by Stan Rogal
“OK, let’s get in there! Makes it that much easier for us to dump him.”
“Too late. She’s in the car, half-way to emergency.”
“Thought you said he was cuffed to the radiator?”
“I did. He was.” Anthony made a face and shrugged his shoulders. “They’re Rosie’s cuffs.”
The four men sat in their room at Clinton’s, smoking cigars and drinking scotch. There were half-eaten plates of wings, chili nachos and fries spread around the table. They had a small screen TV hooked up to a line that led upstairs. The big game was on. Donovan ran onto the field, prepared to punt from his own thirty. He gave the ball a ride. It took a Toronto bounce and went out of bounds on the Calgary nineteen yard line.
“Sweet,” Vincent said.
“Yeah,” Sid said, taking a hit of scotch. “Though I can’t help but imagine him kicking in that tight red dress and those silver platform heels.” The men grunted and laughed.
“Rosie still in touch with him?”
“Oh, yeah. They got the whole Facebook/Twitter thing goin’ on,” Anthony said. “Wouldn’t surprise me if I come home one night and the two of them are cookin’ up Szechuan together.”
The quarterback for Calgary tossed a screen pass. “Hit him!” Vincent yelled. “Hit him!” The receiver shed two tacklers and gained eighteen yards before being brought down to the turf.
“Buncha pussies,” Anthony said. “What did I tell ya?”
John lifted a handful of nachos and scooped out some salsa. “And he never said a word to anyone?” He shovelled the chips into his mouth.
“Hey — ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’ This, according to Rosie. Works for me. Business as usual.” Anthony joined in the nachos.
“Business as usual. That’s good. I like that.”
John picked up his cigar and took a few puffs. The others did the same. The Calgary quarterback dropped into the pocket and was blindsided by a blitzing linebacker. The ball popped loose — fumble — and was recovered by a Toronto player. The men leapt to their feet and slapped high fives.
Right on, they cheered. Go Argos! They sat down and passed the bottle. Three plays later, Argos drove the ball into the end zone and Donovan came on for the extra point. He split the uprights and the crowd went wild.
“Tight red dress and silver platform heels,” Sid said, and gave a low wolf whistle. “Sorry, I can’t shake the image.”
“Yep,” John said grinning. “I hear you.” He stretched his hands and gave his fingers a massage. “I think I can safely say we all learned a valuable lesson from this last caper.”
“Which is what?” Anthony asked.
“No fucking around with the small stuff. Go big or go home.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vincent asked.
“What do you think?” John said, inhaling a deep drag from his Corona. “Next time, we kidnap a freaking Raptor.”
“Now you’re talking,” Anthony said. “NBA. Those guys have got shitloads of dough. Probably get three mil for the water boy.”
“Then it’s settled.”
Everyone nodded and murmured enthusiastically in agreement. Sid let out a loud fart and pointed a finger to the ceiling. “Ducks,” he said. The men laughed.
Business as usual, John thought. Perfect. He settled back in his chair and re-focused his attention on the game.
Split the uprights and the crowd goes wild.
THE TRAVELLER’S TALE
“There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.”
— Francis Bacon
In which an actor embarks on a romantic journey that leads him into a realm of make-believe that rivals any stage play an author may have scripted.
While the email appeared substantially less than cryptic, I did scan it several times to be sure I wasn’t either reading anything extra into it or else missing something of grave importance that would turn the whole adventure into a wild goose chase. Besides, I found the offer maybe too good to be true, especially as the most the two of us had done was engage in a bit of innocent flirting over craft services while on a film set together in Toronto. That was over six months ago. I was surprised she even remembered me.
The text read: “Hi. I tracked you down through your agent. I had to lie, said it was to do with an audition. Hope you don’t mind. My husband is away shooting an action film in the rainforests of Brazil over the next several months. I’m about to go into rehearsals of Streetcar for a run in Zurich. I have 7–10 days free before that. How would you like to come visit me in Switzerland? We have a place in Lenzerheide. September is off-season so no crowds and cheaper air fares. Let me know and we’ll work out the details. Sigi.”
Now, when I was married — about a hundred years ago it seems — “come visit me” was a euphemism my ex used as an invitation for sexual intercourse. I didn’t know if it translated in this case or not, though the message was certainly rife with implication. Perhaps the initial flirting wasn’t so innocent after all and, to be honest, I would’ve made a move at the time if she’d given me the slightest indication, which she hadn’t. Sigi was about five foot six, solidly built, muscular with dark, short-cropped hair, full lips, thick hands and largish breasts. Not your typical Heidi and I suspected a trace of Gypsy or Latino had jumped the fence somewhere along the hereditary line. She could’ve passed as a model for a Picasso painting. Combining that with strong acting chops and a Swiss German accent made her sexy as hell. Oh yeah, she also had one green eye and one blue eye which served to make her that much more desirable. Given these traits, I considered: Stella or Blanche in Streetcar?
My bank account scraped bottom and not much chance of a major improvement in the foreseeable future. The one bright spot was that my Visa card was clear, though I tried to save this for emergencies. I decided to call a buddy and get his opinion. We met at Pauper’s for a beer.
“What’s to decide?” he said. “Go, man, go! How often does this happen? Like, never! The woman is hot and practically throwing herself at you, which I don’t understand personally, but makes it all the more imperative. Max out your charge card, sell your first born, knock off a corner grocery store if you have to, but get your ass to Switzerland. You’d be crazy.”
It made sense and I appreciated the encouragement.
“It’s a no-brainer. There’s nothing happening for you here, right?” He drank and blew through his lips. “Sigi Hess, wow!” He rubbed his forehead with a flat palm. “She’s gotta be, like, in her late forties, right?”
“Forty-six.”
“So, ten years older. Nice. Perfect, in fact. No expectations beyond the act.” He grinned and poked my shoulder with his fist. “Lucky bastard. Just don’t expect to get hired by her husband if he finds out.” He laughed. “I mean, ever.”
“Something to consider, for sure. Also, what do I tell my agent?”
“You’re going on holiday, what else? It happens, y’know. Actors do take holidays and the business doesn’t collapse.”
“What if something comes up?”
“You mean, like that call from Scorsese? Why not just buy a ticket for the lottery, you’ll have better odds. Face it, you can either stay home and get fucked by your agent, or … you can go get fucked by Sigi Hess.” He performed a balance act with his hands that quickly tipped more one way than the other. Guess which? It was settled. We ordered two more pints. My buddy pulled out his cell phone and started scoping out airline schedules and seat sales.
I landed safely at the Zurich airport. Sigi had told me don’t worry, everyone in Switzerland speaks English, you won’t get lost, just ask. Well, I did ask, several times, and I had yet to meet anyone who admitted speaking English and finally had to stumble and fumble my way at the local transport ticket booth for directions, which consisted of a series of escalators and ramps and rail lines, any one of which could’ve ended me in the wrong direction, if not the wrong country. That said, I arrived in downtown Zurich and was met at the train statio
n by an ex-actor pal of mine named Paul. He and his wife Ingrid now worked together in real estate — her chosen profession — both sales and renovations. I’d contacted them ahead of time to see if I could crash at their place for a night, catch up on old times, get the lowdown on Swiss culture, generally have them help me settle in, and next day drop me off and point me in the right direction.
No problem, they replied. It’d be good to see you.
“It’s fun,” Paul said, speaking of the real estate biz, “and a helluva lot more lucrative than acting.”
They had a nice house, a nice couple of kids, two cars, a dog, a cat and were in debt up the wazoo.
“Not a problem unless one of us gets hit by a bus,” Paul said, laughing. “It’s just the way it is here. Everyone earns a lot and spends more.”
Ingrid greeted us at the door and led the way to a pitcher of margaritas in the living room.
“There’s a bedroom for you there,” she said, motioning. “The boys’ll double up for the night. Bathroom’s down the hall. Paul tells me you’ve got some hanky-panky planned, you naughty man.” She floated me a drink on a cardboard coaster.
Ingrid used to kid me and my bachelor ways when I worked with Paul in Toronto and we’d get together for dinners and so on. She made it sound light though I always suspected there was more to it and I believe she was happy to finally convince Paul to make the move to Zurich and away from bad influences, namely me. Besides, she was from Switzerland and always longed to return.
“Jury’s still out,” I said. “We’ll see.” I gave her a nudgenudge-wink-wink type of look and she raised her eyebrows at me. “Hey, Paul, how’s your Swiss coming along? I may need a few pointers.”
“You’ll be fine. It’s true, most people do speak English. What happened to you was a fluke. That being said, you’re headed to the small towns and what you really need to be aware of is that everyone says ‘Gruëzi’ to everyone they meet. It’s like hello or good day or whatever and if you don’t reply in kind you are regarded as some sort of low-life sociopath.”
“He’s exaggerating.”
“It’s not an exaggeration. Trust someone who has experienced the stigma of ineptitude.” Paul turned to Ingrid. “Remember that young girl who complained to you when I didn’t reply to her in the restaurant?”
“She was mentally challenged.”
“Beside the point. She was voicing what everyone else felt.” Paul swept his arm across the room. “Repeat after me: Gruëzi.”
“Gruëzi,” I said.
“Close enough. That’ll get you through the worst of it. The rest is a cake walk, believe me.”
“I still have to buy a ticket to Lenzerheide.”
“No problem. I’ll be with you. Main thing to remember is you have exactly five minutes to exit the train at Chur, go up the escalator, get to the parking lot and board the bus.”
“And if I’m late?”
“Have you seen the Swiss clocks located in all the stations?” Paul asked and I sort of nodded. “When the second hand hits the departure time, the doors close and the bus or the train or whatever departs. You can be chasing behind, loaded down with three suitcases and a child and pet dog in tow, a ticket clenched between your teeth, and it’s bye-bye, Charlie!”
“I see. What if the bus is late?”
“The bus is never late.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“I think I’m gaining a picture.”
“Great,” Ingrid said. “Now, tell me, what have you been up to? What brings you here, really? It’s been awhile since we’ve seen you.” She topped up the glasses. “I want to know everything.”
From the bus station, I rolled my carry-on up the hill to the address given me. The hill was steeper than I thought and I stopped on the flagstones to catch my breath. It was an attractive older house, likely begun as a cabin then rooms added onto and updated over the years with a large sundeck off the second floor and presumably a spectacular view of the surrounding valley, lake and mountains. I rang the doorbell and Sigi answered. She looked fantastic and my gaze was drawn immediately to her one blue and one green eye.
“You made it.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“I said I’d be here.”
“Yes, you did. And here you are.” She stared at me in a rather quizzical fashion. “Not … disappointed, I hope?” She rattled the remains of ice in her glass. “I’m having gin and tonic. Would you like one?”
“Love one.” I followed her up the stairs to a living room that contained a fireplace surrounded by various couches, tables and chairs plus doors leading to what I presumed to be bedrooms and a bathroom, the kitchen being off to the side. A pair of sliding glass doors opened up to the deck. On the white walls hung numerous nude or seminude photographs of Sigi, both in black and white and in colour, most of which were taken, at a guess, when she was in her twenties or early thirties. She handed me a drink and I wandered slowly around the room taking in the photos. Sigi shuffled awkwardly beside me, skipping her feet, bouncing her shoulders, unable to remain still.
“My husband shot most of these. Some are stills from movies or stage productions.”
“Uh-huh. They’re very good.”
“I was younger, of course.”
“In Canada it’s generally pets and wildflowers on the walls.” I studied one of her standing under a waterfall, her nipples poking through a thin fabric. “Do you ever feel … I don’t know … uncomfortable? When people come over, I mean? Having these on the walls? Them seeing you like this?”
“You mean nude?” she asked. “Why should I? When you are young, and an actress, you want to be looked at; admired. I had a fairly lovely body, I think. Nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about.”
“You still have a lovely body, in my opinion.”
“‘In my opinion.’ That’s very amusing. Why do you see the need to qualify? I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, I was stating a fact. And you answer like that. Typical.”
“Hmm.” I didn’t want to piss her off immediately, though it seems I had. I took a breath. “You say your husband shot most of these.”
“Yes.”
“When you were younger.” She saw where I was heading and made a pouty face.
“And one day he stopped.” “And one day he stopped, yes. It happens.” She crossed her arms and swirled the ice cubes in her glass. “You’re laughing. You find that funny?”
“It’s not that. I’m just thinking about a line in a poem I read once. It goes: Saying naked reveals itself, we shoot nudes.”
“You’re saying he enjoyed me as a nude, perhaps not so much naked?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe. And you would enjoy me naked. Maybe.”
“Maybe.”
“And maybe you will.” She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the side of my mouth. “But right now, I’m in the mood for a cigarette. A Gauloise.”
“You smoke?”
“Only when I’m in the mood. And then, only Gauloises.”
“You have some?”
“No. We have to go to town. Do you mind? We’ll go to the Giger bar. Do you know the artist Giger?”
“He designed the monsters in the Alien movies, yes?”
“Very good. There’s a Giger bar in Chur where all the chairs are shaped like aliens. Shall we go?”
“Sure, why not.”
We dropped our glasses and ran hand-in-hand outside to the car, laughing and tittering like a couple of school kids.
“A Mercedes,” I said. “Sweet.”
“Owning a Mercedes in Switzerland is like owning a Honda in Canada. It’s an everyday car.”
“Still a Mercedes to me.”
“In that case, you drive.” She tossed the keys over the roof and we switched sides. “I must warn you though, the sun is going down and there are many hairpin curves along the road. You need to be extremely careful, OK? You may not have noticed this as y
ou rode up on the bus in the daylight.”
“I sort of recall it was pretty windy, but I think I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you think so. I’ll keep you posted anyway.”
We eased down the hill and hit the highway. It wasn’t so bad. The car handled smoothly and the curves were tight, yeah, but manageable, and I thought I was well settled into the rhythm.
“OK,” she announced. “Here comes the first one. Be ready to brake and turn. Most importantly turn.”
“Sure,” I said, not especially concerned. I cranked the wheel gently and noticed the road ahead had disappeared. I cranked harder and still nothing.
“Harder!” Sigi shouted. “Harder, turn harder! Keep turning!”
I spun the wheel all I was worth and suddenly, instead of the headlights shooting off into space, I could see them mashed against a massive rock face.
“The other way!” Sigi screamed. “Brake, turn, keep turning, keep turning!”
She continued to shout orders and I kept thinking if I turned any harder I’d be staring at my own headlights in the rear view mirror. We broke through the hairpin onto a short straightaway and the two of us burst out in a collective laugh. Whether due to fear, excitement, relief or a combination, I wasn’t sure. I do know the adrenaline was definitely flowing.
“We made it,” I said.
“Yes, we made it. Only three more to go. And each more dangerous than the first. Like Kafka’s guards.”
“Yes, except, at the end, we’ll be drinking beers and smoking Gauloises among the aliens at the Giger bar. Even Kafka didn’t imagine that.”
We were cuddled in the front seat of the car cruising back to the house. It was still only around ten o’clock and Sigi suggested we stop at Nino’s Pub for a nightcap. What the hell, I thought. We’d be in bed together soon enough. Besides, we had a full week to look forward to. I pulled the car into a parking lot.
“You’re not afraid we’ll bump into someone you know?”
