Noelle had attended the theater in Marseille a few times, but she had seen sleazy
amateur plays acted out by fourth-rate performers for indifferent audiences. The theater in
Paris was something else again. It was alive and sparkling and filled with the wit and
grace of Molière, Racine and Colette. The incomparable Sacha Guitry had opened his
theater and Noelle went to see him perform. She attended a revival of Büchner’s La Morte
de Danton and a play called Asmodée by a promising new young writer named François
Mauriac. She went to the Comédie Française to see Pirandello’s Chacun La Verité and
Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac. Noelle always went alone, oblivious of the admiring stares
of those around her, completely lost in the drama taking place on the stage. Something in
the magic that went on behind the footlights struck a responsive chord in her. She was
playing a part just like the actors on stage, pretending to be something that she wasn’t,
hiding behind a mask.
One play in particular, Huis Clos by Jean Paul Sartre, affected her deeply. It starred
Philippe Sorel, one of the idols of Europe. Sorel was ugly, short and beefy, with a broken
nose and the face of a boxer. But the moment he spoke, a magic took place. He was
transformed into a sensitive handsome man. It’s like the story of the Prince and the Frog,
Noelle thought, watching him perform. Only he is both. She went back to watch him again
and again, sitting in the front row studying his performance, trying to learn the secret of
his magnetism.
One evening during intermission an usher handed Noelle a note. It read, “I have seen
you in the audience night after night. Please come backstage this evening and let me meet
you. P.S.” Noelle read it over, savoring it. Not because she gave a damn about Philippe
Sorel, but because she knew that this was the beginning she had been looking for.
She went backstage after the performance. An old man at the stage door ushered her
into Sorel’s dressing room. He was seated before a makeup mirror, wearing only shorts,
wiping off his makeup. He studied Noelle in the mirror. “It’s unbelievable,” he said finally.
“You’re even more beautiful up close.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Sorel.”
“Where are you from?”
“Marseille.”
Sorel swung around to look at her more closely. His eyes moved to her feet and
slowly worked their way up to the top of her head, missing nothing. Noelle stood there
under his scrutiny, not moving. “Looking for a job?” he asked.
“No.”
“I never pay for it,” Sorel said. “All you’ll get from me is a pass to my play. If you
want money, fuck a banker.”
Noelle stood there quietly watching him. Finally Sorel said, “What are you looking
for?”
“I think I’m looking for you.”