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  The Puerto Rican goes up to him. He bursts out laughing, their heads bobbing; she can’t see them for the shadows. Now Steven is coming over to Solange. She mimes a phone, two fingers against her ear: she’ll call him later. She doesn’t want to talk to Steven; she wants to talk to him. His laughter is the only sound in the hubbub. His face split in two by dazzling teeth—everyone has dazzling teeth; it would be inconceivable for them not to have dazzling teeth here. But that laughter unleashes the night, divides the fog; the galactic prince’s mouth is split in two by the laughter intended for the Puerto Rican girl. Solange sees only the dazzling whiteness of their sixty-four teeth.

  ‘Are you from Puerto Rico?’

  The alleged Puerto Rican girl turns to Solange. Examines her. ‘I am from Los Angeles,’ she replies, dazzling. ‘Aren’t we all from LA?’ LA—she drags out the long vowel, Ellaaay…and Solange realises who she is, Lola something, a rising starlet, born in Suriname. She was in Lost—God knows what the scriptwriters lined up for her, devoured by a bear or crushed in a rift in the cosmos—but in any case she is at that stage of notoriety where everyone is supposed to know that she hacked her way out, with a machete, from her native jungle to the Hollywood Hills.

  Bottles of Cristal are brought around on silver platters. The prince in the long coat is contemplating Los Angeles, or the night, or whatever is on his mind—this man with the unfathomable demeanour—and she wants to know what that is.

  A tidal motion swings them back towards the swimming pool suspended above the canyon. The sea is a long, opaque line. He turns his head towards her. Slowly. It’s almost imperceptible at first. At the end of the movement he holds her eyes in his gaze. Then—keeping his eye line perfectly horizontal—he looks back at the sea. It was so brief, so precise, that she is not sure if it happened.

  Floria and Lilian arrive and greet Ted and kiss Solange. She mumbles a brief introduction. Ted looks at the man of the brief introduction, then looks at her. Another bottle of Cristal materialises. The party ebbs and flows, like a wave, the circles open and close, she battles the currents. A little island has formed once more and she is alone with him, against the guardrail above the canyon.

  A TIGER DEFYING THE LAWS OF GRAVITY

  They do not say anything. The silence is marvellous. If you have ever found yourself in a substantial residence, high up, protected from the sea but with a full panorama; if you have had the chance to experience that silence and that sense of security, you will know what deep calm…you will know how Los Angeles…and them, both minuscule and gigantic up above the canyon, and the city, lying low, spread out, turbulent and glowing.

  He stayed there with her, on the pretext of sharing the bottle. Instead of following the group around George and Lola. Instead of following Steven or Ted or some other purveyor of roles and fortune and fame. Or, at the very least, of a stimulating conversation. Or of some decent cocaine. He stays with her. She has known him forever and is getting to know him second by second: it is here and now, just the right moment in life, taking a risk on adventure, good times, the union of the present and the ever-after. She is drunk. They discover similar interests.

  He likes to read. She plucks up her courage and laughs for real. ‘There’s nothing more sexy than a man who reads.’ She would like to elaborate. She would like to explain to him—as he leans in, alone, needing no one, caught up in a crowd but with his unfathomable head held high, a smile to light up his entrance, his welcome interruption: hello, hello, my love. She would have so many things to tell him. So many things to explain to him. He is reading for a project he’s working on. He reads a lot on set. ‘All those actors who want to stay focused between takes, all that fuss about the Actors Studio, what a joke.’ He gives a short laugh. The two of them are not American. He reads at night. She pictures him wrapped in a white sheet, naked to the waist and hunched forwards, his long hair slipping over the book. He recites the names of writers she has never heard of; she catches the two syllables of Conrad and whips out some French names. He doesn’t pick up on it. But he stays there.

  The silence unfolds, changes direction. He smells good. She wants to touch him. He smells like a church, like an Indian temple. The moon has risen. The sea has expanded, black and starless, a second sky. She racks her brains for something to say. She would like to say that she came to Los Angeles for the sea. In Paris the sea was too far away; even when she was small she missed the sea. But he won’t believe her. Especially coming from an actress. He is standing in profile against the charcoal-grey sky. Between her and the sea there is only him. She can look at him just by raising her eyes. A high, rounded forehead. Some kind of grooves in his skin: she can’t tell in this light. Scars? Invisible eyes, slits. A long, thin nose, aquiline. Large lips, firmly closed, well defined. How does it happen, why do these particular elements form such consummate beauty?

  She thinks back to early school drawings: 2, and 4, and 6…by lining up the numbers in a column you produced a strange, bumpy shape. She can hear him breathing in the silence. He doesn’t like chatterboxes, it must be that. Or explanations. He likes to go at his own pace. Or else it is all in her own head, and the city is nothing but a projection; she thinks she has been living there for four years but all she does is float on the surface. She tries to cling to the illusion that her feet are grounded, that the vibrations she feels are part of the city of Los Angeles itself. She would like to tell him about the week when a huge image of her face was displayed on a billboard, at the intersection of Sunset Boulevard and La Cienega Boulevard, for the launch of Musette. There were so many things she could say about it, say to him, that would be unexpected, witty. Not at all what he imagines, not at all like other actresses. She asks him for another glass of champagne.

  ‘I like the way you say champagne,’ he says. ‘It’s so chic, so French.’ She laughs. He makes fun of the American accent: ‘They say champayne like John Wayne.’ She laughs again. Every word he says is precious, reveals a little more behind his unfathomable demeanour. His eyes reveal nothing. Perhaps he saw her in Musette. Perhaps he’s got a thing for French girls, the usual thing.

  A few people walk back towards them. Of all these bipeds only George and he know how to carry with elegance our lot as upright creatures. Everyone else uses cigarettes, glasses or studied gestures in order to keep their hands beside their bodies. Those two are simply upright on Earth. He reminds her of someone but it’s not George, despite their shared elegance. She casts about, compares the nose, the mouth, but it’s more about the look, or the stature…or, she’s not sure, a strong sense of self, a powerful torso, the neck a Greek pillar—a statue from antiquity, the human race, all in one.

  They head towards the cars. George takes the keys out of her hand: there is apparently no question of her driving. George’s limousine turns into a deluxe minibus. He is not far from her, two seats away, two bodies away. George speaks to the chauffeur before they set off and Ted, who works for George in his production company, settles in next to her. A joint does the rounds. The starlet is chatting with Steven (what on earth will Solange’s agent, Lloyd, say when he finds out that she told Steven, the famous Steven, that she’d call him back). She should go to bed early. They’re driving along a boulevard; it’s been four years but she still gets them muddled, whatever, it must be Hollywood Boulevard. They’re outside the Chinese Theatre, the starlet knows a nightclub, the Montmartre Lounge—unbelievable, she pronounces Montt-martt-re with ts everywhere. Solange wants to keep passing the joint but no one is paying any attention, so she smokes it with Ted. George has left. And Steven. Next thing there are bright lights and lots of people and an old Queen hit single and Freddy Mercury’s razor-sharp voice: he’s a star leaping through the skies like a tiger defying the laws of gravity.

  Because of the joint each syllable is enunciated, the drums detach from the piano and the piano from the guitar and the guitar from the voice, all the trajectories divide and reunite: celestial harmony. She has never particularly liked Queen but she
remembers an anecdote, well, an interesting fact, she starts shouting in his ear—he’s tall but she has very high heels—that Freddy Mercury was a Parsi, a what, a Parsi—how do you say Parsi in English, Parsi sounds just fine—in any case she’s off and running: a fascinating religion, sun worshippers, strict vegans, they don’t bury their dead but perform an extremely civilised ritual—he asks her to repeat, she shouts at the top of her voice: they lay them out on the top of towers, the Towers of Silence—she’s yelling—the vultures come and devour them; it takes twenty-odd vultures ten minutes to reduce the bodies to perfectly white bones, which are then arranged in the tower, in circles, in a super-sophisticated system, gutters and drains for the bodily fluids, so clean, much more hygienic than burial when you think about it. The problem is that there are almost no vultures in Bombay anymore because of the pollution, so the neighbouring Hindus complain about the bodies.

  ‘Interesting,’ he says.

  It looks like he thinks it is. It’s perhaps not the ideal conversation but he’s looking her in the eye. They step aside at the same time to get clear of the music, which is everywhere, she can’t hear a word he’s saying, the image of the decomposing bodies is sort of floating between them—‘I’ve heard’—she scarcely changes the subject—‘that elephants are the only animals to have a ritual for their dead.’ She is full of hope. Hope that he might talk to her. The elephants are swaying from side to side, rocking the white bones of their comrades in their trunks. Hope that he might explain things to her, take her away, carry her off elephant-style. But his face is impassive again. Almost stony.

  ‘I know nothing about elephants,’ he replies dryly.

  ‘I know a lot about Parsis.’ She laughs feebly.

  He is still wearing his improbable Jedi coat and drops of sweat are pearling at the roots of his hair; it’s either the heat of the nightclub or a sort of annoyance that she can’t identify, exhaustion, a kind of impatience, pity for her. She wouldn’t have believed it, but perhaps he’s one of those men with whom you have to make the first move.

  There is a slippage in time and space, a plunge forward and she’s dancing with Ted. Donna Summer pants and moans and whispers ooooohhh I feel love I feel love I feel love. Ted is irrelevant but at least he’s acting normally, normally for someone whose nose is white with powder. He sways his hips, holds out his hand, caresses her shoulder, mouthing the lyrics, and she spins around. The Canadian Jedi is standing at the bar, motionless, staring into space. Under the tilting lights she watches him move away across the dance floor towards the exit—she has to follow him; she has no choice. The perfumed flapping of his big coat envelops her; she hears Ted’s voice tinged with bitterness: ‘You’re heading for trouble.’

  TROUBLE

  She’s running. He’s three metres behind her and the roar of the bullets is terrifying. The clatter of her extremely high heels echoes in her head, as if she were running beneath her own skull. The make-up is dry and crepey on her cheeks and she has a terrible urge to rub her eyes. He’s running too fast; they’ve reached the marker on the left; he’s too close; watch out for the marker on the right, the corner, the railing. Her lungs are going to explode. She throws herself into the green corner, she screams, Matt Damon jumps on her and the blood spurts, she pants, she dies—cut.

  He was too close! Obviously the extra was too close; she’s pretty sure he doesn’t realise it’s the cameras they’re running for and not the film crew. Sixth take. It’s little more than a form of slavery, at the mercy of digital ever since film stock became worthless. You were great, Solange, you were superb, I love you. The director overdoes it a bit. The make-up woman wipes off most of the blood before they head back to the dressing room where the props woman rants as she tears Solange’s skin under the shirt. At least the wardrobe woman is an angel: she slipped her some padded inner soles for the stilettos, which didn’t prevent her legs from turning into jackhammers. She needs a massage between takes. Matt is sure to get massages. Lloyd sold her the role by telling her that she would die in the arms of Matt Damon. In the end, their interaction is nothing more than a knee jab (from him) in the chest (hers). On the first take the damn blood sachet refused to burst; she’s a battered actress.

  Her phone is still showing no messages.

  The wardrobe woman cuts the shirt off with scissors so as not to interfere with the wig; the hairdresser sprays the wig with lacquer; the make-up artist covers her eyes and redoes the foundation. She looks awful, terrifying. And there are marks on her face. The make-up artist is working hard on the under-eye concealer. The props person returns with a sixth sachet of blood. She has to change her bra, but Olga from wardrobe doesn’t have any more in her size. They unwrap a sixth shirt, Olga gives it a quick iron while Natsumi, the assistant, runs off to buy a bra—it’s not Danger in Malibu; she’s not going to tear around without one. Phones are ringing left, right and centre. Except hers.

  Perhaps he didn’t find the Post-it note she left him with her number on it? Or else he’s still sleeping—this late? They’re saying that number two camera didn’t reverse at the right time. Mobile phones are vibrating full bore, about to fly off the tables. She turns hers off and restarts it: it’s working. Natsumi returns empty-handed, red and sweaty. No B-cup bras: apparently she’s the only female in this city to have kept a normal breast size. Outside, everyone’s screaming. No one has eaten yet. She’s not sure whether to call her place on the landline. If he’s still there, would he pick up? He was fast asleep and she hesitated over her note, the Post-it note pad in her hand: There’s coffee, honey and cereal, I’m leaving my keys so you can lock up, give them to the concierge, or call me to return them, here’s my number…She looked at him as he slept. In the rays of fluorescent light from the street. She crossed out to return them.

  Give them to the concierge or call me, whatever suits you…

  Whatever suits you sounded like a prayer. In the end she just stuck her number on the coffee pot, the keys and honey in front.

  ‘Olga, could you call me, please?’ Olga does as she’s asked: the phone works.

  Kale salads have been delivered. It’s hard to chew. The make-up artist says that kale contains much larger amounts of raphanin than broccoli and is wonderful for the complexion.

  It would be easy enough to ask George for his number. But that’s out of the question. Anyway, she wouldn’t even know how to pronounce his name.

  She remembers Bob Evans, the producer, who asked his housekeeper to slip a note under his morning coffee cup with the first name of the girl in his bed. And she remembers Michelle Pfeiffer in Catwoman, in her lonely little apartment, interrogating her answering machine in vain.

  Olga waves a bra under her nose. It’s Natsumi’s own bra, a Princess Tam Tam bra in her size, warm and slightly damp. She has time to lie down under a blanket before they call her—careful of the hair and make-up. They’ll get her to put on the shirt at the last minute. There’s a problem with the green corner, the one where they’ll install the tunnel to interstellar space; it means rethinking the whole approach of the design. Does he take coffee or tea in the morning? She should have stuck the Post-it note on the kettle instead. Or on the bedside table?

  They should have gone back to his place. He told her it was in Topanga. But that was too far. It’s all for the best: he’s waiting for her. He made himself some coffee. He studied the photos on the shelves, opened a few books. He went back to bed. He’s reading. Did he notice the photo of her son? She wondered about removing it. He likes her home. He doesn’t reply to the landline: it’s not his place.

  Her nipples are on fire and it’s not the bra. When she was running she managed not to think about it. He was big, he enveloped her, his mouth on her breasts, his fingers in her hair, his hips against hers, almost swallowing her, inhaling her, taking all of her, and his hands grabbing her again, the back of her neck, her buttocks, his grip tight, lifting her up and holding her, squeezing her, sweeping her off her feet. Under the blanket she is burning up w
ith electrical charges. It’s an adrenaline-fuelled desire. Natsumi and Olga are silent in the steam from their green tea; they look like they’re asleep. Have they, too, ever left pieces of themselves beside someone? On the deck chairs is a projection of Olga and Natsumi, a hologram; the real Olga and Natsumi are scattered in some unmade bed, in this city or somewhere else, in the wake of a man.

  What’s the matter with her? What’s got into her? He had scars at the corners of his eyes, little triangles, clearly defined. She has retained everything about him, his gestures, words, smell, manner, style, and everything about his appearance that she could take away with her, his outer casing, the skin that enveloped and wrapped him, keeping him there. She was able to hold him in her arms, and she said to herself: he is here, with me, in me. Provisions for memory. Provisions for strength. Because already another force wanted him, she knew it, a force that would be trying to take him from her, always.

  Olga, Natsumi, speak to me. Look at me. The strange and marvellous marks on my skin are proof that I wasn’t dreaming—no, the proof is the incision, the waiting, the open road. Outlines of standing figures, superimposed images from films, straight, delineated roads, planes swooping over deserts, mazes to hide in, heat mirages over the occasional car…

  ‘Solange. Wake up!’

  It’s Olga leaning over her—for a second she thought it was her mother, all hazy above her cradle, far away. Her phone: no messages. And in a few minutes she’ll have to run in stilettos.