‘At the beginning of the novel, two main emotions are apparent: the first, of course, is sadness. And I’m being kind – you could really call it suffering. Poor Harry, who is already an orphan, is mistreated by his aunt and uncle, and their awful son, Dulley.’

  ‘Dudley,’ Martin corrected him.

  ‘Ah yes, Dudley. Sorry. Anyway, it will be that emotion they’ll want to see from you. Harry is trapped in a world where he can’t do anything. The second emotion, I think, is wonder. You are about to discover an extraordinary, unimaginable world. There’s the scene with the snake at the zoo, but it mainly starts with the arrival of Hagrid the giant—’

  ‘He’s a half-giant, Dad.’

  ‘Right, right. This is good, kiddo, you’ve remembered all the details … Now, where was I?’

  ‘Wonder.’

  ‘Yes, that was it. On your birthday, you find out you’re a world-famous wizard. Can you imagine? It’s crazy. So, those are the two emotions we are going to explore this evening: sadness and wonder. Which one do you want to start with?’

  ‘Sadness, maybe?’

  ‘Great. So, tell me what makes you sad.’

  ‘Well … thinking about you and Maman breaking up.’

  ‘Actually, maybe we’d better start with wonder.’

  After that sticky moment, Martin let himself be guided by his father’s instructions:

  ‘Imagine you’re at the station, looking for Platform 9 ¾. There you go, that’s it … You’re thinking it’s all a load of rubbish … and then, suddenly, you get it! You see other children walking through the wall, and you try it too. That’s it … imagine you’re charging at a wall you could crash into, but no! Hey presto! You’ve passed through it! Come on, let’s go, kiddo …’ Martin stifled a laugh at his father’s excitement as he shook his arms in every direction, but he went along with the game and mimed moving through an invisible wall. ‘Oh yes, that’s it! Bravo!’ John enthused. They looked like two madmen, trying to act out a blockbuster film in a twenty-square-metre living room. But it was so much fun. They were enjoying themselves more than they had in a long time, almost forgetting why they were doing it in the first place. John was discovering a new side to his son; he was inventive, and had a particular sense of humour. It was hard to say if he was witnessing the birth of a true gift, but something was certainly happening. Sometimes, when playing a role, we end up finding ourselves. Formerly a child with no real passion for anything, Martin now dreamed of signing up to a drama class. Of course, the enthusiasm he had seen on the producer’s face was a deciding factor. We always prefer to go where we are wanted. Whether he had chosen it or not, the exercise had at least revealed this to Martin: he wanted to be an actor.

  20

  On Friday evening, the pair said their goodbyes at Waterloo Station where, until 2007, the Eurostar departed from. Martin, who had become accustomed to travelling alone, viewed these journeys as a taster of adult life. He felt conflicted. Martin thought about his father as he unfolded the tinfoil to eat the sandwich he had prepared for him. It broke his heart to leave him alone; he always felt a little guilty about going to meet his mother. But that didn’t stop him from being glad for her. He knew she was much happier since she had returned to live in France; her smile had come back. Martin went back and forth like this between his parents’ emotions, between bitterness and hope, still not knowing where to land. An emotional turmoil exacerbated by the knowledge that he was on a train speeding below the sea.

  When she picked him up that Friday, Jeanne held her son tightly in her arms – perhaps a little too tightly, as though her body had to make up for the days they hadn’t seen each other. After this embrace, she stepped back.

  ‘It’s so strange seeing you with glasses, darling!’ She added that it gave him the air of John Lennon. No doubt about it – he looked much more like an English boy than a French boy. In the battle of genes, his father had won.

  Martin wanted to ask her, ‘Don’t you think I look like Harry Potter?’ but he decided to wait a bit longer before talking to her about it. He had already kept the news from her for several days, not wanting to recount this extraordinary adventure over the phone and miss seeing the look on his mother’s face. The apartment was a ten-minute walk away. Jeanne had rented a flat in a 1970s building that was rather charmless, but had the advantage of being close to the station, which was logistically useful and reduced the time spent travelling. In order to further limit the trauma of all this change, she had done her best to decorate Martin’s room in Paris exactly like his room in England. Everything was the same, from the wallpaper to the duvet cover. Martin understood that she had done this with the best of intentions, and so did not want to upset her by telling her that he found it frankly bizarre. It gave him the feeling of having travelled a long way only to end up in exactly the same place.

  Once he had put his bag down, Martin declared enigmatically, ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’ His mother was immediately worried – it had to be bad news. In reassuring her, he dragged out the pleasure of the announcement. Once she had heard the whole story, Jeanne was both stunned and not surprised at all. Of course her son was marvellous, and blessed with a rare charisma.

  In the end she said, decisively, ‘I’m sure they’ll choose you!’ Martin had to temper her enthusiasm, explaining that the casting in question was the biggest one in Britain right now. ‘Oh really? The biggest casting … So what’s this film called?’

  ‘Harry Potter.’

  ‘Harry who?’

  ‘Potter.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  The phenomenon hadn’t yet crossed the Channel. On Monday, Jeanne made enquiries in the cultural section of her newspaper and discovered that the French translation was to be published imminently on Gallimard’s Folio Junior list. Impressed by the incredible success of the novel in Britain, she offered to write an article about this woman who had gone from unemployment to stardom in a matter of weeks. As such, Martin Hill’s mother became the first journalist to write about J. K. Rowling in France.

  Above and beyond the promise of a wonderful adventure, Jeanne was even happier to see her son’s enthusiasm. She often worried about him, tortured by the thought of having abandoned him in London. So she too drifted into daydreaming. She was ready to ignore reality entirely if she could see her son happy. You might even say that a kind of magic had taken hold of their lives, as something happened the next day that was almost fateful. As they were walking along the Seine, they found themselves in front of the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, where an English copy of Harry Potter sat in the middle of the window. They went inside the shop to buy the book. As they were paying, the bookseller sighed:

  ‘I remember her very well.’

  ‘Who? The author?’ Jeanne asked.

  ‘Yes. When I saw her photo on the marketing insert that came with the delivery, I recognised her right away. She was a student at the Sorbonne and used to hang around the bookshop nearly every day.’

  ‘That’s amazing!’ said Martin. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Quite mysterious. She could spend an hour just looking at book covers, as though she was more fascinated by the objects themselves than their contents. I tried to speak to her a few times, but she was very shy.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Are you going to buy that?’ he asked after a moment, snapping immediately back to the pragmatic.

  In light of what he had just learned, Martin looked around the place as though it had suddenly become magical. J. K. Rowling had come here, and she must still exist in the memory of the walls. The evening before, as the Eurostar carried him to Paris, he had finished the book in a kind of ecstasy. He had never read a book so quickly. Of course, the audition had given him an extra reason to devour the story, but it was more than that. He had felt such a connection with the characters, as though it was possible to become friends with fictional creations. Martin had joined the ever-growing bunch of groupies. So yes, it was a thrill for him to find these traces of J. K. Rowling, to walk in her footsteps. He dreamed now of meeting her.

  21

  Jeanne didn’t see the point of having her son for the weekend if she was going to leave him in the care of a babysitter, so she took him with her everywhere. That Saturday evening, she was going to dinner at her friends’ house. ‘It’ll be fun, you’ll see,’ she had hastily promised. ‘There will be lots of other children there.’ A totally false statement, as there was only one six-year-old boy present. Upon his arrival, Martin understood that he would have to look after this kid, particularly as said kid was fascinated by the presence of someone older. The two of them had dinner together, away from the adults, in a bedroom while watching cartoons. Jeanne checked on her son regularly, asking if everything was okay. He said yes, to be polite, and so as not to ruin her evening. Her face was made up, and she was wearing a beautiful dress – her new era seemed to be manifesting itself physically. When she came out of the bathroom all dolled up Martin had barely recognised her, and almost asked if they were going to a fancy-dress party.

  When they arrived, Martin said hello to everyone, in that polite manner that makes children look like monkeys trained to shine in company. There were two couples, and a single man in his forties. The man had been particularly attentive to him. Or he had tried, at least. He seemed ill at ease with any human specimen under twenty years old. He was one of those adults who speak to children as though they are half-wits, enunciating every syllable: ‘Hel-lo Mar-tin! My name is Marc and I am ve-ry pleased to meet you!’ – as if he was speaking in Morse code. Jeanne stood at her son’s side, seeming uncomfortable. Out of nowhere, rather awkwardly, Marc suddenly announced that he too loved Arsenal football club. But after two sentences on the subject, it was obvious that he didn’t know much about football—he had simply wanted to try and buy Martin’s allegiance by mentioning some pseudo-common ground.

  Soon enough, Martin would be able to decipher this odd exchange. It was the behaviour of a man trying to please a child to win over a woman. Deep down, this made him rather likeable. Marc would have acted the same way if Jeanne had had a dog, and would have patted its back, exclaiming, ‘Good boy, good boy!’ When they left, he shook Martin’s hand, as though role-playing a relationship of one man to another, and kissed Jeanne on the cheek while touching her back. A rather emphatic touch, as though refusing to accept the code discouraging public displays of affection.

  In the taxi back to the apartment, Jeanne asked:

  ‘So, did you like Marc?’

  ‘Yeah, he was okay.’

  ‘Well, he thought you were adorable. And he has a huge house in the country. Maybe we could go there when the weather is nice?’

  ‘Sure, if you want.’

  Once in bed, Martin thought again about that man’s hand on his mother’s back. She was free to start a new relationship, of course – he knew that. But when he thought of his father, the idea tortured him. Martin knew John secretly hoped things would still work out, that the separation would be temporary; he was lying to himself, in the same way he had always invented ideas about his life. Therein surely lay his true talent for invention. Martin was probably similar, good at imagining something better, good at dreaming about his life instead of living it. No wonder he felt so connected to Harry Potter; he had inherited a sort of incompatibility with reality, an ease with the world of the imaginary. But the facts had still caught up with him, and Martin began to cry silently for his father. He kept seeing the image of that man touching his mother’s back. A throwaway gesture, but through it he had understood that the past was definitively behind him.

  22

  The following Monday, John went to meet his son at the school gates. They had a meeting at five o’clock with the casting director. Before we get to this meeting, however, one last rather strange coincidence must be mentioned. Two weeks earlier, the new headteacher, evidently a conservative man, had decided that from then on all students must wear a uniform, even though, in this state school, the students had always demanded the right to choose how they dressed, rejecting one of those British traditions that still prevailed elsewhere. Faced with an outcry, he had given way somewhat, insisting simply that the students wear a jacket. So, each morning Martin now put on a navy-blue blazer with its crest in the school colours. Kitted out like this, along with his hair and glasses, he looked as if he had walked straight out of Hogwarts. Every day, it seemed that chance was pushing him closer to the role. In fact, when he arrived at the production offices, Susie Figgis welcomed him with the words: ‘Ah! What a great idea, wearing a blazer!’ It’s always disconcerting when you get it exactly right despite yourself.

  Susie was a warm, jolly woman – it was clear that she truly loved her job. She must have gone to every amateur dramatics production in every suburb of London, in the hope of unearthing a gem who would become the next Kenneth Branagh or Alan Parker. The constant lure of discovery was at the heart of her job: the urge to be the one who recognised the genius of an unknown actor before anyone else. In the casting process for Harry Potter, she got more than she had bargained for. It was by far the most exciting assignment she had ever been given. The flipside was the enormous pressure she was under from Warner Bros. Everyone felt that the film, grand as it might be with its impressive sets and mind-blowing special effects, would be a hollow shell without the right Harry. She was tasked with finding the linchpin of the whole endeavour. What’s more, the process was well underway for the other roles. At this stage, Hermione had almost been cast, and Ron would soon follow suit. It was just Harry, still Harry, who was missing. Susie and Janet, the other casting director, had already auditioned so many hopefuls, but there was always something not quite right. Either the actor wasn’t up to the job, or he didn’t look enough like the character. Or he was too old, or too young. Some candidates were still in the running, but there were no serious leads. And they weren’t about to spend hundreds of millions of dollars on a ‘maybe’.

  On the way to the audition, John had warned his son, ‘You know, people in power tend to abuse it. Don’t let that unsettle you. What counts is what’s within you.’ It’s difficult to imagine a pep talk less rooted in reality. Susie had immediately shown great kindness, and had tried to put Martin at ease. Just like David Heyman, she could clearly see there was something special about this new hopeful. She hardly dared believe it, but perhaps it was Harry who had just crossed the threshold of her office. Before starting, she asked her assistant, Edward, to come and film the audition. When he entered the room, she didn’t even turn around. She couldn’t take her eyes off Martin. She prayed that he would pass the screen test. But she also knew that with a good coach, and a lot of takes on set, you could turn anyone into an actor. Of course, it would be easier to achieve the desired result with someone who had talent, but anything was possible. Physical resemblance was already a large part of the job. Which was why the first thing Susie mentioned was:

  ‘You really have the look we’ve been searching for.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Have you ever acted before?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Well, we practised a bit last week,’ John interjected, earning himself a cold look from Susie; she was used to intrusive parents at under-age castings.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Some exercises—’

  ‘I’m asking Martin,’ the casting director cut him off, rather irritated at this second interruption.

  John apologised. He felt foolish at having responded for his son once again, and risking ruining the moment. How could they imagine Martin as the hero of such a film if his father spoke for him? But he was anxious on his behalf. Since the previous Wednesday, he had been downplaying it, claiming that it would be ‘fun just doing the audition’, but all this was making him more nervous than he would care to admit. But there was no need to be. Everything was going well. Once his father fell quiet, Martin managed perfectly. Susie asked him some questions about his life and his hobbies, then moved on to more serious things. John was pleased to see that what the casting director asked Martin to act out was exactly what they had practised: one of the scenes where Harry is mistreated.

  ‘In the book, Harry is really the family’s punchbag. Even worse, his awful cousin’s favourite pastime is “Harry-hunting” with his friends. Have you read the book?’ asked Susie.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good. In any case, don’t worry – we aren’t going to go “Martin-hunting”! Edward is just going to say some … rather nasty things to you, and you just react as you see fit. Either by speaking or through facial expressions. Does that sound okay?’

  ‘Yes, okay.’

  The assistant took out a sheet and stood up to deliver the insults. Martin suppressed a fit of the giggles – this hadn’t started well – but then he managed to control himself. To be like Harry, he mustn’t react aggressively. In the book, it was clear that the hero had an even-tempered way of letting the hatred wash over him. That was his strength; they had no hold over him. So Martin dodged the attacks, responding evasively, even with humour. Susie seemed pleasantly surprised. She intervened on occasion to clarify an instruction, or to give him something to do. Martin began to forget why he was there, and took evident pleasure in being directed in this way. The casting director then asked him to improvise a sort of rebellious tirade. ‘Even if it has nothing to do with the story, tell me what annoys you! Tell me what gets on your nerves!’ This was more difficult; nothing really angered him. Surely he couldn’t talk about Arsenal’s recent defeat? Eventually, it was by thinking of football that he began to talk about Quidditch, the sport played by the young witches and wizards. He got angry just by changing the language – raging against the referee hidden behind a cloud, or the use of a defective broomstick. At the end of his rant, which had certainly been risky, everyone congratulated him. He had shown a real inventiveness, a major quality and asset for an actor.

 

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