<p><b>A director is trying to adapt a short story he once wrote for the screen.</b></p><p>The story is about an isolated train station under threat by a giant eagle in a small town where rumors of war are rumbling. But the film shoot is plagued by accidents.</p> The actors and crew don’t understand the script. They argue over its meaning and perhaps come to identify with its subject matter a little too closely. Soon enough reality, such as it is, begins to crumble. <i>Roman de Gare</i><p> is a dreamlike and ominous novel by a great European writer—and the first novel he composed in French.</p>
The window: it’s stopped raining. I look out. A peasant shepherdsa flock of sheep across the village square. Leaving the bistro,Marc bumps into the peasant, who is very tall. Tall and thin.They shake hands. The switchman points in the direction of thestation. They’re standing near the monument (which, for thetime being, doesn’t exist). But wait, no; it seems it’s not aboutthe station. To avoid any misunderstanding, Marc imitates alocomotive: he jerks his arms as though they were pistons, hewhistles. He does this a number of times in a row. That’s enough!The other man understands him perfectly. The train enters thestation. Obviously! They both laugh, holding their sides. It evenmakes me feel like laughing.
In front of the mirror, I’m still smiling. I ought to shave. Ishrug my shoulders. I try to tie my necktie, fail, and toss thenecktie on the bed.
The door opens.
MARIE: You’re going to be late.
MARIE goes straight back out again.
I need to hurry. To take long strides down the hallway.
— Action!
I take long strides down the hallway. God damn it! I stumble,waiver, almost losing my balance.
— Cut!
The director seems happy with it. He says it will do, no reasonwhy it shouldn’t, but then, at the insistence of the cameraman,we do another take anyway. Two more, even. A totally unimportantshot. More a camera test than an actual scene.
— All right, now everyone get out of here! says the cameraman. He wants to film the empty corridor, as long aswe’re here anyway.
— You get on my nerves, says the director.
Marie-Christine has a bubbly laugh. She has to be constantlykeeping up appearances, the poor woman.
She claps me on both shoulders.
— Get out of the shot! yells the cameraman.
We all go downstairs. The bistro’s quite busy. I’ve brought thescript with me, and tucked between the pages, the signal flag.
— He never parts with it, somebody quips.
— It’s his job, after all, says another.
They’re in the mood for a comedy routine, making me theirstraight man.
I arrive on the platform, out of breath, with my bootlacesstill untied, carelessly dressed, and not wearing a necktie, mycap askew.
I wave my flag. The local train pulls into the station. It onlyhas three carriages, the antiquated kind.
Two people get off the train. One is cradling a lamb. Marcgreets them warmly. They shake hands. The switchman teasesthe lamb, which bleats.
Meanwhile, another passenger disembarks. It’s Mathieu, thesinger. The train pulls out of the station. I give a respectful salute,even overdoing it slightly, flag raised. Only now do I notice Mathieu and go over to him.
STATIONMASTER: Have a good journey?
MATHIEU: Yes, very good. I even managed to have a nap . . . Almost missed my stop.
He has a shrill voice, gesticulates a lot. Just like Marc, whocomes over to us now, with the two peasants in tow. The lambbleats. Thomas approaches as well. Mathieu lights a cigarette,which he grips between his thumb and index finger.
The camera pans back. We can no longer hear what they’resaying, only see them from afar, one more part of the landscape.Now we’re looking at them from the other side of the tracks,with the station behind them, etc.
They leave the platform together and head for the bistro.I remain behind. Mathieu turns his head to look at me.
MATHIEU: Aren’t you coming?
STATIONMASTER: I’ll be there a little later . . .
MATHIEU: See you then!
STATIONMASTER: See you!
Mathieu lengthens his stride to catch up with the small groupof people crossing the square. They pass close by the monument.Close by the spot where it is supposed to be. They stop for amoment, talking loudly. Mathieu stubs out the rest of his cigarette.He grinds it with his heel.
The director raises his arms.
— Let’s not go over the top, there’s only so much we can film. . . And that’s that.
— We’re not filming, we’re going round in circles.
— That’s none of your concern!
— No, it isn’t, but why are we rehearsing scenes that we can’tfilm?
— He’s right! What’s the point?
— We’re rehearsing because you need to rehearse. That’s why!
Two more people come over and join the group. Togetherthey all move slowly in the direction of the bistro, which alsooperates as a hotel. The sign is plain to see:
THE IMPERIAL EAGLE ENSIGN
As for me, I just watch as they walk away. I stay behind onthe platform, head bowed, absorbed in my own thoughts. It’strue, the whole business about the monument has been irritatingeverybody. Yesterday evening, to get out of the situation, the director (but is he really to blame?) said, “Who gives a damn about the monument? We can live very well without the monument.”
We can die very well without the monument, he meant . . .But in the end, why not? But then shouldn’t we also do awaywith the hotel sign?
— That’s not the same thing at all.
— True, all true . . .
I’ve been left alone on the platform. Holding the flag, asalways. I start walking, come to a stop, look in the direction ofthe forest, and listen. The wind. The noise of the forest, growinglouder. Stubbornly, I keep on looking straight ahead. I make adecision: I cross the tracks. The edge of the forest is very closeto the railway line. But, once again, I come to a halt. As if notdaring to go any farther.
The camera alone keeps going. . .
— Wait a second, I don’t really understand this bit.
— The camera alone keeps going, it moves past the stationmasterand goes searching among the trees. It’s very clear! It’s notyour viewpoint this time.
— Then whose viewpoint is it?
— It’s an objective viewpoint . . .
Birdsong. Rustling leaves. Through the trees we see four mencarrying a stretcher.
— Carrying a what?
— A very quick shot. After the men exit the frame, we seenothing but the trees. On the soundtrack, the noise of the forestis louder than before. But that doesn’t really concern you. Next!
— All right, agreed, but look right here . . .
— Where?
— Here. Hey, waiter, another glass! Here: “For a few seconds,we see a man walking on his own along a path in the forest. Helooks carefree. At first sight, you might think he is the stationmaster,on his way back to the station.” See where?
— Yes, but read the next bit: “In reality. . .”
— What reality?
— “In reality, the stationmaster is still there, not far from thetracks, motionless, looking.”
— I don’t get it. Waiter! Where’s my damn glass!
— There’s nothing to get . . . For God’s sake! As Godardwould say.
— Which Godard?
— Jean-Luc.
— I’m thirsty.
— Listen, Jean. Make an effort to understand that there’snothing to understand.
— Nothing?
— Yes, nothing . . .
— Waiter!
— Waiter!
The director bangs his fist on top of the script, then starts toread aloud. Because of his accent, some of the words are hardto make out . . .
“At certain intervals the lamb tries to get out from underneaththe table . . .” No, further on! “The men enter the bistro.They’re all talking at the same time. Jean’s good cheer adds to thegeneral commotion.” No. He flicks to a few pages further on.They’re laughing. All these snatches of conversation are more orless drowned out by the voices of the others, all saying more orless the same thing. It’s obvious that the words themselves areof no importance.
JEAN: Where has the stationmaster gotten to?
MATHIEU: He should be here in a minute.
He pauses to take a drink, but his glass is empty.
— Listen to this bit: “The stationmaster is all alone on theplatform, holding the flag. He walks a few steps, head bowed,stops, and looks in the direction of the forest. He strains to hear.The wind. The noise of the forest, growing louder.
“The stationmaster reaches a decision: he crosses the tracks.He stops. He looks in the direction of the forest. He takesanother few steps. The edge of the forest is very close to the railwayline, but he stops again, as if not daring to go any farther.”
— Waiter!
Now the director is standing up, holding the burgundyfolder. He recites:
— “Only the camera keeps going, it moves past the stationmasterand goes searching among the trees. Birdsong. Rustlingleaves. Through the trees we see four men carrying a stretcher. Avery quick shot. So brief the audience might not even catch it.”He pauses. He looks at me and a strange light glimmers in hiseyes. I turn away and call for the waiter again, who seems overwhelmed.He’s probably right, there’s nothing here to understand. . . And anyway, what do I care! He’s the director. He’s the boss.He continues reading.
— “Toward the end of the scene, the noise of the forestblends into a hum of voices: the voices in the bistro, growinglouder and louder. Everybody is talking at the same time. A realuproar. Somebody gets up and puts a coin in the jukebox.”
The waiter finally arrives with another glass. I drain it in onego. When all is said and done, the director’s always right. Andbesides, he can do whatever he likes in the cutting room. In there,he has complete control. But right now it’s difficult for him tocarry on reading, and he breaks off altogether. He sits down andlooks around for his glass. He’s thirsty. I say the words “cuttingroom”, and he nods his head. He grabs hold of his left earlobe,rubs it, tugs at it until it turns red. In a more relaxed voice heasks me whether I would like another glass. I can’t say no. I callthe waiter.
Mathieu, Marc and Thomas come over to our table, eachholding a glass. They’re in high spirits. The only thing botheringthem is the monument, which they bring up again.
— It ought to be in place already, says Mathieu.
— Stop thinking about it, replies the director, curtly.
— And what about the eagle’s cage? asks Marc.
The director keeps pulling on his ear. He doesn’t reply.
— Let’s drink, I say, conscious that the conversation couldtake an unpleasant turn. This obsession of yours is unhealthy,my boy, I can’t help adding.
Marc looks at me, surprised. He’s probably forgotten that he’s supposed to be playing my son. So let him take it as simplebanter over a glass of wine. Even still, he plays along.
— You’re talking garbage, Dad. Isn’t he, boss? You can’t saythat cage isn’t essential. Can he, boss?
But the director says nothing. With his right thumb herubs his teeth. With his other hand he plays with his earlobe.Obviously, he can’t do this and take questions at the same time.Marie joins us. She’s wearing a floral skirt with a loose blouse,half unbuttoned. She smiles, turns a chair around and straddlesit, resting her hands and chin on the backrest.
— Better order another bottle, she suggests, looking at ourempty glasses. And another glass for me!
When she raises her voice, it becomes a little unpleasant, as ifstrangled, making it difficult for her to get the words out. This iswhy she’s been thinking about giving up theatre. Recently, she’sbeen appearing on stage less and less.
The bottle arrives. We fill our glasses and drink. Mathieusmokes. The director gazes over at Marie-Christine with renewedinterest. His stare is almost childlike. After a few seconds of this,Marie-Christine turns to one side, where now she feels Marc’sgaze, who ogles her breasts. It’s obvious she feels ill at ease here.To disguise her embarrassment, she turns her chair the right wayround and says she feels hungry.
We’re all hungry. The director’s hungry too. He looks at usall more kindly than before.
— We’ll have lunch. We need to keep our strength up, it’sgoing to be hard work this afternoon, he adds, paternally.
We don’t need to pay any attention to him. I look himstraight in the eye and, keeping my face a perfect blank, say tomyself, “We don’t need to pay any attention to his antics. He’sacting out a comedy all of his own, just off-screen.”
