The Art of Wearing a Trench Coat by Sergi Pàmies

Author:Sergi Pàmies [Pàmies, Sergi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2021-03-16T00:00:00+00:00

PLEASE

They got here early in the morning: two girls and three boys, crammed into a rented Hyundai driven by my son. They unloaded the materials and, as we agreed by phone, have overtaken what we call the yard by common accord, though it’s really just a plot of weeds used as a depot for moribund objects. My son looked rather taciturn, but this isn’t a new impression: it has to do with the idealized memory I have of when he was little and laughed all the time. I’ve left donuts and coffee on the dining room table, in case they want breakfast, and have taken shelter in my study, too far off to be a bother but close enough to have a good view of them filming. My son hasn’t introduced his friends, who limited themselves to greeting me from a distance and striking poses like the bleak cineastes they dream of being. Now and then, one comes over to ask for something without saying please: a lighter, an ax, Monopoly money, rope, a bit of gauze. I try to assist without making maladroit remarks. On one of these trips back and forth, I notice the sockets in the kitchen and dining room are all occupied, probably charging cell phones or camera batteries.

Since I’ve lived in this house, I’ve refined my ability to pretend I am working to a maximum degree of unproductivity. I spend hours, days, and nights stranded on the internet, catching waves that carry me away from the translation—an article on pediatric pulmonology—that I should have finished three weeks ago. The publisher hasn’t asked for it, but the guiltier I feel for blowing my deadline, the less willing I am to work. With the windows open, I try to catch bits of the characters’ dialogue in the short film. I must be losing my hearing, because all I can make out are the most obvious commands, action and cut, both uttered by my son. The rest of the words are an inaccessible whisper, spoken with deliberate vagueness, interrupted by a laughter more smug than joyous. Once in a while I get up, go over to the window, and look at them without bothering to hide. I try to situate the actors’ movements within the two-scene script my son emailed me after asking over the phone whether he could use my house to film. Before hanging up, I remember, he said to me: “Oh, by the way: you’ll be in it, you’ll have to play dead.” Just like that, without adding please.

After listening to my son’s instructions, I try not to annoy him. Seeing him directing and giving orders and advice makes us both feel uncomfortable. That must be why he saved my appearance for the end, after a productive morning without setbacks. In these unusual situations, it unnerves us to have to reveal ourselves as we are to those closest to us. With this in mind, I have adopted the professional attitude of the duteous extra. When

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