[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
I d heard Marcy use the same phrase.
I was about to walk away when she said, You re Nick Nowak, aren t you?
Taking a closer look at her, I noted she was in her early thirties, dressed in a silky
blouse, designer jeans and a pair of Candies with three inch platforms. Her dark eyes were
intelligent and seemed to know more than they should.
I am Nick Nowak, yes.
Robert would like you to accompany me to my screening. There have been threats
of protest.
I had no clue what she was talking about.
Robert didn t mention it, did he? she asked, correctly reading my face. Then she
chuckled. I ve known Robert for many years. He s a visionary but details escape him.
I could have corrected her and said that he escaped details, but I didn t.
She continued, I m an Iranian filmmaker. I m sure you ve heard of the incident at
the American embassy in Tehran.
I nodded, though I wasn t getting the connection.
Well, there have been threats of protest if my movie is shown.
Ah. I see. Now I got it. What time is the screening?
Eleven.
I had a little less than two hours to figure out how to keep this woman safe and
make sure her movie got shown. I was not thrilled. All right. We should probably head
over there now.
That is what I was thinking, she said.
On the way down in the elevator, I said, I m afraid we ll have to take a cab.
Oh no, I have a driver, she said. My husband is French. The French embassy has
provided a limousine for this morning. Which I suppose meant he wasn t your average
French citizen.
The festival was taking place at three different theaters around the city. The
screening of Afari Bernard s film would be at The Grand, which was located on Ashland just
below Irving Park. The neighborhood was not good. I d been there before. They used to run
dollar shows on Tuesdays. It was smaller than the Rialto and much more beat up. Someone
had tried some refurbishments in the seventies that hadn t worked out well.
On the way, Afari asked a few pleasant questions about Chicago to be polite, but I
wanted to focus on what was ahead of me, so I kept my answers short, and possibly rude.
She sank back into the leather seat of the town car and became pensive.
When we got to The Grand there were fifteen or twenty people already outside
holding up signs that said DEPORT ALL IRANIANS and GET THE HELL OUT OF MY
COUNTRY! And some even less flattering ones about camel jockeys and sand monkeys.
The theater was on the east side of the street, sandwiched between a liquor store and a
travel agency. I told the driver to take us around to the back alley.
You won t take me through them? Afari asked, surprising me. I had no intention of
walking her through even a small crowd.
That s not a good idea.
It is cowardly to go in through the back.
It s safe. You can t be brave unless you re safe.
Nonsense. You cannot be safe and brave at once.
She was probably right, but I wasn t trying to argue a philosophical point. I was
trying to get her safely into the theater. We were in the alley by then; I studied the back of
the theater as we approached. There was a metal door on each side. Neither had a handle,
so they both had to be opened from the inside.
I told the driver to stop. I pointed at the door to our right and said, I m going to
come through that door in about five minutes. I added, Don t let her out of the car and if
you see anyone coming drive on.
Before Afari could object, I jumped out of the limo and began to run around the
block. I hoped she d still be there when I got back. I ran down to Irving Park and then over
to Ashland. A minute or two later I was standing in front of the theater. The protesters
were chatting, their signs at half mast. No one was there to watch them so they weren t too
riled up. I tried to casually open one of the glass doors but it was locked. I quickly went
down the row and they were all locked.
I could hear the protestors behind me. They d taken an interest in me, wondering
who I was. I cupped my hands around my face so I could see into the theater. A young man
who looked like he might be the manager paced in front of the concession stand. I waved at
him and pointed down at the lock. I could see uncertainty on his face. Great, I thought, he s
not going to open the door.
Behind me the protestors began to shout, IRANIANS GO HOME! I turned my head
so they could see my face, hoping they d realize I was not Iranian. They didn t. They just
kept shouting. When I turned back to the door, the manager stood on the other side. I
mouthed the word festival, which he must have understood because he quickly opened
the door. He started to introduce himself but I cut him off. You need to take me to the back
exit. The director is sitting in a limo in the alley waiting to come in.
Oh, of course, he said and we hurried through the large lobby and into the theater.
I had a moment of worry that the protestors might have figured out what we were doing,
but then I realized that even if they did, there wouldn t be time for them to do anything
about it. The manager popped the back exit open and, happily, the limo was still there.
Afari climbed out of the back and was in the theater moments later.
Now we had more than an hour to wait. I checked with the manager to make sure
he d called the police. He said he had and that they were on their way. We d probably need
them to make sure the protestors didn t block the audience from entering. Something they
couldn t do legally.
Afari insisted on going into the lobby. I offered to get her a Coke but she turned it
down. The look on her face made me uncomfortable. She moved toward the doors,
standing close enough that the protestors could see her. When they did, they moved in
nearer to the doors. We could hear the muffled roar of their yelling but not what they were
yelling. It didn t matter. We got the gist.
Afari moved even closer to the doors. I grabbed her by the arm and asked, What
are you doing?
I m going to let them in.
You can t do that.
But if I talk to them. If they see my movie they ll understand. We re protesting the
same thing.
They can t see anything right now except their anger.
I pulled her back and then grabbed the manager, telling him to call the police again [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl szkicerysunki.xlx.pl
I d heard Marcy use the same phrase.
I was about to walk away when she said, You re Nick Nowak, aren t you?
Taking a closer look at her, I noted she was in her early thirties, dressed in a silky
blouse, designer jeans and a pair of Candies with three inch platforms. Her dark eyes were
intelligent and seemed to know more than they should.
I am Nick Nowak, yes.
Robert would like you to accompany me to my screening. There have been threats
of protest.
I had no clue what she was talking about.
Robert didn t mention it, did he? she asked, correctly reading my face. Then she
chuckled. I ve known Robert for many years. He s a visionary but details escape him.
I could have corrected her and said that he escaped details, but I didn t.
She continued, I m an Iranian filmmaker. I m sure you ve heard of the incident at
the American embassy in Tehran.
I nodded, though I wasn t getting the connection.
Well, there have been threats of protest if my movie is shown.
Ah. I see. Now I got it. What time is the screening?
Eleven.
I had a little less than two hours to figure out how to keep this woman safe and
make sure her movie got shown. I was not thrilled. All right. We should probably head
over there now.
That is what I was thinking, she said.
On the way down in the elevator, I said, I m afraid we ll have to take a cab.
Oh no, I have a driver, she said. My husband is French. The French embassy has
provided a limousine for this morning. Which I suppose meant he wasn t your average
French citizen.
The festival was taking place at three different theaters around the city. The
screening of Afari Bernard s film would be at The Grand, which was located on Ashland just
below Irving Park. The neighborhood was not good. I d been there before. They used to run
dollar shows on Tuesdays. It was smaller than the Rialto and much more beat up. Someone
had tried some refurbishments in the seventies that hadn t worked out well.
On the way, Afari asked a few pleasant questions about Chicago to be polite, but I
wanted to focus on what was ahead of me, so I kept my answers short, and possibly rude.
She sank back into the leather seat of the town car and became pensive.
When we got to The Grand there were fifteen or twenty people already outside
holding up signs that said DEPORT ALL IRANIANS and GET THE HELL OUT OF MY
COUNTRY! And some even less flattering ones about camel jockeys and sand monkeys.
The theater was on the east side of the street, sandwiched between a liquor store and a
travel agency. I told the driver to take us around to the back alley.
You won t take me through them? Afari asked, surprising me. I had no intention of
walking her through even a small crowd.
That s not a good idea.
It is cowardly to go in through the back.
It s safe. You can t be brave unless you re safe.
Nonsense. You cannot be safe and brave at once.
She was probably right, but I wasn t trying to argue a philosophical point. I was
trying to get her safely into the theater. We were in the alley by then; I studied the back of
the theater as we approached. There was a metal door on each side. Neither had a handle,
so they both had to be opened from the inside.
I told the driver to stop. I pointed at the door to our right and said, I m going to
come through that door in about five minutes. I added, Don t let her out of the car and if
you see anyone coming drive on.
Before Afari could object, I jumped out of the limo and began to run around the
block. I hoped she d still be there when I got back. I ran down to Irving Park and then over
to Ashland. A minute or two later I was standing in front of the theater. The protesters
were chatting, their signs at half mast. No one was there to watch them so they weren t too
riled up. I tried to casually open one of the glass doors but it was locked. I quickly went
down the row and they were all locked.
I could hear the protestors behind me. They d taken an interest in me, wondering
who I was. I cupped my hands around my face so I could see into the theater. A young man
who looked like he might be the manager paced in front of the concession stand. I waved at
him and pointed down at the lock. I could see uncertainty on his face. Great, I thought, he s
not going to open the door.
Behind me the protestors began to shout, IRANIANS GO HOME! I turned my head
so they could see my face, hoping they d realize I was not Iranian. They didn t. They just
kept shouting. When I turned back to the door, the manager stood on the other side. I
mouthed the word festival, which he must have understood because he quickly opened
the door. He started to introduce himself but I cut him off. You need to take me to the back
exit. The director is sitting in a limo in the alley waiting to come in.
Oh, of course, he said and we hurried through the large lobby and into the theater.
I had a moment of worry that the protestors might have figured out what we were doing,
but then I realized that even if they did, there wouldn t be time for them to do anything
about it. The manager popped the back exit open and, happily, the limo was still there.
Afari climbed out of the back and was in the theater moments later.
Now we had more than an hour to wait. I checked with the manager to make sure
he d called the police. He said he had and that they were on their way. We d probably need
them to make sure the protestors didn t block the audience from entering. Something they
couldn t do legally.
Afari insisted on going into the lobby. I offered to get her a Coke but she turned it
down. The look on her face made me uncomfortable. She moved toward the doors,
standing close enough that the protestors could see her. When they did, they moved in
nearer to the doors. We could hear the muffled roar of their yelling but not what they were
yelling. It didn t matter. We got the gist.
Afari moved even closer to the doors. I grabbed her by the arm and asked, What
are you doing?
I m going to let them in.
You can t do that.
But if I talk to them. If they see my movie they ll understand. We re protesting the
same thing.
They can t see anything right now except their anger.
I pulled her back and then grabbed the manager, telling him to call the police again [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]