by Jay Lygon
“I think we check in over this way.” He pointed to the far end of the festival entrance.
Maybe it was coincidence, but a twinge of pain shot through my nipple, and I could picture Hector reminding me that, according to his rules, I had to talk to people who talked to me. So instead of stammering something and slinking away, I offered my hand to the little Brazilian hottie. “Sam Dewey.”
“Alberto Renaldo.” His accent rolled seductively over his name. He held onto my hand for a moment longer than a straight guy would have. “Fame,” he boasted.
“Sex,” I admitted.
His gaze swept over me, lingered below my belt, and then rose back to mine. “As if there was any doubt.” Then he laughed, showing perfect, white teeth that contrasted so well with his sun-darkened complexion.
I bet Alberto spent a lot of time on the beaches in Rio, strutting down the sand and flirting with everyone. He probably wore the briefest Speedo he could get away with, and he looked damn hot in it, too.
Alberto gestured toward a huge, white tent. “Come on. I’m sure our entrance is over this way.”
“Are you a journalist?” I asked.
“Celebrity videographer.” I must have looked confused, because he grinned impishly. “Paparazzo.”
Maybe I needed my eyes checked, because posted on the chain link fence ten feet away from me was a huge sign that said ‘Media Check-In.’ How could I have missed that? It was even in English.
Alberto and I headed over to the gate. Before they let us in, we had to pass through security. Since the only things I carried were my credentials, I was waved through fairly quickly, but Alberto’s camera bag had to pass through the metal detector twice before they allowed him through. He was a fellow God, probably gay, and very cute, so I waited for him.
“You could have summoned the cameras to you later and avoided all that,” I said.
He flashed that perfect smile at me. “I keep forgetting. I only came into my powers recently, so I keep doing things the way I used to.”
“So do I, because I’ve learned not to waste power, but some things are worth it.”
“Me, I waste my power on stupid things, like having the right song on when I want to dance with someone, or hiding a sign from a sexy man when I want an excuse to talk to him.”
Did he mean me? Oh! Gods, I was slow sometimes. No wonder I hadn’t seen the sign. “You really should bank away some of that power. Believe me -- you don’t want to be caught short in an emergency.”
Alberto nodded. “I should listen to you.”
A blast of worship sprang off him and hit me square in the chest. When had I become the voice of experience? I felt like a fraud giving advice on how to be a God, but he nodded solemnly as if I’d offered pearls of wisdom.
“Well, have fun.” I gave him a half-hearted wave and went into the big, white media tent. It was sweltering under there. As I’d predicted, I was one of the few people wearing a suit. I nodded to the guys I recognized from press junkets in Los Angeles. Seeing them took the edge off my anxiety. I knew how the festivals worked. It was a ritual that didn’t change despite the exotic setting. I was going to be okay.
Alberto got in line for press packets with me. “So, you’re a journalist? What paper are you with?”
I was so bad at small talk. “Park Avenue Magazine.”
His nose crinkled up. It was so adorable. “Page after page of words. Not enough pictures. And they never buy freelance photos.”
“Yeah. They’re known for short stories, literary articles, and theater reviews. But you’re right. All of the pictures are from professional shoots. It’s a very, uh, artsy magazine.”
“So, do you only review artsy films?”
Our conversation was making me fidgety. He kept turning those worshipful eyes on me and flashing that cute grin. Every time he said something, he reached out to touch me. I didn’t like him being that close. When I moved away, he followed. Remembering that most of the world had different ideas of personal space, I gritted my teeth and tried not to be rude. It wasn’t exactly awful having such a hot guy hanging onto every word I said.
“The magazine’s editors look down their noses at popular entertainment, but they want celebrities on the cover, so they strongly suggest I review the big studio films, which is a nice way of saying they demand that I do. I tend to like the smaller pictures, so I slip in a few every month in my column. Our readers prefer smaller art house films to the blockbusters, or at least they like to be able to speak knowledgeably about them at cocktail parties, so it’s a good match between their taste and mine. That’s why the magazine hired me. At least, that’s why George, my editor, said he wanted me to work for them. My agent says different.”
“What does your agent say?”
I leaned close to him and lowered my voice, “She says George has a hard on for me.” That sounded crass, but it was a lot cleaner than what Deal had actually said.
“Who doesn’t?”
When I fell silent, Alberto touched my arm again. “So how did you get this agent? Maybe I need an agent, too.”
I took my press packet and got into the next line for my media pass. Alberto got in line behind me again, so I figured the conversation was still on. “Several years ago, I asked Deal to look over a contract I’d been offered. She sort of took over my professional life from then on, whether I wanted her to or not. She’s a Goddess,” I whispered.
His eyes widened. “You know other Gods? You’re the first one I’ve ever met. What’s she like?”
What was the best way to describe Deal? Nordic she-bitch? Ball-busting ice princess? “Frightening,” I told him.
“I’d love to meet her. Do you know any others?”
“Agents?”
He shook his head. “Gods.”
“Oh, sure. All our neighbors. But let’s not talk about this here. Humans have a way of hearing what they want to hear, but it’s best not to talk too openly around them.”
He gave the others in the tent a disdainful look. “I don’t care about them. You said ‘our neighbors.’ Do you live with someone?”
Gods he was nosy. “My Master is the biggest, baddest, meanest leather-daddy ever. He’s a God, too. Love. Tough love.”
If I thought that would cool Alberto down, I was wrong. His grin was downright sinful. “You’re into that? Me, too.”
His Brazilian accent was too damn sexy. I imagined him twenty years older, a little taller, with his lean frame filled out with hard muscles. He’d be a hot Daddy for some lucky boy. A little twinge of interest in my groin was followed by a huge crush of guilt. How would Hector feel if he found out what I was thinking? He was working so hard to overcome his jealousy issues, and there I was, daydreaming about another guy.
Alberto’s gaze dropped, but it was a parody of submission. His impish grin lit up his face as he flirted through his thick, black lashes. “You’re going to have to tell me all about it. I like the porn with the leather men.”
It was either the heat under the tent, or the way he refused to lower his voice, but my face was deep red. “Later,” I whispered. “Not now.”
Alberto flashed a big grin at me. “It’s a date then. Later. Ciao!”
***
The only screenings scheduled that morning were smaller films that would probably never get distribution in the US, even though some of them were sure to be nominated for the San Marco Award. Those were the films I wanted to see because it was probably my only chance to view them. Before lunch, I’d already seen an Egyptian gem and a rough but fun Russian picture. Stuff like that recharged my love of foreign films. I liked the different mind-set that reminded me that America wasn’t the entire world. But, most of all, the way directors cherished their stories enchanted me. They didn’t need big explosions or glib lines. The little truths they unveiled had much more of an impact without all that.
As I was coming out of the Russian film, Hector sent me a text message reminding me to eat lunch. Between the press conferences, sc
reenings, and crowds, there wasn’t much time for a break, but I was determined to prove to Hector that I could do my work and still serve him, so I went in search of food.
While I wolfed down a sandwich, I studied the festival program and tried to decide what to do next. The films which were heavily favored to win the prestigious Leone d’Oro award took precedence, of course, as did any movies starring actors or actresses likely to be awarded the Coppa Volpi, but I liked to keep my options open in case I heard good buzz about something I might have otherwise overlooked.
Someone bumped my elbow. At first I didn’t look up, because I’d been jostled so much that morning that it barely registered anymore, but when a shoulder rubbed against mine, it got my full attention. It was Alberto again. Glad to see someone I sort of knew, I grinned at him.
“Alberto! How’s your day going?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “Hot. We run here. We run there. I’m taking the same pictures as everyone else. I need an exclusive shot, something to make my name. Maybe I should take your picture.” He raised a camera to his eye.
I put my hand out to block his shot. “No.”
Alberto’s pout could have melted a glacier, but not me. “Just one for my private collection? I do very good work. Maybe sometime you’d like to see my portfolio? I do male nudes. Very artistic.” His grin left no doubt how artistic those poses were. “I bet you would photograph very well. You’re a natural, you know. I’ve been watching you. Even the way you eat is very suggestive. You have no idea how much I envy that sandwich right now.”
I set my lunch down. “I’m here to work. That means disappearing into the background while I observe.”
Alberto shook his head. “Fade into the background? Impossible. You’re too… What’s the word I want? The camera loves you. You couldn’t take a bad picture if you tried. Seductive! That’s the word!”
There was no reason for me to be rude to someone who seemed so eager to please, so I tried to think of a nice way to change the subject. “You know who I saw on the vaporetto ride over here this morning? Josef Dudeka.”
His nose scrunched up. “Who?”
How could anyone cover a film festival and not know that name? “He’s a famous director.”
“Oh. What has he done lately?”
Maybe Alberto was too young to know. Or maybe paparazzi worked by different rules than movie critics, so I forgave him for his ignorance. “Small films you’ve probably never heard of, but--”
Alberto waved his hand. “Not interested. No one wants pictures of a has-been movie director.”
“He’s not washed up. He’s a legend.” I took another bite of my sandwich and washed it down with a swig of orange Fanta. “At least I got to tell him what I fan I am of his work, even though he threw my business card away.”
“He didn’t! Is he blind?”
I shrugged. “Maybe he thought I was a crazed stalker, or an actor trying to get into his next movie. He’s famous; I’m not. I didn’t expect him to act like meeting me was the highlight of his month. He probably has people coming up to him all the time wanting something from him.”
“Do you?”
A guilty smile spread over my face. “Well, yeah. I’d love to talk to him about film. Just for an hour. Completely off the record. It would be so cool.” Sighing, I frowned. “Not that it will ever happen.”
“You never know. If you were famous, too--”
I shook my head. “Not interested.”
Alberto frowned. Inwardly, I cringed as I remembered that he was the God of Fame. I really needed to think before I spoke. Alberto, though, didn’t seem to take it to heart.
“Want to see something funny?” he asked.
I started to protest when he raised his camera to his eye again, but he spun around and clicked off a series of shots. Suddenly, flashes went off everywhere.
Alberto lowered his camera and looked over his shoulder to show me his mischievous grin. “No one wants to miss a shot, so when they see flashes go off, they start shooting, too.”
It was pretty funny. Still, I was wary of his camera, which pointed at me again.
He glanced over at the food stand. “Is the food here good?”
“Not really, but it’s fast, and the line is short.”
“Hmmm.” Alberto scanned the people walking by. “All I need is one good shot of someone famous, hopefully doing something they don’t want anyone to see.” He grinned and turned back to me. “So. You’re staying in Venice and not on Lido? Any particular reason?”
Before I could answer, he interrupted me with another question. “Hey -- you live in Los Angeles? I’ll bet you see famous people every day.” He rested his chin on his hand. “It’s my dream to live in Hollywood.”
His starry eyes reminded me of the way I used to daydream about LA. “It’s not like you imagine it to be.”
Most people couldn’t even begin to comprehend the sprawl. Los Angeles was, to me, the worst example of land management I’d ever seen. If they’d only concentrated the population in high density housing, like San Francisco and New York, built mass transit that actually worked, and left more open space, it could have been paradise. Instead, they gave in to car culture. I doubted that the damage could ever be reversed, which was a shame.
“Do you Gods live in Beverly Hills? Do you all have mansions?”
Poor Alberto. He didn’t have a clue. “Like I said, it’s nothing like you imagine. We live pretty modestly.”
“Near the beach?”
“Yeah, we’re less than a quarter mile from the beach.”
He was still starry-eyed. “I live for the beach! I want to see Hollywood some day.”
“Well, you’re a God. You can make things happen, you know.”
“I don’t know. What I need is someone to teach me how to be a God. Someone strong. Someone with experience and a firm hand.” Alberto leaned over the table. “A Master.” He winked. “Or a Mistress.”
Fame, it seemed, was as fickle as legend had it.
***
Along with fifty other members of the press, I was herded into a stuffy little meeting room in the host hotel for a press junket. There was no air, and if the interview hadn’t been with Harris Smith, who was heavily favored to win the Coppa Volpi for his latest role, I might have skipped it.
A cluster of microphones sat in the middle of a table at the far side of the room. Harris’ intense, intelligent blue eyes stared out at us from a huge poster behind the table. He was the All-American boy next door. He exuded cocky confidence that was sexy, but he pulled it off as a joke everyone was in on. He was the kind of guy who seemed like he’d be a hell of a lot of fun just to hang with. How much of that was real and how much was careful work by his PR people, I had no idea, but something about his eyes made me want to believe he was for real.
Press junkets were always a madhouse, but one that I enjoyed. This one was packed because Harris Smith rarely gave interviews, plus he was a huge star. The hotel had put out neat rows of gold velvet chairs for the press, but everyone ignored them and crowded close to the table. My adrenaline got pumping and my competitive instincts took over. It was as if I was a different version of myself -- one that didn’t stutter and didn’t suffer from terminal shyness. I got right in there and forced my way through the crush to the front of the crowd.
Normally, we had to wait as long as an hour before the talent made a grand entrance, but right on time, Harris Smith ambled in. Cameras clicked like crazy as he showed us his famous, dimpled grin.
Across the room, I watched Alberto work. He was right. He’d have the exact same picture as twenty other photographers. But I’d have the exact same questions and answers from Harris as the other journalists at the junket, and I’d still manage to write a blog entry that made it sound fresh. Nobody ever said our job was easy.
Harris sat at the head table and leaned close to the bank of microphones. A sensual smile spread over his lips. He had just enough of a gritty edge to make one wonder what
kind of neighborhood produced a boy next door like him.
“Is it true you’re gay?” an English journalist shouted over the other loud voices.
Harris’ assistant winced, but Harris, oh, what a pro he was. He grinned and wriggled his eyebrows. Another barrage of flashes went off.
I always got a gay vibe off Harris, but I wasn’t interested enough in the sex lives of stars to spy on them. If he’d been a homophobic preacher or virulently anti-gay senator caught blowing guys in the bushes, then I would have been all for outing his hypocritical ass. But Harris was known as a gay friendly guy, so what did it matter if he was? Oh, sure, he had a reputation as a heartbreaker and always had a different actress on his arm, but if it was just an act, who cared?
