all around me darkness gathers - faded is the sun that shone
In Cannes, citizens run out into the street to stare at the sky-- and then back into their homes, to turn on televisions or radios or check the news for any mention of an eclipse. For out of all explanations for the fact that night has fallen-- early, swiftly, and utterly-- that of a natural event is by far the least worrying.
There is no hint of moon, no sign of star, only a velvet night that is unseasonably cool. Electric lights glow weakly, as if struggling to break through the all-encompassing dark.
In the home of an elderly Frenchman, a dark gentleman inspects, with appreciation, a gilt palm-frond resting in an exquisite case of Moroccan red leather.
"Not 1974," he murmurs, tapping the case. "The Conversation won, that year, no?"
"Oui," murmurs the old man from the ceiling, his English heavily accented. "And zey were using ze Grand Prix anyway."
"Ah," the Shade says, with a quasi-apologetic shrug. He sighs. "In cinema I am but a rank amateur. I do much better with literature. Why couldn't it have been a book, and my blood woven into the ink?
"In any case... your past awards and films directed do not truly interest me, I'm sorry to say. But I do want to talk about 1974. May we talk, monsieur?"
The old man's voice quavers slightly. "You are going to kill me, oui?"
The Shade blinks, and then laughs. "I wasn't planning on it. I hope not to. The world's artists should be preserved, not slaughtered unnecessarily. Shall I lower you, m'sieur?"
The old man nods, and the shadows that pin him to the ceiling relent, relax, lowering him down to his bed, tucking the bedcovers back over him. The Shade pours himself a glass of wine from his unwilling host's excellent cellar.
"So. Let us talk. About 1974.... and about Le Fin Absolue Du Monde. I have, you might say, a very personal interest in the film."
He leans back and sips the red; it's very good. The old man begins to shake his head, to insist that better nothing known of the damned movie, that in any case he knows nothing, he wasn't even in the auditorium.... the Shade lets him ramble.
He is drunk. Not with the wine, for he's only had a first sip. With power. All of Cannes currently lies under the darkness that follows him like a persistent thundercloud. He thinks, vaguely, that perhaps he should turn that off-- that there is really no rational reason to blanket the entire city in preternatural night. He thinks it is slightly odd that he did it in the first place.
But these thoughts are quiet, and small, and they have difficulty penetrating the sheer power that currently wraps around him like the darkness itself. His initial suspicions and wariness have become harder to maintain. What is there to do but luxuriate in this.... divinity? And if one decides to use the opportunity to tie up a few loose ends from one's past, well. One is merely being resourceful.
There is no hint of moon, no sign of star, only a velvet night that is unseasonably cool. Electric lights glow weakly, as if struggling to break through the all-encompassing dark.
In the home of an elderly Frenchman, a dark gentleman inspects, with appreciation, a gilt palm-frond resting in an exquisite case of Moroccan red leather.
"Not 1974," he murmurs, tapping the case. "The Conversation won, that year, no?"
"Oui," murmurs the old man from the ceiling, his English heavily accented. "And zey were using ze Grand Prix anyway."
"Ah," the Shade says, with a quasi-apologetic shrug. He sighs. "In cinema I am but a rank amateur. I do much better with literature. Why couldn't it have been a book, and my blood woven into the ink?
"In any case... your past awards and films directed do not truly interest me, I'm sorry to say. But I do want to talk about 1974. May we talk, monsieur?"
The old man's voice quavers slightly. "You are going to kill me, oui?"
The Shade blinks, and then laughs. "I wasn't planning on it. I hope not to. The world's artists should be preserved, not slaughtered unnecessarily. Shall I lower you, m'sieur?"
The old man nods, and the shadows that pin him to the ceiling relent, relax, lowering him down to his bed, tucking the bedcovers back over him. The Shade pours himself a glass of wine from his unwilling host's excellent cellar.
"So. Let us talk. About 1974.... and about Le Fin Absolue Du Monde. I have, you might say, a very personal interest in the film."
He leans back and sips the red; it's very good. The old man begins to shake his head, to insist that better nothing known of the damned movie, that in any case he knows nothing, he wasn't even in the auditorium.... the Shade lets him ramble.
He is drunk. Not with the wine, for he's only had a first sip. With power. All of Cannes currently lies under the darkness that follows him like a persistent thundercloud. He thinks, vaguely, that perhaps he should turn that off-- that there is really no rational reason to blanket the entire city in preternatural night. He thinks it is slightly odd that he did it in the first place.
But these thoughts are quiet, and small, and they have difficulty penetrating the sheer power that currently wraps around him like the darkness itself. His initial suspicions and wariness have become harder to maintain. What is there to do but luxuriate in this.... divinity? And if one decides to use the opportunity to tie up a few loose ends from one's past, well. One is merely being resourceful.