winnebago or something equally unrealistic.

It was a happy shoot and a ‘family’ atmosphere prevailed. After the day’s filming, in the heavy dusk while the heat still sat like a blanket over the island, people would ‘party hop’ from hut to hut. They’d sit together on the small front verandahs of the cabins, chatting about the day’s shoot, sipping cold beer and looking out over the darkening Koro Sea.

They were idyllic days. The atmosphere amongst the unit was as peaceful as the surroundings. It was one of those ‘magic’ shoots, they all agreed, when making movies was a pure joy. Marcel’s performance was electric and he was a pleasure to work with, Derek was a skilled director who knew exactly what he was after, and Emma was a thoughtful producer who didn’t believe in playing power games or rocking the boat. What more could anyone want?

Every ten days, when the processed rushes arrived from the mainland, there was a flurry of excitement. Not only was it inspiring to see the result of their hard work on film, but it meant ‘rage’ time. Marcel, Emma, Stanley and Derek would view the rushes the evening they arrived, but the general cast and crew showing was reserved until the following Saturday so that they could really let their hair down and have the
Sunday free to nurse their hangovers. Despite the camaraderie amongst them, it was agreed that they needed an outlet every now and then. The place was so isolated they needed to party hard once in a while.

And party they did. Music blared around the island and they danced and drank and smoked until the early hours of Sunday morning.

Emma and Derek rarely stayed the full pace, often retiring to Emma’s cabin where they’d discuss the following week’s schedule in the none too sober light of early morning.

Emma liked Derek a great deal and deeply respected the fact that he didn’t hold her youth and inexperience as a producer against her. She had expected a director of his calibre to be a little condescending, but he wasn’t.

‘Why should I be?’ he’d asked her when she’d expressed her thanks. ‘You’re good at your job. Besides,’ he’d continued in his clipped English tone, ‘you keep Marcel in line.’

Derek was fully aware that Marcel didn’t particularly like him, but then he didn’t particularly like Marcel either, so what did it matter? So long as the work was done, and done well.

Personally, Derek believed that Marcel had a tendency to overindulge, which was certainly effective in the European films the actor made. For
Earth Man,
however, Derek demanded an economical performance. Marcel was basically in agreement but, on the odd occasion when he wanted to argue – and it was purely because of their temperamental differences, Derek was sure -it was always Emma who kept the peace.

‘What do you think, Emma?’ Derek had now taken to asking. And, invariably, Emma would find a diplomatic way to agree with his views without undermining those of Marcel. It appeared she had Marcel around her little finger, which certainly made Derek’s life a lot easier.

Marcel Gireaux was in love with Emma. He was convinced of it. And it wasn’t ‘la folie du filmage’. If it were merely movie madness he wouldn’t have been so drawn to her in Paris, would he?

He recalled their first meeting, when they’d sat and eaten croissants in the Rue Lafayette and she’d spoken about herself with such candour. He recalled her simple statement, ‘I enjoy going to the theatre alone’. And then, that night, backstage, ‘You were magnificent,’ she’d said. And she’d meant it. Yes, Marcel thought, she had beguiled him then and she was beguiling him now.