Baja Honeymoon

by Roland Graeme

  She was now one of those women who was famous for being famous, and as a result, everything she did was the subject of obsessive scrutiny and commentary. The media poured out a steady stream of stories about her romances past and present, her friends, her enemies, the parties she was invited to, her clothes, her jewels, her pets.

  Ken learned that before she met Rick, Eva had been involved with a German industrialist. He was variously described as a millionaire, a multimillionaire, or a billionaire, depending on which currency the computations were being made in. After living together in high international-café-society style, Eva and her industrialist, whose name was Gunther, announced their engagement.

  But it turned out that Eva had never been divorced from her Bulgarian husband. He popped up unexpectedly, and once he discovered that journalists were willing to pay him for interviews, there was no shutting him up. Eva’s current suitor had to buy him off to persuade him to recede back into the woodwork, and a divorce was belatedly obtained. It looked as though the new marriage would finally go on as planned. And then Eva and her German beau had a falling-out, reportedly over the fact that Gunther still had at least one previous mistress on his payroll. Eva broke off the engagement, leaving her intended not only high and dry, but with a noticeably lighter wallet.

  Eva’s celebrity had led to the perhaps inevitable media backlash. During the past month or so, Eva Angelokva bashing had become a virtual cottage industry.

  She’s No Angel, one tabloid story proclaimed, making the obvious play on Eva’s last name. The article itemized every man Eva had ever been romantically involved with, pointing out that each successive lover was either more prominent or wealthier than his immediate predecessor, or both. The writer didn’t claim Eva was a prostitute in so many words, but Ken had no trouble reading between the lines. The story concluded with the snide speculation that, having stashed away enough assets to keep herself living in high style for the time being, Eva was now in a position to buy the favors of a promising but still comparatively impecunious young actor like Rick.

  Eva Will Marry for Love, Not Money, another headline declared—politely enough, it would seem. Unfortunately, this was immediately followed by the zinger Because the bridegroom doesn’t have any.

  This was nothing, however, compared to what Ken found when he did a search of Eva’s name on the Internet.

  One blog posed the question Who’s the biggest Fame Whore in Hollywood?

  There were numerous nominations for this dubious title—among them, according to one posting, Eva Angelokva. And not just in Hollywood, but in all of North America and Europe. She’ll do anything to promote herself.

  Yeah, a second blogger responded. The only reason she’s marrying that poor sucker Deke is because she thinks it’ll give her a chance to break into movies. I hear she’s a pretty good actress on her back. If they handed out awards for faking orgasm, she’d win the Oscar.

  A third blogger declared, Once that poor dumb sucker Rowe gets wise to her, I give their marriage six months.

  It was strange. Ken had been on the verge of envying Rick. It seemed as though he had everything going for him that a straight guy could wish for. Now, though, Ken wasn’t sure he didn’t feel kind of sorry for Rick.

  Armed with a downloaded copy of Rick’s filmography, Ken went to a video store, where he perused the shelves in search of the titles. He chose three DVDs to rent: one of the horror films and the two Russian ones.

  The horror movie, a typical example of low-budget scare cinema, was mildly entertaining but didn’t tell Ken much about Rick’s capabilities as an actor. Rick played one of the few survivors of an attack of mutant leeches from outer space. The preferred feeding mode of these creatures seemed to be fastening themselves to the bared, silicone-enhanced breasts of Rick’s female costars, who writhed and shrieked at great length as the leeches sucked their blood. Some of the close-ups of their gyrations suggested they were experiencing orgasm rather than death agonies. Rick, Ken had to admit, at least looked handsome, especially once he lost his shirt, which he did early on in the proceedings. And he was certainly game. In a climactic sequence, he was already splattered with filth from head to foot even before he hacked several of the squiggling, rubbery monsters to pieces with an axe, at one point uttering the memorable line “Die! Die, you bloodsucking scumbag freaks!”

  The first of the two Russian films could not have provided a greater contrast. It was a moody, introspective drama, beautifully photographed. Rick had only a supporting role, but he blended in perfectly with the rest of the cast. Ken found the film so engrossing that he watched it straight through twice.

  Ken didn’t think the filmed version of the Rimsky-Korsakov opera would be his sort of thing, but to his surprise, he enjoyed it immensely. The story, basically a comedy with supernatural elements, was entertaining. Rick made the most of his role as a wily peasant lad, although it took Ken a few minutes to get used to the ringing tenor voice supposedly emerging from Rick’s expertly lip-synching mouth. In the last act, set in a moonlit forest, Rick seemed to be having the time of his life romping about, around, and finally in a lake with a bevy of beautiful water nymphs. This time, mercifully, there were no mutant leeches to worry about.

  On another evening, Ken finally caught up with Rick’s current work, namely his highly successful television sitcom, which was completing its second season of first-run broadcasts. Rick was funny and sexy, reason enough for the show’s popularity.

  Ken found it difficult to reconcile the images he’d been viewing on the screen with the flesh-and-blood man he’d met. There was Rick, a personable and pleasant enough young man who seemed intelligent and outgoing, but who on the surface appeared to have nothing extraordinary about him. But whenever a camera started rolling, he seemed transformed.

  I guess that’s why they call it acting.

  Ken was delighted when Rick called him the following afternoon.

  “I owe you dinner, remember?” Rick said.

  “I remember.”

  “And I had such a good time talking to you the other night.”

  Ken felt a tingle of pleasure at this admission. “Did you?”

  “Sure. You almost sound as though you don’t believe me.”

  “I don’t think of myself as exactly a brilliant conversationalist.”

  “You aren’t brilliant,” Rick teased him bluntly. “And you don’t try to be, thank God. You’re interesting, which is a lot more satisfactory in the long run. Are you free tonight?”

  “Sure. Want to go to Gallaghers again?”

  “I have a better idea. Why don’t you come to my place? I’ve not only got it looking halfway livable, I’ve done my grocery shopping and am well stocked.”

  “Yeah, but can you cook?”

  “Take a chance and find out for yourself.”

  “All right, I will.”

  “Why don’t you come over around seven?”

  “That’ll be fine. What can I bring?”

  “Just yourself and your appetite. I have everything we could possibly need. Including dessert, which I picked up at the Serenis’ bakery this afternoon.”

  “What kind of dessert?”

  “Ah, now you sound a little more eager. I’m not telling. You’ll have to find out when it’s served.”

  “I’ll see you at seven, then.”

  Ken didn’t like to show up at a dinner party empty-handed, so he stopped at a liquor store on his way to Rick’s place and picked up two bottles of good-quality wine.

  Rick buzzed him through the apartment building’s front door.

  “Stay put,” he suggested. “I’ll come down and give you the grand tour. I remember you telling me you wanted to see what the inside looks like.”

  Rick showed Ken around the lobby and an adjacent room on the ground floor where the tenants could sit down and socialize, before taking him up in the elevator.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” Rick protested when Ken offered him the paper bag containing the two b
ottles of wine. “But thanks. Why don’t I open one now, and we can have it before and with dinner?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Make yourself at home,” Rick said before he excused himself to carry the bottles into the kitchen.

  Ken had assumed that a successful actor’s apartment would be professionally decorated, at least to some extent, and might even be a somewhat intimidating showplace. The moment he set foot inside Rick’s place, however, Ken felt reassured. He wasn’t going to have to worry about sitting down on some fragile antique chair or knocking over some expensive piece of bric-a-brac with a careless movement of his elbow. Rick, in fact, owned the kind of functional furniture Ken had. The living room had a sectional sofa, armchairs, a coffee table and side tables, and bookcases, all mismatched, as were the lamps set on the side tables. Predictably, Rick owned an entertainment center with a widescreen TV and an impressive-looking stereo system. Three large shipping cartons, stacked one on top of the other in one corner, betrayed the fact that Rick had recently moved in. At first glance, there was nothing on display that revealed the occupant’s profession, hobbies, or personal tastes.

  Here and there, though, were objects that broke up the anonymity of the room, hinting at individual quirks. Lined up on top of a well-stocked bookcase, like so many little soldiers, were a half dozen vintage Japanese toy robots in brightly colored metal and plastic, droll-looking in their combination of mechanical and humanoid characteristics. There were a few framed photos of Rick posing with actors and directors.

  The wall behind the sofa was dominated by a huge oil painting, about eight by ten feet, in a brushed steel frame. It was a typical example of Soviet Realist art, depicting workers both male and female busying themselves in a steel mill. Everything was rendered in quasi-photographic detail. The drab overall color scheme of grays, browns, and ochers contrasted vividly with one area of the painting, in which molten metal was being poured from a crucible in a fiery cascade.

  Ken took a few steps toward the sofa to get a better look at the various activities taking place in the painting.

  “Wow. That’s some picture,” he told his host, who had returned with two filled glasses in his hands.

  “Do you like it? Don’t be afraid to tell me you don’t. I won’t be offended. Lots of people think it’s kind of weird.”

  “It’s unusual. I mean, it’s an unusual thing to have on display in somebody’s home. But I do like it. Wherever did you get it?”

  “It’s one of the things I brought back from Russia. I saw it in a gallery, and when I found out how inexpensive it was, I knew I had to have it. A lot of Russians are embarrassed to have such things around now, because they think they’re old-fashioned at best and politically incorrect at worst. So they’re eager to unload them on anybody who shows an interest in buying the stuff. To save money, I had it taken off the stretchers so it could be shipped rolled up. And then I had to have it restretched and framed, which cost almost as much as I paid for the picture in the first place. But it was worth it. I get a kick out of it every time I look at it.”

  Ken sipped his wine. “Tell me about your trips to Russia. Did you have a good time?”

  “Well, we were working. I did two movies in a row there, in a short space of time. But there was time to see some of the country and get to know the people, too. I really enjoyed it. I want to go back some time.”

  “I’ve heard conflicting stories about that director you worked with, Viktor what’s-his-name.”

  “Chernitsky.”

  “Some people seem to think he’s brilliant, others say he’s crazy. Which is it?”

  “I’d have to say somewhere in the middle, which is true of a lot of people in my line of work, after all. Very intense, a workaholic, but a guy with a great sense of humor who knows how to have a good time when he does take a break from work.” Rick paused. “You’ve heard the stories, of course.”

  “The stories? No, I haven’t heard any stories.”

  “About me and Viktor. That I became his boyfriend, which is why he insisted on casting me in May Night.”

  “Do tell.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Viktor’s gay, but he already has a lover, and the two of them are more or less monogamous. I suppose he developed a sort of man crush on me. I didn’t mind. I liked him. I got along with the real boyfriend too. Which of course led to all these rumors about us being in a threesome together.”

  “A troika, so to speak,” Ken joked.

  “Exactly. I didn’t know you knew any Russian.”

  “I don’t. I do know that word, though.”

  “I picked up a smattering while I was there, and I’m trying to learn more of the language. But I’m being a neglectful host. Come on, now I’ll give you the grand tour of the rest of the apartment. First stop, the kitchen, where I can check on the progress of dinner.”

  The kitchen boasted an assortment of high-tech appliances, including an elaborate Italian-made espresso machine. A rack on wheels held a collection of copper pots and pans.

  “Something smells good,” Ken commented.

  “Let’s hope it tastes good. I forgot to ask. You’re not one of those fussy vegetarian types, are you?”

  “God, no.”

  “That’s a relief, because the main course is going to be meat, and plenty of it.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “Everything will be ready in another fifteen or twenty minutes. Come on.”

  With refilled wine glasses in their hands, the two men made the rounds of the other rooms in the apartment. Rick showed Ken a dining room, underfurnished at the moment since it contained only a small square table with four chairs. The bedroom and bathroom were spacious, and another room contained mostly more shipping cartons.

  “This is supposed to be the guest bedroom,” Rick explained, “but I have a feeling it’s going to end up being the miscellaneous storage area.”

  The glimpse Ken had obtained of the actual bedroom gave him some further insight into Rick’s personality. The bed itself was a modest affair, a full-size mattress and box spring set on a low platform, flanked by chests of drawers on either side. A large armoire, one of the few items of furniture in the apartment that looked as though it might be a bona fide antique, stood against the opposite wall. Rick left stacks of books on the floor beside the bed, and Ken found it somehow reassuring to see that he was one of those guys who was careless about putting his clothes away. One heap of garments lay on the floor near the books and another was piled onto a chair.

  They returned to the living room and sat down, Rick on the couch, Ken on a nearby armchair.

  “So what do you think of the place?” Rick asked.

  “It’s nice. I wouldn’t mind living here myself. I must admit, though, in terms of square footage, this is probably about the same size as my own place. It doesn’t look all that big for two people.”

  “Unless they’re friendly, as the saying goes.”

  “Yeah. To be perfectly honest—no offense, Rick—but I’m having a little trouble imagining Eva Angelokva living here.”

  “So am I. I’m not sure there’s enough room here just to hold all of her clothes and accessories. Anyway, that’s one of the things that’s still up in the air at the moment. She has this big house in Beverly Hills, you see, and although I’d love to be able to talk her into selling it, she doesn’t want to give it up.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me the two of you are about to get married, but you haven’t finalized your living arrangements?”

  “We haven’t finalized a lot of things, I’m afraid. It’s all pretty much a work in progress. We have such conflicting schedules, and Eva, of course, is always traveling. Some of our friends have accused us of rushing into this. But I’m sure that I want to be married, which is the important thing. All the petty details can be worked out gradually, later.”

  Ken couldn’t help thinking that where and how a married couple was going to live wasn’t really somethin
g to be decided upon at the last moment, let alone “worked out gradually” after the fact. But, as a gay man who lived alone, he was hardly an authority on the subject. And it was none of his business, after all.

  “You need houseplants,” he commented, after glancing around the living room again.

  “I kill them. I either overwater or underwater them.”

  “You should try cacti and succulents. I have some. They’re hard to kill, and they do well indoors in a bright light. You should take advantage of those big south-facing windows you’ve got there.”

  “Not a bad idea. Come on, dinner should be just about ready.”

  They ate at the kitchen table. Rick, Ken discovered, was a more than decent cook. The main course was beef stroganoff, no less, and it was as good as anything Ken had ever been served in a restaurant.

  “You learn how to cook, or you take up something else as a hobby when you have a lot of time on your hands in between jobs,” Rick said when Ken complimented him on the meal.

  “I remember being promised dessert.”

  “It’s in the fridge to keep it fresh. Rosa Sereni told me you like her cassata cake.”

  “I love it.”

  “Cassata cake and coffee, then, coming right up.”

  After polishing off slices of the cake, they took their second cups of coffee into the living room.

  “Want to listen to some music?” Rick asked.

  “Sure.”

  “You choose.”

  Ken, inspecting a row of compact discs on one of the bookshelves, found several complete recordings of Russian operas grouped together. “How about one of these?”

  “Do you like opera?”

  “I like Verdi and Puccini. Something with a tune in it, and where the soprano dies at the end.”

  Rick laughed. “Viktor got me interested in Russian opera. Why don’t you try The Tsar’s Bride? You might like that.”

  “Sure. What’s it about?”

  “Sex and violence. Everybody is in love with the wrong person. It all ends badly, of course.”

  Their conversation flagged while Ken found himself focusing his attention on the music and enjoying it. They took a break halfway through the recording, when they had to change to the second CD, and had some more wine.