by John Moralee
“Antonio’s quite famous in Europe,” Marisa said, accepting a steaming mug, “maybe you heard of his last one? It’s called 1994.”
He had. 1994 was a homage to George Orwell’s 1984, updated for the new millennium. He’d watched it many times.
“It’s a classic,” Griffin said. “I have it on film.” There was a screening room along the corridor where he watched movies.
She sipped her coffee. “So, what do you do?”
“I’m a ... writer. Sort of. I write screenplays.”
“Wow, I always admired writers. They’re so creative. Personally, I have no imagination.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“No, not at all. If someone says think of a story I just can’t. I’m like a blank. You must be really talented.”
“Tell that to an agent.”
“No, I mean it.”
He could feel his cheeks burning. He stared at his coffee. “W-what do you do?”
“I was an actress. But I’m too old to be discovered. Now I’m 26 and a never-was.” She laughed but the truth in her words showed in her face.
“You’re not too old,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”
Now she blushed. It was an endearing reaction, and he found himself liking her more and more. “Griffin, would you like do something?”
Apprehensive, he asked what.
“Well, do you play tennis?”
“No.”
“Squash?”
He shrugged. “I don’t play sports.”
“That’s a shame,” she said, “because I get bored in the afternoons. Most of the people in this neighbourhood are like old, you know?” She frowned, but then brightened. “I’ve got an idea, but feel free to say no. I’d simply love to use your pool some time, if you don’t mind?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Great! Tomorrow, then?”
“Sure.”
“Great!”
*
The following day Marisa came over wearing a tight white swimsuit. She swam while Griffin sat in the shade working on the second draft of a story he was writing. He could not focus on his work with Marisa swimming so nearby. Her swimsuit was practically transparent when wet. He could see so much of her it hurt. He thought about Antonio having Marisa all to himself with shocking bitterness.
“Everything okay?” Marisa called out, as she climbed out of the pool.
“Fine. W-why do you ask?”
“You haven’t typed anything for five minutes. I thought you had writer’s block.”
“Just thinking,” he said.
He was mesmerised by the simple act of her drying herself. He did not want her to leave just yet. “Why don’t you use my shower while I make us some coffee?”
“Great!” she said.
He loved the way she said “great” all of the time. As a writer he noticed the little things like that. “Great” was her favourite word, though she probably didn’t know it. He showed her where the bathroom was, then he went into the kitchen.
Heh-heh. There was a secret camera in the shower. Originally, it had been placed there so that he could make sure nobody was hiding in there, like a reverse of Psycho. It wasn’t activated at the moment, but with one press of his Sentinel it could be. His hand hovered over the button for a minute, but he did not press it. That would have been an invasion of her privacy, as tempting as it was. He would not like someone spying on him.
When she entered the kitchen smelling of peaches, he handed her coffee just how she liked it. Sighing her approval, she grinned. “You know, Griffin, if you don’t mind me asking, aren’t you awfully young to have this kind of wealth?”
“My father was rich,” he said. “When he died I inherited two hundred million dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money,” she said. “I guess you have loads of girlfriends, huh?”
He blushed then. “Uh. No.”
“No? Why not?”
“You see I ... don’t go out ... much.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I can’t go out. I have this ... problem.” He did not want to talk about it, but he felt as though he should. Without knowing why, he started crying. Marisa put down her coffee and offered her arms to him. Her embrace released his pent up emotions like Dr Hanson’s therapy had never achieved.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
And he did.
*
“Two men broke into our house and tied me and my parents up. The plan was they were going to rob the house, and my father would claim the insurance. My father had planned it out with the men, you see. He wanted me to be killed in the ‘robbery’, too. But the two men decided to do it their way. They killed my father, then raped my mother before killing her. Then they did stuff to me, but they left me alive, figuring I was too young to be a witness ...”
An hour had passed. He stopped crying. Now Marisa knew what had happened to him. It was a relief in many ways. He had never told anyone the whole story before. (Though he kept his security fetish to himself - one thing at a time, he thought.) “I sometimes think they’ll come back to kill me. They are probably living in the Bahamas, but I can’t get that fear out of my head. It disgusts me to think they escaped. The world is an evil and ugly place.”
“Jesus,” Marisa said. “I can’t believe your own father wanted you dead.” She shook her head. “That must be terrible.”
“Dad thought the robbery would look more convincing if someone was killed. He must have hated me, but I never knew it until then. I guess he loved money too much. He wanted to scam the insurance company for about ten million, as if he needed it. But the robbers had other plans. Instead of becoming even richer, Dad got what he deserved. But my mother was an innocent person. God, I hate Dad for what he did. For a while I kind of went insane. I mean, my own father wanted me dead! And the things they did … It was like a wound that just got bigger and bigger. I was maniacally depressed for a long time.” He showered her the white lines on his wrists. “Dr Hanson helped me come to terms with it. He was like a real father. He thinks I’m cured. Still can’t go outside, though. I feel so pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic, Griffin. You’re brave. You just need a little help, that’s all.” She held his hand, touching the scars with a gentleness that was both erotic and caring. “I’ll help you.”
*
When Marisa’s husband was busy during the next week - he was at the Cannes Film Festival promoting a project - she visited Griffin frequently. They went swimming together. They watched movies in his private cinema. They talked and laughed and became the best of friends. She was the one thing in his life except his screenwriting that could lift the depression he would often sink into when the loneliness crept upon him. He realised she was lonely too, but she would not admit it. He loved her. But as long as she was married her would make no advances, he told himself, again and again. He was not the type of man who betrayed people. He was not like his father. So he hid his true emotions, satisfying himself just with her presence in his life. If she were happy in her marriage, he would not jeopardise it. But he sensed she was not happy at all. It was the way in which she talked about her husband, the way she seemed resigned to be a slave to his wishes. Antonio was the master of their house. By observing her here with him and there with her husband, he knew it for a fact. She was vibrant while she spent time with Griffin, but she looked as though her spirit had been drained away when her husband required her to push his wheelchair around.
“How did you meet Antonio?” he asked her, when she looked particularly distracted after a long swim.
“I was playing a bit part in a film,” she said. “My scene was cut from the final production, and I was so mad I went to see the director to have it out with him. Antonio was sitting behind this big desk in his office, looking so smug I wanted to kill him. I remember shouting at him, telling him I deserved to be in the film, it was going to be my big break. I really let rip with the anger, half-expecting him to stand up
and come swinging at me. But then I realised why he was just sitting there, taking it. He was in a wheelchair. There I was, thinking I had a problem when I was facing this poor man. I felt enormously guilt for what I was doing. I apologised and walked out. I honestly expected him to ruin my career with a few phone calls. But ...” She stopped to remember the details. “But a couple of days later he called me, asked me to come to dinner so he could explain why he had edited the film that way. I went, interested in hearing his justification. And I soon learnt how brilliant he was, and how flawed my own acting was. He had been right to cut my role, but I had been too arrogant and stupid to see the truth. He was a genius, Griffin. A real genius. Antonio was like no man I’d ever met; he was mature, wise, witty. We married two months later.”
“Romantic,” Griffin said. His fingers pressed into his palms like razors.
“Uh-huh, it was. I just wish ... oh, forget it.”
“What?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“What?”
“I just wish he wasn’t impotent.”
“He can’t ...?”
“No,” she said harshly. “It’s not just his legs that don’t work. Jesus. I shouldn’t have told you. He would kill me if he knew I’d told someone.”
“That must be a strain on you.”
“I love him dearly, but sometimes I just wish there was more, you know? It doesn’t feel complete without the physical love.” She sniffed away tears, her jaw trembling. “God, Griffin, why must life suck?”
He did not know. All he wanted at that moment was to please her, to make her happy. “Marisa?”
She looked up between her tears. “What?”
“I’d like to m-make love to you.”
There. He’d said it. The truth was out in the open. If she walked away now, he would understand. But he could not have kept his desire a secret any longer; it was tearing him apart.
But she did not walk away.
Instead, she kissed him, hungrily, without mercy.
*
“Wow,” he said, wiping the sweat off his brow. He sat up in the bed, admiring Marisa’s nakedness as she picked up her clothes. “Wow” didn’t seem to cover how he felt at that moment, but it was all he could think of as he watched Marisa getting dressed. It made him burn up just thinking about the last three hours.
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“You do?”
“Antonio’s back tonight,” she explained.
“Oh. You’ll be back, though? Tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
*
They made love whenever her husband was out of town.
Eventually, after Griffin was certain his love for her was real, he said: “I want you to leave him.”
“Griffin, I can’t do that. Not now.”
“When?”
“He’s in the middle of an important movie, honey. If I left him now it would ruin him. I need time to work it out.”
“But I love you.”
“And I love you. But I also love him. Jesus! It’s so complicated. Just hold on, for the time being. I can’t hurt him. It has to be done after he’s finished directing his movie, okay?”
“I suppose,” he said.
“Cheer up, babe. I promise I’ll tell him soon.”
After a strenuous session in the pool one afternoon, Marisa asked if she could read one of his screenplays. He had just printed out the (hopefully) finished version of his latest, so he agreed. He wanted to know her opinion. He watched her reading it, observing the minute facial expressions she made when she read something surprising, something funny. When she put it down she looked at him in a strange way.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “I’m just amazed, that’s all. This is incredible!”
“It is?”
“I’m not claiming I know much about writing scripts, but I’ve seen enough to know this has a spark. It would be a fantastic movie.”
“Great!” he said. I’m using her expressions now, he thought. It must be love.
“Look, why don’t I show it to Antonio, get his opinion?”
“I don’t know ...” He felt uncomfortable about that, considering he was having an affair with the man’s wife.
“Go on. He’ll give you an honest critique, if nothing else.”
Griffin could see she was itching to do him the favour. It would hurt her feelings if he said no.
“Okay, then. But don’t tell him who wrote it.” As well as fearing what Antonio would do if he found out he was sleeping with his wife, he didn’t want someone saying it was good just because he was rich. That was why he sent his screenplays off under a pseudonym. He knew how Howard Hughes had been exploited by the greedy, and he didn’t want his money influencing anyone. But if Antonio looked at his work, that was something different. A director would know a good script when he saw it. He was equally excited and nervous.
Marisa took the script with her.
*
“He loves your script,” she said, three days later. “In fact, he wants to meet the writer to discuss it.”
“What should I do?”
“Meet him.”
“But how? You know I can’t leave the house.”
“He can come over.”
“Here? But he’ll figure out we’re having an affair!”
“No, he won’t. He thinks we’re just friends.” She laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, I kind of told him you’re gay.”
“What?”
“Just so he wouldn’t become suspicious. Not that we’re doing anything wrong, Griffin, but I thought it would be easier if he thought that.”
“This is getting complicated,” he said. “Why can’t we just be honest with him?”
“After he’s finished his movie,” she said. “Now - do you want to see him or not?”
“Yes.”
*
Griffin had not used the dining room since the deaths of his family. But that evening he set up three places at the table, and prepared a six-course meal. He was a good chef, he knew, having experimented with food as a hobby since his release from the clinic.
Marisa and Antonio arrived at eight, precisely on time. Antonio looked like a big man despite the wheelchair. He was wearing a black suit and tie, with a white silk shirt. He was quite intimidating when he shook Griffin’s hand with a strong, bone-crushing shake. “Is very good to meet you, Mr Parker. My wife, she tell me you write this?” The screenplay was on his lap. “Is very good. Very good.”
“Thank you,” Griffin said. He tried not to look at Marisa too much, fearing he would give away their secret. “Please come this way, I’ll show you to the dining room.”
At the dining table, Antonio accepted a drink of wine. There was some problem with his muscle control, Griffin noticed. He kept splashing his wine on his shirt. When Griffin brought in the first course - Beluga caviar - Antonio struggled with his knife. Unselfconsciously, Marisa wiped his chin with a napkin whenever he dribbled. Antonio did not seem to notice his wife’s attention as he talked about his life in the movies. “Hollywood is like a beautiful woman, Mr Parker. You give her what she want, she return the favour. But one mistake, she find someone else. Is very hard to please her, you find?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I send off scripts every week, but most come back without a comment, if they do come back.”
“Griffin, I talk about your script, yes?”
“If you like,” Griffin replied. That was what he liked, very much.
“I tell you, I want to do this thing. How do you say? My English is not good.” He said something in Italian to Marisa.
She said, “Antonio wants to direct the movie.”
Griffin’s heart was beating swiftly. “He does?”
“Make good movie, yes?” Antonio said. “I see it in my -” He pointed at his temple.
“Mind?”
“Yes! My mind. Is m
asterpiece, yes? But not so simple.” He continued in Italian. Marisa translated. “He says the studio he’s working for have contracted him to do three more films for them of their choice, which will keep him busy for two years. But he says that if he could get the independent financial backing, he would do your movie in parallel to his studio work. The only problem is an independent film would need about twenty million in capital. He doesn’t know where he can get that sort of money.”
Twenty million was well within Griffin’s realm. He could have some bonds cashed in for that amount in a few days. “Er, can you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr Davello?”
Antonio shrugged.
Griffin left the room. He wanted to make a call to his accountant to see how long it would take for a transaction of that scale. He switched on his Sentinel in the hallway, but before he dialled the number he saw a red light on the screen. One of his antiques in the dining room had been moved. Many items in the house had security tags, but they did not set off the main alarm because he often moved them himself when cleaning. Marisa had probably picked up something to look at, but his curiosity was piqued, so he switched on the dining room camera.
Antonio had picked up a vase to inspect its quality.
But that wasn’t what Griffin noticed.
Antonio was standing up.
There was nothing wrong with his legs.
He appeared to be a healthy man, with absolute control over his limbs.
In a dull, mortified shock, Griffin switched on the microphones.
“Sit down,” Marisa said to the man.
“Shut up, will you?” No trace of an Italian accent. “He won’t be back for minutes. I’m just checking out some of the goods, okay? Man, this is like real Ming dynasty, worth fifty grand, maybe more.”
“I won’t shut up. Jesus! I’ve been so careful about everything, I don’t want you to screw up. Get back in the wheelchair!” The man grunted, then obeyed her. “By the way, Steve, I think your accent sucks.”
