Ice and rain E-Book

Giacomo Fusi

• Herausgeber: GPM EDIZIONI
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

At just twenty-seven years old, Tom Kalson is a rich and famous Hollywood actor. Thanks to the support of his friend Jeremy Timos and his trusted agent Clark Stardan, he has managed to emerge and establish himself in that world of spotlights, cameras, fame and glory that everyone dreams of, and now, nominated for an Oscar for Best Actor in a Leading Role, he sees his career take off.His life is suddenly turned up-side down when he meets Rain, a raven-haired, iceeyed nineteen-year-old girl with whom he falls madly in love.The new love story is not the only thing that turns Tom's entire existence upside down: the ghosts of a dark past, a murder charge and a detective determined to solve the ca-se will test his fortitude and force him to come to terms with a world that is as beautiful as it is cruel

Leseprobe

Giacomo Fusi

G. Fusi "The ice and the rain"

Gpm editions

Via Pozzo, 34

20069 Vaprio d'Adda (MI)

e-mail: [email protected]

Cover illustration from pixabay.com "StokSna/2577986"

Cover idea ©Giacomo Fusi

Cover design by ©Iolanda Massa

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

1

A bitter taste in my mouth reminds me that I'm awake and, more importantly, that I drank a lot last night. My head starts throbbing and I'm forced to get out of bed and drag myself tothemedicine cabinet.

I open the door and search through the many boxes: a sea of antidepressants in pill form, rivers of bottles of psychotropic drugs and painkillers parade through my fingers at lightning speed.At the same time I grab a dark blue package and a glass bottle that has been abandoned inthecupboard for who knows how long. I pull a white pill out of the bright gray blister and swallow it, accompanying it with a long sip of what could be beer. I can't even identify the liquid that goes down my throat and mixes with the small white envelope in my stomach.

It's amazing how thirsty you are in the morning if you were dead drunk the night before.

I leave the bottle on the hall table, alittleextra clutter won't be a problem. My house is already a mess after last night's party. I crawl along the wall to the bathroom and turn on the shower. While I'm waiting forthewater to heat up I leave a voicemail to Nancy, my cleaning lady, a fantastic Puerto Rican lady in her fifties. I undress leaving my clothes on the floor and while I try to get in the shower a gag of vomit surprises me. I catapult myself onto the toilet and spit out allthealcohol from the night before.

"Fuck you," I think, as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and flush the toilet with the other. Iget up with difficulty and trudge towards the shower; I manage to get in and immediately a cascadeofboiling water hits me. I let my mind wander, in a vain attempt to remember what I did the night before.

I find myself thinking back to the beginning of my career, to my first steps in the world of cinema, to the many auditions I did, to all the times my mother used to drive me around in her red Chevrolet, the car my grandfather had left her before he died.

Just thinking about it makes me gag again.

I lather up trying to remember the commitments I've marked in my diary for today and, an even harder mission, the ones I've marked all week.

I'm supposed to have an appointment with the tailor, though I can't remember when, Oscar night is coming up and I still have to find a decent outfit so I don't look out of place next to that mass of fake smiles of my fellow actors. This afternoon I have a meeting with journalists and this evening I'm invited to the Live Actor Show, a stupid talk show where they bombard you with ridiculous questions, or at least try to. It's not easy to make an actor feel in awe. First of all, in the wild life of Hollywood nightlife there are countless embarrassing situations; secondly, in case the presenter is more skilled than expected and manages to ask an undesirable question, we always manage tomakea neutral or amused expression, just so as not to give him the satisfaction of having managed to put a spoke in our wheels. After all, we are actors, it's our job.

I step out of the shower and, with one hand, grab the towel as a shower of drops hits the floor like a spring downpour.

I wrapthetowel around my waist and find myself staring at my fogged image from too much steam on the mirror. The condensation keeps me from seeing the black bags under my eyes, dark circles that only an endless night of alcohol and drugs can cause.

I sigh and with the palm of my hand attempt to wipe the shiny surface of the mirror, to no avail.

I remain motionless, still alittledazed, as my ghostly figure stares back at me. I observe myself carefully and my mind begins to go blank. I can't think of anything and, for an infinite second, I escape from reality. My brain, disconnected from the rest of the world, wanders among undefined thoughts waiting for the freight train that is my daily life to run over me, crushing me on the tracks.

My second of infinity ends slipping away from me slowly, crawling, and I become aware of my body, my arms, my legs, my stomach, my lungs ruined by the tar of cigarettes. I start to dry off, unable to stand the damp feeling on my skin and on my physique forged by the gym and physical activity. You can't live in Hollywood and think you're not in perfect shape.

Drugs aside.

Apart from the many hours of work, which require a certain physical and mental fitness, the real problem is that we always live in the shop window; around every corner there could be a paparazzo ready to publish a shot of me on the cover of the most influential gossip magazine. Not being in perfect shape is not allowed, as if in the contracts we sign there was a clause, one of those written in tiny letters in the most remote corners of the paper, which states that in order to work you must have a perfect physique.

I slip on my boxers, not planning on wearing anything else for the moment. I walk out of the bathroom, down the hallway and into the kitchen. I hear indistinct grumbles coming from my stomach and decide to make myself something, just to appease my hunger. Last night's hangover has left me with a certain, inexplicable appetite. I open the fridge and, trying to figure out which of the dishes on the shelves are still edible, I opt for some milk.

I retrieve my old Captain America mug from the cupboard, an old present my mother had bought me after I had managed to pass an audition, getting the role of an extra in a television series that had become very popular in America when I was eight years old. I remember that the part was very simple: all I had to do was lie in my underwear on a four-poster bed and play the nephew of one of the main characters who was sick with consumption. Piece of cake. Three episodes, not a word. The start of a great career. The important thing is to get into the business, meet the right people, have contacts with the most influential people in the industry. And my mother was a real pro at that. Who knows how many people she had to fuck to get me where I am now, just so she could brag about her beloved son. Becauseifshe did it for anyone, it certainly wasn't me.

Coming out of the auditions for the fantastic part of the dying child we had entered an ice-cream parlour, in the old cinema near home, also equipped with the various gadgets of the film of the moment. Strawberry and lemon ice cream as a reward. And the cup as a bonus.

I pour some cold milk and add some cereals that I recover from the cupboard. I leave the cardboard box and the leftover milk on the table, Nancy should be here in about twenty minutes. By then I'll be gone and she can restore the house to its true splendor.

I let myself fall onto my $235,000 couch, risking spilling some of my milk on it. Like I care.

I turn on the TV and get ready to watch my life in a 65-inch format, grey and thin as a sheet of paper. All my essence is enclosed in a few millimeters of plastic and protected by a high-definition LED screen.

Whoever is acting on that television is me and I am that someone. Same life, same emotions, same facial expressions, same'clapperboard'. Same everything.

I shove a spoonful of calcium-laden fiber into my mouth while absent-mindedly watching the images on the screen. I grab the remote and change the channel in an attempt to find something better. I let the channels scroll until I find a program about the beginning of life on the planet. I've always been fascinated by documentaries and, even as a child, I would spend entire evenings perched on the couch with my eyes glued to the TV. Before going to sleep, the sofa was my refuge. My mother would make me a glass of hot milk, I would grab my favorite blankie and sit cross-legged, entranced by the images running across the TV screen. The difference was that the couch didn't cost that exorbitant amount of money, my TV wasn't a sixty-inch high definition, and most importantly, my milk was warm.

Cells of all shapes and colors dance on the screen of my television while I listen, concentrated, to a deep voice telling me how our existence on this planet is due to a group of small diatoms, microscopic and apparently useless single-celled beings that started crapping oxygen into the atmosphere about one hundred million years ago.I remain entranced listening to the man who goes on to explain how this fact, probably unique intheuniverse, generated a chain reaction when I am distracted by the sound of my mobile phone.

I pick up the device and look at whoever has dared to disturb my little moment of absolute calm.

It's a message from Angelica Filler.

She's hot.

Miss Angelica was one of the most beautiful women you could find in Los Angeles. She couldn't be considered a homo sapiens sapiens, but whatever the good Lord hadn't given her in the way of gray matter he had made up for in giving her breathtaking beauty. Angelica was the classic example of how a perfect physique and an ounce of talent, ninety percent of the time, can take you to the topof theOlympus of fame. Throw in an agent with a pair of balls and you're not just climbing the ladder of success, you've got a guaranteed place alongside the mighty Zeus.

The message is simple and concise.

"The day after tomorrow, 10 pm party at my house! Don't miss it! I count on it!" Every single letter sounds like a moral duty, as if the idea of not going to the party was not even remotely to be considered. I reluctantly add the commitment to the list of those already on my phone. I'd rather get shot than go to that party. Half the guests will be my colleagues andtheother half a bunch of squawking geese who just want to get us into bed.Thelatter half is made up, in part, of the childhood friends of the beautiful Angelica; the Hollywood Venus was scouted out of one of those ridiculous beauty contests for spoiled little girls and from there slinged and dragged down to the film industry. Without going through the gate.

I can already see her at the age of four shaking her ass like a professional cubist on the stage of some bullshit Little Miss California or Little Miss Ohio or miss whatever state.And that's where she met all of her amazing and very interesting friends.

I type an "OK" in response, just to let her know that I'll be thrilled to attend her unmissable party. I love parties but not when it comes to spending them in the company of people I hardly know. I look attheclock hanging on the wall, another piece of design purchased for me by someone to adorn my life.

It's 11:30.

I get up and decide to get ready to go out for lunch. Jeremy is waiting for me at Just Food, one of my favorite places. I abandon my mug in the sink and, walking through the room, enter my walk-in closet. By the looks of it, it might be bigger thantheapartment I lived in as a kid. My old kitchen is now the corner of the shirts, the bathroom the corner of the pants, the bedroom is full of sweaters and shirts, the closet was flooded with underwear and the living room, if you could call that room of 6 square meters of my old house, houses the shoes. Maybe this really was it, luxury, what my mother wanted for me. Or maybe she just did it out of some who-knows-what sense of personal fulfillment. I guess I'll never know. I haven't had a stable relationship with my mother in years, just the occasional phone call, since I decided to live life my way by relegating her and her opinions away from me.

I go into the bathroom closet and come out wearing a pair of tight jeans, choose a burgundy t-shirt and slip my feet into my trusty Chuck Taylors. From a shelf I retrieve my Ray-Bans, without which my dark circles would be on the cover of every tabloid on the planet.

I move into the kitchen like a ghost, the pills help but they don't make a hangover go away so easily. I leave a post-it note on the kitchen table with a message for Nancy:

"Nancy the houseis a mess. I know it'll be good as new when I get back. Hugs. Tom."

On the one hand, I do mean those words.

On the other hand,I just want to earn myself some dinner. Besides, I pay you enough to clean up the mess in my house.

I grab the phone abandoned on the couch and I put it in my pocket. I look for the house keys, in the midst of the disaster of clothes, leftover food and who knowswhatelse, finding them is no small feat. I find them under the kitchen table, only God knows how they ended up there. I stop trying to reconstruct the path taken by my house keys, open the door and go out on the landing. My palace is on the fifth floor of an apartment building. In Beverly Hills, of course. Unfortunately I don't haveapenthouse, when they put up for sale the apartments as big as the villas in the neighbourhoods a couple of screenwriters blewit from undermy nose. Or rather, out from under my wallet.

I'll double-lock the door. Surely there's no need for that. There's only one entrance to the building and the security guard guard guarding him looks like an ex-con. Six feet tall, shouldered like a swimmer and muscular like a bull. I have a feeling he'd have no problem putting a bullet in the head of anyone who dared to challenge him, trying to get past the entrance to the building without his consent. Kindoflike Cerberus, the mythological three-headed dog guarding Hades, the realm of the dead for the ancient Greeks.

I slip my keys back into my pocket and turn around, hitting the button to call the elevator.I mirror myself in the shiny metal of its doors to check that nothing is out of place. The reflected image is that of a handsome guy of twenty-six, tall, good looking, with blue eyes and stylish brown hair.

The doors slide open and my image is replaced with the reflection of the mirror affixed to the interior wall of the passenger compartment.I step inside waiting for the metal plates to return to their places and, bathed in the neon light oftheelevator, I press a button and begin my descent to the ground floor.

I lean against the wall and cross my legs. I take another quick glance in the mirror, adjust my shirt and prepare my best smile for the world. As my soul descends along withtheelevator tothecenter of hell I text Jeremy that I'm leaving the house.

Jeremy Timos: tall, handsome, top model of a very famous fashion house, known all over the world. My best friend, always.

The only upside to being bounced around between auditions by my mother was that I had met a kid like me who hated that life as much as I did, and who had a mother like mine who was willing to go halfway around the world to make him somebody.

Myself even more beautiful.

We had quickly become friends.

The first time I had seen Jeremy I was sitting in the waiting room of a warehouse in Hollywood.I was waiting for my turn, memorizing lines from a bad movie, a comedy about a private boarding school and the struggles between teachers and students, when a blond-haired boy with green eyes had vomited on me from too much tension and, not content, had collapsed on top of me, causing both of us to roll on the floor and getting his own vomit on himself.

Our mothers' eyes had popped out of their sockets and they had started screaming as they dragged us into the bathroom to try to make us presentable for the audition. My mother had removed my vomit-stained pants and shirt, leaving me in my underwear, in the cold, in the middle of a stinking bathroom. I was terrified that some other applicant might walk in and see me in that condition; I had started to look around, fearful, to check that I was actually alone, and had met the gaze and cadaverous face of Jeremy, also abandoned in his underwear by his mother. He had smiled at me and whispered an apology. I'd smiled back and told him I didn't care and that thanks to his stomach ache I'd missed the audition. As Jeremy and I had become best friends, our mothers had been fighting on the floor, blamingeachother for giving birth to a son who was such an asshole that he'd ruined the audition fortheother.

From then on, every audition, I saw Jeremy and he saw me. The problem was that we couldn't even say hello to each other, since our mothers hated each other. We exchanged furtive glances full of emotion, like the ones two lovers exchange when they meet on the street hand in hand with their respective spouses.

We became friends without saying a word to each other and telling each other everything with our eyes at the same time. Maybe that's why Jeremy istheonly person in the world who really understands me, the only one who can peerintomy soul, turning it inside out.

During our silent meetings our mothers missed no opportunity to rub our accomplishments in our faces, the parts we got and the parts we were candidates for. We didn't care, we were too busy watching each other to listen to the childish bickering of what should have been our educators.

At theage of ten my mother had given me a cell phone as a reward for my feigned perseverance in trying to become the best actor in the world, and as soon as she heard about it, Jeremy's mother had done the same.At the next audition, the boy had pretended to give me a shoulder bump as I walked into the audition room and he walked out, and he'd stuffed a crumpled paper note with his cell phone number written on it into my pocket.

I lost count of the nights I spent awake talking to Jeremy about our dreams, the world, auditions, me, him, everything, nothing. And audition after audition our gazes kept crossing and communicating things never said.

Then suddenly at the auditions I was alone.

Jeremy and his mother had sort of disappeared. Apparently he was better at looking good in pictures than acting, and she hadn't missed a chance to snatch him from the world of Hollywood and fling him into the world of fashion.

We had continued to hear each other, protected by the secrecy of our cell phones and the non-existent relationship our mothers had with technology.

We'd found ourselves years later, at the age of 17, sharing a tiny apartment in Hollywood, as our careers began to take off and we were being looked after, instead of by our beloved mothers, by agents willing to sell out their own children to snatch up any contract from anyone in the film and fashion industry.Clearly Jeremy's mother thought he lived in a mansion in the suburbs of Los Angeles, but she was too busy throwing her second daughter into show business and dragging her to every audition she'd ever dragged Jeremy to, to visit him and discover thattheaddress he'd given herwas actually agas station and not the apartment of her beloved and almost famous son.

Mine, on the other hand, came to visit me, unfortunately, once every six months and stayed for an interminable weekend. During the days of terror, as we had nicknamed them, Jeremy went to stay with some friends and in this way we managed to keep my mother inthedark about our cohabitation.

Although the house was small it had two independent bedrooms and whenever my mother arrived she would settle, thinking it unused, in my best friend's room.

We were amused by the idea of our parents being oblivious to the fact that we were sharing an apartment paid for by them and, more importantly, throwing away the sheets in which my mother had slept as soon as she boarded the sacred plane that would take her away from me.

The slight jolt of the elevator stopping on the ground floor brings me back to reality. Idisconnect from the metal wall andwalkout towards the exit while, with a deliberately casual gesture that makes the three teenage daughters of the producers who live on the first floor turn around, I put on my Ray-Bans.

2

I head towards the entrance and with a wave of my hand I greet Frank, the man who takes care of the bar service and of all the needs of us condominiums, companion of many evenings and personal psychologist of all the souls who come staggering up to his counter and, after having ordered a few too many spirits, start babbling in his face about their problems and their mental disorders.

Frank returns the greeting and winks at me, happy to see me still alive after probably seeing me partying with some friends the night before.

The armed bull guarding the entrance opens the door and whispers to me through clenched teeth a good morning that, pronounced in his caveman voice, is almost scary.

He's wearing a black suit and a shirt that's too tight to contain his muscles, which, from the collar, allows a glimpse of some bad tattoos. I return the greeting sympathetically, I'd hate for not greeting him to be enough to make him nervous and get my neck in his stubby hands.

I walk a few blocks, stop at an intersection, and as I wait for the light to turn green, I hear my cell phone ring. It's Jeremy, texting me that he's running a few minutes late and is leaving the house now. I tell him not to worry, I slip the phone into my pocket and decide to buy some time by stretching for the main road, four steps inthefresh air can only do me good.

The green light clicks and I and the crowd of people, who like me were waiting, start to move while the drivers, nervous, watch us pass with a threatening air, angry about the two-minute delay imposed by our passage. I take a street on the right and move my gaze to the sky, it is a beautiful day, the sun shines and there is not a cloud for miles, the calm before and after the storm. Again I hear an annoying sound coming from my cell phone and I see my mother's name pop up on the screen. It's only fair, I think, it was such a nice quiet moment that it couldn't help but be ruined. I force myself to answer, I know she won't stop untilIhit the green button on the dial and she can't tell me everything that's going on with her.

"Hi Mom, how are you doing?" the excitement in my voice is palpable, but I can't and don't feel like holding back."Hi sweetie!" the voice shouts six thousand miles away, so loud that it has surely been heard by everyone around me. It's okay, she tells me, she's coming to see me next month, maybe, because Priscilla isn't feeling well and might not be able to make the plane ride to California. Priscillaismy mother's hideous pincher, a tiny rat who every time she sees me she won't stop barking, or rather squeaking. Don't worry, I reply, understanding that the dog might be too affected.

We go on like this for a while, continuing to fill each other with useless and meaningless words, pleasantries we can't do without. I still can't figure out the real reason for the phone call; my mother never called me solely and exclusively to make sure I was okay, that I was eating, had some work going on, or that I wasn't dead. I force myself to pick up on some signal, even the tiniest one, any overly weighted word that would begin the revelation of the reason for the call.

"Love"

There she is. It's about to start.

I'm quite curious as to what he wants from me this time. I hope it's just to get money or something, if so I'll be able to end the call in less than a hundred and twenty seconds and I can go back to looking at my blue sky without any more interference.

"Priscilla is undergoing some very expensive veterinary care, and if we add that to the cost of the psychologist, do you know how much that comes out to? Crazy stuff!"

It's crazy to take that shrew to the shrink.

I avoid saying it, I don't feel like arguing, and the seconds tick by.

"Sorry mom I have to go, I'm swamped with work. I'll wire you as soon as I get home, I wouldn't want Priscilla to have to give up her therapist."

You're a sweetheart, he tells me, commit to the work, keep going, never give up, you're good.

And you like my money.

I hang up whispering a hello at the speed of light and go back to look at the sky. There is a small, insignificant, damned cloud appeared from who knows where to stain that perfect blue canvas. I reach into my pocket in search of cigarettes and find it strangely empty. I'm not a heavy smoker, I like to enjoy a nice cigarette in peace every now and then. Obviously when Idon't overdo it with alcohol, on those occasions I usually end up with no cigarettes in my pocket the next morning.

Exactly as it is happening now.

I see a vending machine on the corner, grab my wallet and fumble around fortheright amount of change.I slip them one at a time into the slot of the machine, push the button labeled Lucky Strike and wait for the packet to fly down to the binder at the foot of the machine. I wait for the dull thud of my five dollars in tobacco hitting the metal and, when I hear it, I stick my hand in the door pulling out the packet. I quickly unwrap it and turn around looking for a trash can to throw the torn plastic in. I see one a few meters away and I'm about to walk when I'm attacked by two screaming ladies who throw themselves at me pulling out their mobile phones ready to take the picture of the century with me to send to their friends sitting comfortably on the sofa at home crocheting. In a nanosecond I pull myself together from my initial dismay and start smiling. The lady takes the picture and I see me and the two beaus printed forever on the pixels of the phone. They ask me if I can give them an autograph and throw a crumpled piece of paper and a mangled pen in my face.

"No problem," I say, "what name do I do it under, do I have to write anything in particular?

After scribbling a "To Mary, with love, Tom Kalson" and flashing a bright smile the barrage of questions begins. I answer sympathetically, while inside I curse every deity for bringing them together. I tell Mary and Mary's friend that I have to apologize but I'm in a hurry, I really have to run, it was a real pleasure to meet them. I greet them and start my escape at a brisk pace, always maintainingtheunfailing class and elegance of when I am in public. I hear the ladies behind me yelp like fourteen-year-olds at their first concert and Iturn thecorner as fast as I can.

I'm still holding the wrapper, I'll have to find another bin.

I turn left and catch a glimpse of the diner down the street. I don't have time to check if Jeremy is already sitting at our usual table that a hand grabs my shoulder, forcing me to turn around as I hear a voice exclaim, "Please take a picture with me!"

I turn around, my eyes full of anger, ready to insult anyone who dared to touch me like that and I'm met with Jeremy's grin. I quickly calm down and start laughing, giving him a friendly punch on the shoulder and threatening him to never try that again.

We head out to the restaurant together, talking about the ins and outs, work commitments and how much we could use a break.

We sit down and, despite still feeling my stomach overturned from the evening, I order a light sandwich with salad and tomatoes and a small bottle of still water.Jeremy does the same, he must have had a pretty complicated night too.

The waiter arrives with our orders and lays them on the table, uncorks the water and starts pouring it into glasses.

Jeremy tells me about how he almost got into a fight last night, how he managed to escape, and how he magically found himself in his own bed this morning. He had been out with a couple of models, Marta and Christine, two beautiful, nice, smart girls that I know too. They'd just come out of a club they'd stopped at to dance when Igor, Christine's boyfriend and heavyweight boxing champion, had had the bright idea of dropping a hook in the face of the leader of a biker gang, the classic muscle, bandana and Harley guy.

Needless to say, the centaur didn't appreciate the gesture and a street brawl broke out with chains, knuckles and knives. While the bodyguards of the club from which they had just left and the police stopped the fight, or rather tried to stop it by taking and giving a few punches in turn, Jeremy and Marta had managed to disappear by escaping through a side exit of the club.

"I'd like to tell you more, I really would, but I don't remember anything. I don't even know if I ended up sleeping with Marta! All I know is that I was in my room this morning and I don't even remember how I got there," Jeremy says as he hands me his phone and points tothearticle on the screen. I read "City as ring: boxer involved in street fight", about how the heavyweight champion was arrested after being hospitalized to suture his wounds and how he was released on bail. With a nice black and white close-up to top it all off.

As if it's a problem for a celebrity champion like him to find the money to get out of jail.

I also read a brief interview with Christine in which, probably in tears, she says she wants nothing more to do with such a subject, with a boorish villain like him.

That's all right. I never liked Igor.

As I'm finishing up reading how hard and difficult it must be to live with someone as violent as the reigning champion, a message from Angelica Filler pops up on Jeremy's phone.The exact same message I received notevenan hour before. Like when we were kids Jeremy looks at me, his green eyes digginginto mysoul and examining my thoughts on the matter, he sketches a grin and types a reply.

I look back at him, I don't need to ask anything, I know he'll come.

My day suddenly gets better now that I know I won't have to be bored alone all night.

From my pocket I pull out the pack of Lucky Strike I just bought, it's really one of those moments to enjoy a cigarette. I pull outthelighter, a black Zippo with the release date of "Life of a man" engraved on it, the first film in which I played the lead role, a gift from my agent that I cherish. I push with my thumb to open the metal part, butthelighter slips through my fingers and ends up on the ground, rolling between the feet of passers-by.

The green plastic table Jeremy and I occupy is right on the sidewalk, which means we're always ready for an impromptu escape in case a group of beaus or some journalist should spot us. This, to be honest, happens to Jeremy more than it does to me, especially since he posed practically naked for a famous perfume commercial and photographs depicting my best friend's sculpted abs, fine facial features, deep-set eyes, and toned, lean physique have been posted and displayed in cities all over theworld, including Los Angeles.

I get up reluctantly to retrieve my lighter before it gets trampled or kicked who knows where. I avoid a passerby and bump into another, mumble an "excuse me" without even thinking about it, bend down to pick up the Zippo and find myself bumping into the ground. I don't immediately realize what's happening, I just feel a great pain in my back and I see the buildings around us horizontally. I try to get up but I can't, theremust besomething blocking me.

While I'm trying to regain lucidity and understand what's happening something hits me in the face, breaking my lip and leaving a metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

Anger begins to pervade my body and a cascade of adrenaline gives me the strength to pull myself up. I snap up, putting all the strength I have into it, and I see a black blur end up on the ground again.

It's a girl, in her twenties.

I can't see her face, her face is covered by a messy skein of very black hair. She musthave been the onewho hit me full force and sent me tumbling to the ground, falling on top of me in turn and preventing me from getting up.

My brain is still trying to reconstruct the dynamics of what happened when I see a man grab the girl by the hair and yell an endless series of insults at her.

I quickly forget the nervousness I have about her and the fact that she practically tackled me and move quickly towards the man who is roughing her up.

I grab him by the shoulder with a force not my own and force him with a yank to let go of my grip on his raven hair.

"What the fuck are you doing!" I try to tell him as I end up on the ground again, this time thanks to a right hand from the man that hit me on the lip in the exact spot I was hit just moments before.

Shit, I'm having a bad day today.

I get back up quickly, the daily workouts at the gym help in these cases, and I'm about to hit the man in turn when Jeremy moves me with one hand and administers a backhand to the stranger with the other.

As Jeremy threatens the man not to even try to think about getting up I remember the girl, still on the ground and quite shaken up. Iwalk over and kneel down next to her and as I whisper to her to stay calm and not to worry, I brush a strand of hair out of her face and arrange it behind her ear.My earlier assessment was correct, she's no more than twenty years old.

And it's beautiful.

The long black hair frames a divine face with fine and elegant features. Her cheeks, slightly reddened by the effort, make her even more beautiful, as if she had made herself up in that way on purpose to enhance her thin nose, red lips and ice eyes. She turns towards me for a moment and I feel myself pierced by her gaze; I remain motionless, unable to move, unable to breathe, as if she could control me just by looking at me.

She says she's fine and whispers a "thank you" as she lowers her eyes again.

I turn to look at Jeremy, distracted by the shouting coming from his direction.

Someone present must have called the police and two officers, who happened to be on patrol only a block away, are handcuffing the man after pinning him to the ground, his cheek pressed against the asphalt, while Jeremy talks to a third officer pointing at me and the girl trying to explain what happened.I get up cleaning the clothes I'm wearing as best I can, turn around and extend a hand to...no one's there.

Where the ice-eyed girl had sat a second ago, there was now only emptiness.

I turn hastily, looking everywhere beyond the crowd of passersby who have stopped to enjoy the spectacle of an actor and model getting into a fight with a stranger.

I check again in all directions, she can't have vanished into thin air, yet I can't see her anywhere.

Baffled, I run a hand through my hair trying to regroup my thoughts and head a little further where Jeremy is still talking to the agents.

The policeman looks at me and addresses me with a quick "Are you okay?", judging by the way he's looking at me I must have taken quite a beating.

I run my tongue over my lip and again I feel the taste of blood accompanied by a slight burning. I reach out a hand and brush the cut with a finger trying to define the extent of the damage. Nothing serious, or so it seems. Soon I have a meeting with the journalists and I hope that the makeup artists will be able to disguise the wound, otherwise I'll have to play the part of the Good Samaritan and tell them how I heroically saved that little girl from the clutches of that evil man, when in fact I just wanted to pick up my lighter.

The lighter!

I check the ground and don't see him anywhere. I shift my eyes quickly probingtheasphalt from sidetoside, if no one has pickedhimup he must still be around. I'm still trying to keep my composure when I feel an officer touch my arm and ask "is thisyours?" handing me the small metal rectangle.

I thank him, pull a cigarette out of the crumpled pack after the fall, and finally light it.

Jeremy approaches me, grabs my chin and forces me to turn my face towards him. He studies my mouth with a critical eye, as if he were a doctor, and decides that it's nothing serious, or at least better than expected judging by how strong the punch that moron gave me was.

With a nervous tone I ask the agent, a short and stocky lady in her fifties, if I should give my version of the facts, but she replies that there is no need.

"Your friend has already told us everything we need to know," he says, rolling his eyes at Jeremy.

Looks like our heartthrob has struck again.

Better yet, I didn't feel like recounting how a twenty-year-old girl, weighing no more than forty-eight pounds, landed on me like a professional wrestler and took a swipe at my face.

Here I am, standing in the middle of one of the busiest streets in Los Angeles, pesto in visa, wearing filthy clothes and surrounded by people wanting a picture with me.

The whole thing has a surreal quality.

One of the spectators tries to venture a step forward but I glare at him, not caring if I make a bad impression or care about anything at all. Now, get out of my way.

Jeremy comes back and hands me the phone. It's almost two o'clock, we still havesometime before our star commitments separate us. Nervous information starts in my brain and rushes down to my legs, ready to take the first step, when I hear the female agent's voice calling me.

Turnabout, apparently it's not time to leave the scene yet.

He walks up to me at a brisk pace and pulls out a ticket book.

I try to imagine what arcane excuse he could come up with to fine me; surely an ordinary officer fining a celebrity would cause an uproar and perhaps end up on the front page of some minor newspaper, but I can't and won't believe that's all he's doing it for. Yet I can't find any reason, I'm the one who got them!

I break out the best victim look I have in my repertoire and prepare to apologize and look for a way out of that situation without having to be fined.

"Excuse me, Mr. Kalson, I don't have any more pieces of paper, would you mind giving my daughter Katye an autograph? She's a big fan of yours!"

"No ma'am, you're welcome, for you officers keeping our streets safe this and more, don't worry," I say through clenched teeth trying to sound as truthful as possible as out of the corner of my eye I see Jeremy covering his mouth with his hand to best hide a grin.

3

Jeremy drags me away, the agent still gazing at my autograph with dreamy eyes as if it were an original painting by some famous painter.We make our way through the crowd of curious onlookers who are reluctantly beginning to thin out.

"That one was just out of his mind," Jeremy says as we continue walking not really knowing where to go. We find ourselves wandering around the city crossing paths with souls flowing in the opposite direction lost in their own thoughts.

We turn right into a small side street of Sunset Boulevard and we find ourselves, at last, immersed in tranquility: the street is deserted, no passers-by talking obsessively on the phone and no taxi driver honking his horn and railing against the car in front of him.

Jeremy pushes open a rickety door and we enter an old shop; the place is very small, a hole of not even twenty square meters, dimly lit and with shelves up to the ceiling, full of vinyls, running along the three internal walls. The showcase is no less, flooded with records crammed and piled in disorder in every available corner. An old bell, placed above the door, announces our arrival by knocking the small clapper against the golden metal. From the back comes a "one second and I'll be right with you" accompanied by the clatter of a box that has probably just spilled on the floor. Shortly afterwards a man in his sixties appears, Al, the shop owner, one of the most musically literate people I've ever met.

We had just moved to the City of Angels when we walked into Al's store for the first time. Vinyl is one of Jeremy's greatest passions and Good Vinyl was the place he'd been looking for for years, a music-filled den to escape to when things weren't going right. Jeremy, if he didn't come to me, would always end up there when he had a problem. He would spend entire afternoons arguing with the owner about notes, solos, singers, bands and genres of music and Al would treat him like his own son.

Al had been a father once.

His son had died of some weird disease a few years before Jeremy and I moved in. He must have been about our age, a few years older at most. He'd gotten sick when he was eleven and died some time later, causing Al's now ex-wife to fall into a depression and leaving him at his shop, at the mercy of all those vinyls and the memories the music triggered in his mind. When his wife had committed suicide, putting a nine-millimetre bullet in her head, Al had no longer been able to live in the house they had so painstakingly bought and shared until that day.

He had sold the villa and left with the money he made.

He'd been away for a while, hopping from state to state with no clear destination, chasing an attempt to find himself in some remote part of the globe.

He never told us too much about his travels, Al. He had shown us a few photos, told us about some sporadic adventures, nothing more. One morning we came into the shop and found Al in tears hugging a boy of about thirty years old, tall and with hair so blond he looked white. His name was Nadel and they had met in Thailand or some other eastern state near there. They had shared a room and worked together for some time, until Al had left for the next leg of his aimless journey. By chance the boy, who had never stopped traveling, had walked into that record store and they had found each other.

What is it they say? Small world.

Then, all of a sudden, Al was back. No one knew how, but after traveling halfway around the world and seeing most of the most spectacular places on earth he had decided to return to the one place he hated so much.

Curious how he found himself again, or the shadow that remains of him, in the place from which he had escaped.

With the money he had left over he had bought a bed and a kitchenette and set them up in the back room; he had recreated his perfect little world, a reality that included only him, his records and his customers.

He walks past the small counter, greets me and hugs Jeremy who affectionately returns the hug.Thehug melts away and Al grabs Jeremy by the arm dragging him towards one of the many pinecones of vinyl in the store, spitting out a series of names and titles in rapid succession that make my best friend's eyes sparkle.

The debate between the two of them thickens to a level that does not belong to me, so I decide to go out for a smoke before getting involved in a discussion where I would find myself stuttering without knowing what to say. I'm still nervous about the situation we experienced just before and the nicotine will help to calm my tense nerves. I pop my second cigarette of the day into my mouth and turn towards the front door when I see her walking past the window.

It's her, it's the ice-eyed girl who moments before tackled me rolling me to the ground and kicked me in the face.

I pull hard on the handle and rush out of the store.

The street is more crowded than before but I can still clearly distinguish the raven hair floating lightly among the passers-by. I start to move trying not to stand out too much and not to lose sight of her at the same time. I see her turn right onto a street that goes up to Sunset Boulevard, the black hair disappearing aroundthecorner.

I hurry my pace, straining to appear calm when in reality I'd like to start running, grab her by the wrist and force her to tell me what problems she was having with the man from before.I don't know why, but that's what I'd do.

Despite never having seen her before, despite probably never seeing her again.

I turned the corner and she was gone.Vanished.

This is the second time in half an hour that he's disappeared and it's starting to make me very nervous.

I stop on the sidewalk, my gaze searching for any sign of her, when suddenly a strange feeling starts to make its way into my mind.Someone is watching me but I can't tell who or where it is. They all seem to be going about their daily business regardless of others, some talking on the phone, some reading the newspaper, some sitting at the bar sipping juice or coffee, some working and some just standing there doing nothing. Yet, no matter how hard I try, I can't figure out which gaze is staring at me. I pull out my phone pretending to receive a call and answer no one, at least that would justify my motionless presence on a crowded sidewalk. I talk for a while, pacing back and forth, answering monosyllables to questions that exist only in my mind, my eyes still moving through the crowd to manage to scout out the girl. I say goodbye to my fake interlocutor and put my phone back in my pocket. Remembering that I still have an unlit cigarette in my mouth, I pull my trusty lighter out of my pocket and, with one swift movement, spark the flame.

I inhale a deep puff and feel the nicotine launch itself into my lungs and veins, and as it reaches every corner of my body, I begin to feel a strange sense of calm pervade me.

I take another shot and this time my phone actually rings. It's Jeremy, not seeing me back in the shop he must be wondering where the hell I am. I tell him I'm on my way, I'll be there in about ten minutes not even.

I walk back towards Jeremy at a slow pace, walking against the current trying to avoid passersby, my lit cigarette between my lips leaving a light trail of smoke behind me.

I wonder who that girl really is, where that slim and mysterious figure comes from. I crosstheintersection, turn right and find myself in front of Good Vinyl. Jeremy is waiting for me, leaning against the window of the store and holding in his hands a biodegradable plastic bag, on which Al's logo stands out, overflowing with his new purchases.

I look through the bag full of colourful vinyl covers for something I might like, it usually works like this: Jeremy buys and I borrow one of the new purchases for a few weeks; I'm not a great music connoisseur but listening to a few songs on the turntable always has its charms.

There must be over thirty vinyls in there.

One in particular catches my attention, it's an old limited edition of David Bowie's "Starman", one of my favorite songs. The first time I heard the record I was in the makeup room, during my first appearance on a godforsaken TV show. The girl who was powdering my face was happily whistling it, and when she realized I was trying to figure out what song it was, she turned to her computer, searched through a long list of files and pressed play. Immediately David Bowie's voice came out of the speakers andthewhole room was filled with his notes. I liked that makeup artist.

The colorful figure of the singer printed on the record cover stares at me with a dazzling gaze that immediately brings to mind the intense one of the unknown girl. I grab the vinyl and thank Jeremy as I shake the record in front of his face. He laughs, he knows he won't see it again for at least a couple of weeks. He sighs surrendering to the fact that he won't be able to listen to his new purchase for a while and asks me "wherehaveyou been? I turned around and you were gone!»

"I saw the girl from before," I say, "the one who landed me.

"The chick who kicked your lip in?" chides Jeremy sneeringly.

"Yes, that's right, her. Like before she practically disappeared into thin air. I followed her for a couple of blocks and then I losther, gone!»

I suck as a detective, Jeremy says, I need to practice not letting girls out from under me. My mouth distorts into a crooked smile, alittle bitburned from getting beat up by a little girl who then managed to escape me twice.

I threaten Jeremy to shut his mouth and together we set off through the streets of Los Angeles. We walk like two gods in the middle of the crowd of people who pass us by without even looking at us, all too busy living their own lives, smartphone and agenda in one hand and coffeeinthe other. I see them walking fast, all equally late for different appointments, lives flowing too fast for me to keep up.

We walk a few blocks in silence.

We often remain silent when we are alone, not for who knows what strange reason, it is simply not obligatory to always have something to say. I hear people talking with empty phrases, talking to invent something to tell each other, talking incessantly to keep on having a contact. Not us. There are times when you don't need to open your mouth, you just need to have the courage to accept it.