3

May of that year was unusually warm even for Los Angeles, and Albert Bosch, accustomed to the cool summers of the high mountains of Europe, needed relief. He discovered that the air was far cooler along the beaches, and he was able without much difficulty to rent a small house in Malibu, only a few blocks from the beach. It turned out that he had some acquaintances living there, including a cameraman and some actors of both sexes who had worked under his direction in Europe and were now finding fairly lucrative and not-too-demanding work in Hollywood, mainly in television. Their hangout was a café on the Coast Highway that was owned by an Italian couple, and soon Albert Bosch was a regular there. Another regular was a Belgian who was working as an agent; he was the one who was finding jobs for the others, and before long he was finding them for Albert Bosch as well: directing episodes of television serials that the producers thought might benefit from the Bosch touch. That was what they called it: the Bosch touch.

On an early afternoon in June, Albert Bosch arrived at his house after a walk on the beach and a cappuccino at the café with the cameraman, who was between jobs. The mail had already been delivered; aside from junk it included a long letter from Margaret. He read only the first few sentences before he put it down on his desk. He looked at her framed photograph, showing her smiling at him. He smiled back, picked up the frame and, out of habit, started to bring it to his face as though to kiss the picture good-bye, but he stopped in mid-gesture, opened the left bottom drawer of the desk and placed the picture there, face down.

When she was not working, Gina George liked to sleep late. The shooting of Fleshpots of the West had ended, and there was only some looping left to be done. She would do that in the afternoon.

While she was dressing, she turned on the television, and half-heartedly watched the ending of a soap-opera episode. As the final credits rolled she began to turn away when something on the screen caught her attention. It was the legend “Directed by Albert Bosch.”

She waited to see the name of the production company and, once dressed, looked up its telephone number in the trade directory.

“Hi, this is Gina George.” She waited for a response.

“You mean...” began the woman at the other end.

“Yes, that Gina George. Can you tell me how I can get in touch with Albert Bosch? He directed for you.”

“I can’t, but I’ll try to connect you with someone who might be able to. Would you please hold for a moment, Miss George?”

About an hour later Albert Bosch, having made himself a simple lunch that he ate on the deck, was back in his study, reading a script. The telephone rang.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Bosch? My name is Gina George. I am an...”

“Oh yes, I know who you are, Miss George.”

“Would you be interested in meeting with me? I have seen your films, and I have a project in mind that might be right down your alley.”

“Yes, I certainly would be interested.”

“I’m a big fan of yours, you know...”

“Thank you. You are very kind.”

“Would today be okay?”

“Yes, why not.”

“There is this bar in Beverly Hills that’s nice and discreet. Would you like to meet me there at six?”

“Six o’clock? Yes, I think so.”

“We’ve never met, but I’ll be wearing a...”

“Oh, don’t worry, Miss George, I shall recognize you.”

When his work at the studio was done, which could be late morning or early afternoon, Barry Bergman would drive back to Hollywood and stop off for a workout at the neighborhood gym – or health club, as it had recently begun to be called – that he had been frequenting since his beginnings in the industry. The gym had kept up with the times, acquiring newer equipment – and raising its fees – as the years went by and as the fitness fad took hold, but it maintained the homey quality that made it appeal to people of all kinds, and he liked that about it. Of course he could afford to join one of the exclusive clubs that catered to his ilk, but he was not drawn to them.

On this day, as he was warming up on the stationary bicycle, he noticed a very pretty young woman with seemingly natural honey-blond hair and an exceptionally well-built body in a leotard and capris working out on the pectoral machine known as the fly. He wondered if she was trying to increase her bustline, perhaps her body’s only feature that might need some work. When she finished a set, she looked his way, and he smiled at her. She smiled back, with a kind of innocent and yet fully sexual allure, and resumed her exercise. When he felt warmed up he dismounted from the bicycle and walked over to the young woman, produced a card from his shorts pocket and waited for her to finish another set before offering it to her.

“Barry Bergman,” he said. “I’m a producer, and I’m looking for someone just like you. Are you in the business?”

“Well, yes,” she said, “I mean, I’d like to be. I’m Leslie Lyman.” She took the card with her right hand, looked at it and transferred to her left hand, freeing the right for a handshake.

“Leslie Lyman?” he said. “A wonderful name. Give me a call. Any time.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Bergman,” she answered melodiously, “I sure will.”

“Barry, please,” he said. “Are you done with this machine, by the way?”

“Oh, yes, I am, uh... Barry,” she said with a sudden smile. “In fact, I’m, like, done, period. Gotta go home and shower!” It was not hard for Barry Bergman to visualize Leslie Lyman in the shower. “Bye!”

“Bye!” he said. “And don’t forget to call me, Leslie!”

“I won’t,” she said, stopping at a locker and opening it in order to take out a small duffel bag before she left the gym.

Since Albert Bosch came from a country that was famous for punctuality, Gina George decided to be early. She preferred to avoid a scene of coming into a place and appearing to be looking for someone to recognize her. At one time or another she must have seen a picture of Albert Bosch in a paper or a magazine, but she had no recollection of it.

By six o’clock, then, she was sitting alone, simply but elegantly dressed in basic black, at a corner table. Numerous men walked in, stared at her as she was used to being stared at, and moved on. She had not yet ordered a drink, but by ten past six Albert Bosch had not shown up, and she decided that she had better have something. She asked a passing waitress for a glass of chardonnay.

“Which one would you like, Ma’am?” said the waitress, pointing at a card on the table.

“Whichever one is the fruitiest, if you don’t mind.”

“That would, in my opinion, be the Fuller Creek nineteen-....”

“Sure,” Gina interrupted the vintage recitation, “Fuller Creek sounds good. The fuller the better.”

The waitress laughed and moved to the bar.

The wine was okay, though Gina would have liked it fruitier still. She sipped it slowly.

It was six-twenty-five when a man of medium height, with hair that seemed not to have been cut in over a month, wearing a blue short-sleeve sport shirt and not-yet-faded blue jeans, came through the door, took a quick look around the premises and made a beeline for Gina’s table.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said by way of introducing himself. “There was an accident on the Coast Highway. It took me over an hour to get here.”

“That’s okay,” Gina lied, “I just got here myself.” They looked at each other intently before shaking hands. He’s quite good-looking, she thought as he sat down.

“I have never experienced such long traveling times,” he said, “but I like living in Malibu. I’ve always loved taking walks along the beach, barefoot, just on the line where the wet sand meets the dry sand.”

“Me too,” she said. He’s so poetic, she thought, just like his movies.

“You know the feeling,” he went on, “when one foot is wet and the other is dry... It’s like feeling two natures inside oneself. And what is that you are drinking?” he asked, noticing out of a corner of his eye that the waitress was headed in their direction.

“Fuller Creek chardonnay. It’s not as fruity as I would have liked, but it’s nice.”

“Ah, yes, California wines! They have been a lovely surprise for me, like so many other lovely things.” He smiled at Gina and turned to the waitress. “A Fuller Creek chardonnay, please!”

“Yes, sir,” said the waitress.

“You know,” said Gina, “Sometimes I feel two natures inside me, even without walking on that line on the beach.”

“I fully understand,” said Albert. “But, you know, we haven’t really introduced ourselves. On the telephone I called you Miss George, and you called me Mister Bosch. I would prefer to call you Gina.”

“Yes, Albert.” The waitress brought him his wine and asked Gina, “Any more for you, Ma’am?”

“Yes, sure, bring me another.” And to Albert, after the waitress had left, “So we can clink with full glasses!”

“Yes!” he replied with enthusiasm. “Our glasses must be full of Fuller Creek!”

After clinking they sipped in silence for a while. Albert noticed that unlike so many Americans with whom he had drunk wine, Gina actually held her glass by the stem and not by the bowl, and their clink resounded pleasantly.

“Are you free for the rest of the evening?” she suddenly asked.

“Oh yes,” he said, “I am a free man! To freedom!” And they clinked again.

“Maybe we can have a nice dinner somewhere, and then walk on the beach together...” she suggested.

“That would be lovely,” he said.

“But what shall we do about the two cars?” she asked.

“Where is your car?” he asked in return.

“In the garage across the street.”

“Leave it there, and I will drive you back.”

“But that’s a lot of driving for you.”

“In your company it’s a pleasure, my dear Gina.”

“You’re an old-world gentleman, Albert. I didn’t know they made ‘em like you any more.”

“Old world perhaps, but a gentleman… Don’t worry, I can be a son-of-a-bitch if I have to be.”

Not much had been said between Barry Bergman and Leslie Lyman as he drove his BMW from her apartment house to the restaurant. It was only as they were walking inside, after the car had been whisked away by the valet, that he felt like beginning a conversation

“I’m glad you didn’t wait too long before calling,” he said.

“Gosh, I mean, no, like, I was so excited and all! I told Jennifer – she’s my roommate – when she came home from work and she’s like, ‘Go on, call him!’ So I did.”

“Jennifer – is that who answered the door?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s just me and her living there.”

They were shown to their table, and Leslie sat down, letting her miniskirt roll up almost to the groin and giving Barry Bergman a good opportunity to appraise her legs.

“She’s cute,” he said. ‘Cute’ was not a word he might have used in his own mind to describe the radiant beauty who had greeted him at the door, but he needed to speak Leslie’s language. “Is she an actress too?”

“Well, not right now, but she studied for it in college and all, and she’s, like, been in some plays, and maybe...”

“Because,” he interrupted, “actually, I need two girls for this project.”

“I’m just so curious,” she said. “What’s it like?”

“Let’s get some drinks,” he said, “and order the food, and then we can talk about it, okay?”

“Cool,” she said. “I want a margarita.”

A waitress walked by just then, and Barry Bergman hailed her.

“A gin and tonic and a margarita, please,” he said, “and then the menu.”

The waitress looked at Leslie. “Could I see an ID, please?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Leslie. She fished a driver’s license from her purse and showed it to the waitress, who looked down on it suspiciously, then up at Leslie, and down again on the license.

“Okay,” she said before walking away.

“This happens to me all the time,” said Leslie. “I’m, like, twenty-two, and they think I’m, like, seventeen!”

“I think you’re just perfect for our project, honey,” said Barry Bergman.

The waitress brought the drinks quickly and set them on coasters on the table, with a menu beside each coaster. Barry Bergman raised his glass as if to toast when he realized that Leslie was already drinking her margarita. She grinned in embarrassment when she noticed his gesture and raised her glass as well.

“To the future,” he said before taking a sip.

“Yes!” she said. “To the future!” And she giggled before taking a gulp.

A little later Albert Bosch and Gina George were walking along the beach with their shoes – his loafers, hers sandals – in their hands. The sun was beginning to set.

“You know,” Gina was saying, “when I saw that you were directing soap operas, I thought that you could do one of my regular movies in Barry Bergman’s studio – you could make it more sensitive, and all that. But now I think that would be a waste. I want to do something completely different.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“Oh, I will, I will.” They were now walking in the direction of Albert Bosch’s house, and she began to run. He, however, continued his steady walk. She stopped, turned to face him, and threw her sandals into the air. One of them fell on the dry sand and the other on the wet sand. He bent to pick one up, then the other, but he held on to them by their straps and did not hand them to her when he caught up with her.

“Now I have something of yours,” he said.

“You can have a lot more than that,” she said, putting a hand around his arm.

They were almost at the sidewalk. He turned to face her, their bodies close but not touching. She put her other hand on his other arm.

“In that case,” he said, “you can have your shoes back.”

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