The Film Club by David Gilmour Page B

show Jesse the Italian classic The Bicycle Thief (1948). Just the saddest story ever. An unemployed guy needs a bike for a job, gets one with great difficulty; his whole demeanour changes, his sexual confidence returns. But the bike gets stolen the next day. He’s in agony. The actor, Lamberto Maggiorani, has the face of an inarticulate, devastated child. What’s he to do? No bike, no job. It’s almost too upsetting to watch as he runs all over town with his son looking for the lost vehicle. Then he spots an unguarded bicycle and steals it. In other words, he chooses to inflict the same agony on somebody else that has been visited upon him. It’s for his family’s welfare, he rationalizes, it’s not like the other guy, the point being, I explain, that we sometimes calibrate our moral positions, what’s right, what’s wrong, depending on what we need at that particular moment. Jesse nods; the idea engages him. You can see him rumbling about in the incidents of his own life, stopping here and there, looking for a parallel.
    But the bicycle thief gets caught; and caught publicly. It’s as if the whole neighbourhood turns out to see him hauled away. Including his son, on whose face is an expression none of us ever wants to see on our children’s faces.
    The day after the screening, maybe a few days later, I can’t recall, there were comings and goings next door; I saw a skinny, rat-faced fellow nosing around in the lane-way among my new garbage cans. Then one morning, the city looking grey in a sort of fortified way, puddles and litter in the streets as if the tide had gone out (you almost expected to see a dying fish flapping in the gutters), a For Sale sign appeared.
    I found myself wondering, idly at first, then with increasing momentum, if I should sell my bachelor loft in the candy factory (it had appreciated wildly), and move in next door to my son and my beloved ex-wife. Provided they wanted me, of course. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it. The more urgent it seemed. In a matter of days, the question assumed almost life-saving significance. I might even, I concluded, have a little living money left over from the down payment. This wasn’t how I thought my life would go but I’d had worse ideas. Maybe it would change my luck, just living near the two of them. So late one afternoon, my sexy neighbour in sunglasses pulled to the corner in her small, utilitarian car and hurried up the steps, briefcase in hand.
    â€œI hear you’re selling your house,” I said.
    â€œThat’s right,” she said, not missing a beat, slipping the key into the lock.
    â€œAny chance I could have an advance peek?”
    You could see that the rat-faced real estate agent had warned her against doing exactly this. But she was a decent soul and said, sure.
    It was a little man’s house, a Frenchman’s house, but clean and welcoming, even in the recesses of the basement (unlike Maggie’s basement where, just past the washing machine, one feared a crocodile attack). Narrow hallways, narrow stairs, meticulously painted bedrooms, detailed border work and a bathroom medicine cabinet that prompted curiosity—although given her clear complexion, her aura of constant and purposeful motion, she didn’t seem the kind to have any pills worth pinching.
    â€œHow much?” I asked.
    She named a figure. It was absurdly high, naturally, but then so was the recent appraisal of my candy factory loft which had, so I was told, “come into fashion” with a whole species of obnoxious young success stories (cellphones, three-day beard). A place for winners, for swingers. For assholes, in a word.
    I explained my situation: I passionately wanted to live near my teenage son and my ex-wife. That took her aback. Could she let me have first crack at buying the house? Yes, she said. She’d talk to her husband.
    There was quite the flurry of activity at our