5 Because of their different citizenship, Albert Bosch and Gina George had to go through different passport lines, but once they were reunited they found their baggage quickly and, as soon as they passed through the path marked NOTHING TO DECLARE in six languages, it did not take long for them to see a man in a chauffeur’s uniform holding a sign reading MR. ALBERT BOSCH. As they approached him they waved at him, eliciting a smile and a wave in return, followed by an appreciative up-and-down glance at Gina, disarming in its unabashed brazenness. His English was minimal, but he knew some French, so that he and Albert were able to hold an animated conversation, punctuated by laughter, during the ride from the airport to the hotel. Every so often Albert would squeeze Gina’s hand, as if implying that he would later tell her what the talk was about. Gina, however, couldn’t have cared less. With her year of high-school French, she might have tried to pick out a word here and there, but she didn’t bother. She was tired after the long flight. She had been to Europe before, of course, but had taken only nonstop flights to London, Paris, or Rome. She also reflected wistfully that Barry Bergman, as a traveling companion, was more fun – she remembered how, as a little girl, she would have said “funner” – than Albert Bosch. She looked out at the scenery, whose Mediterranean quality made it seem not so different from Southern California, except for a village, with a church steeple and red tile roofs, that was just off the highway, and then blocks and blocks of nondescript apartment houses. Yes, she said to herself, we’re in Europe. The ride turned to be surprisingly short, and the hotel, Barcelona’s finest, was altogether up to the standards expected by a movie star like Gina George – maybe four and three-quarters stars, she thought on noticing that the lobby carpet was slightly worn in places. It did not have a swimming pool, but she was told by doorman that there was an arrangement with a more modern one nearby that had one, and if she wished she could be driven there by the hotel’s driver. Going to the beach was also quite easy; the way to get there would be told her the next day. “Aren’t you going to tip the driver?” she asked Albert as the chauffeur was taking his leave. “No, my dear, he works for the government – the regional government, that is – and we are their honored guests,” he answered, smiling as he said “honored.” “Wow,” she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been honored before, except in the adult industry.” “As you say in American slang, darling, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” By the time they were shown to their suite, she could barely stand on her feet, let alone on her four-inch heels. She kicked off her shoes and plopped, still dressed, onto the bed, which seemed even bigger than a California king-size. The air-conditioning, she noticed, was not as cold as in a comparable American hotel, and, after sitting up to take off her dress and her minimal underwear, letting them fall to the floor, she lay down on the bed naked, feeling quite comfortable. She noticed Albert, who was still undressing and putting each piece of clothing on a chair, staring at her greedily. “I’m absolutely exhausted, honey,” she said. “It would be like... like necrophilia. You know,” she added, noticing his puzzled expression, “like fucking a corpse.” “Yes, I know what it means, darling,” he said with a smile. “I was just surprised.” “Surprised that I know the word?” She felt herself on the defensive. “No, of course not. It was just a surprising metaphor. I’m thinking of using it in the screenplay.” She now felt flattered. She saw that he was undressed and wearily reached out a hand to him. “Well,” she said with a yawn, “if you’re into it...” “No,” he said as he lay down beside her, “I am tired too.” He kissed her cheek. “Tomorrow morning,” he continued, “we will both be alive.” “I hope so,” she said with another yawn. “Good night.” “Aren’t you going to go under the covers?” he asked. He was not accustomed to even minimal air-conditioning. “I’m fine like this,” she said, yawning again, and without a further word turned off the lights. Furiously pedaling the stationary bike against higher-than-usual resistance – he seemed to need it that morning – Barry Bergman reflected on his two nights – of which the first one was only an evening, since she had insisted on going home to sleep, around midnight – with Jenni, as he would now be calling her. They had been quite wonderful. He had enjoyed coming inside her – he had lost count of how many times between the two nights, and he could trust her, unlike Lesli, to be taking her pills regularly – possibly more than with any other woman he had been with, and he had been with lots, dozens, maybe scores – he was not one to keep count. He allowed himself the thought that if he were ever to settle down with one woman – which was not about to happen – Jenni might well be the one: she was smart, funny and beautiful, with the sweetest tits and pussy he had ever felt, smelled or tasted, and she desired him just as much as he did her; what more could a guy want? Oh yes, and mouth too. But she would be working for him; the contract was signed, as was Lesli’s. The thought of Jenni working with Frank Bond produced a pang of jealousy, a little more perceptible than the almost subliminal twinge he had experienced on noticing the eye and ever-so-slight body contact between her and Alan Marcus, his lawyer, during the contract signing, the way Alan would take her hand to point out clauses to her. He’d better be careful. If he developed feelings for Jenni – or, for that matter, for any of the girls in his stable – then working relationships might be jeopardized. No, Jenni would simply replace Gina George as the first among equals, prima inter pares. Was pares the right feminine plural? Yes, it had to be. He had brushed up on his high-school Latin several years before, in connection with As the Romans Do It, set in ancient Rome, starring Gina as a priestess in a temple of Isis. Reading Latin porn – that was a fun project! He began to think again about the new project, the one with Jenni and Lesli, with a part for Lili Long as well. It would be set on a college campus – the title would be something like Campus Capers – with Frank Bond as a professor, Lesli as his secretary who attends to all his needs, and Jenni as a student. There would be a scene where Frank and Lesli would be doing it in the office, on her desk, having forgotten to lock the door, and Jenni would barge in on them... Frank Bond as professor would not be all that far-fetched, despite the kinds of roles he had done in the past. He would look good in tweed and with a pipe, and he should have no trouble delivering high-falutin lines. He had, after all, for years been – under his original name – a Shakespearean actor, though a struggling one, before he discovered that his true vocation, one that had previously been only a hobby, lay inside his pants. Barry Bergman had always wondered how many Juliets, Ophelias and Desdemonas had been penetrated by that now-famous schlong, between rehearsals, at cast parties, maybe even in dressing rooms during intermissions... Now there was an idea for another project! It could be called A Bard in the Bush! He could visualize the scene: A knock on the dressing-room door. “Who is it?” “It’s me.” “What do you want?” “The same as you.” The door opens and shuts, the schlong comes out, the skirt goes up, with no underwear... Maybe the guy could be Shakespeare himself – no, there were no actresses in Shakespeare’s day. He was startled to realize that the bush and legs whose image had involuntarily formed in his mind were Gina George’s. The image, as usual, zoomed out to the rest of her naked body, and after fleetingly wondering what Gina might be doing in Europe at that moment – she had called him the previous afternoon to say good-bye – he willed it to morph into that of Melissa Milton, with that enormous rack of hers. Melissa had asked Kruger to make her as big as humanly possible, and Doc did more than comply, he went beyond human. But Melissa would be good for this sort of part. She too had been on the stage, she had done Shakespeare... And Barry Bergman hadn’t done Melissa in a while. He should get together with her some time soon, maybe even that night – she was due to go to Mexico, with her kid, on vacation any day now. She was fun to talk to, and it always felt nice to rest his chest on those huge hemispherical pillows, strange as he found them to look at, while shtupping her. He had five minutes left on the bike when he saw Lesli Lyman come into the gym. She gave no indication of noticing him, and after packing her stuff into a locker she proceeded to the hip-abduction machine, at the far end of the room, where she sat athwart his line of vision. She had magnificent thighs, that girl, and what was between them was not bad either, but she did seem rather inexperienced – surprisingly so, considering the aplomb with which she accepted his explanation of the work she was to do for him – and their one night together, even allowing for her liquor-induced narcolepsy (which could happen to anyone), had not been very satisfying either personally or professionally. He would have to work on her, teach her about herself, prepare her for the work that she would soon be doing. When he was younger – ten years ago, say – he would find such a task challenging and enjoyable, but by this time it had become more of a chore. By now he very much preferred someone like Jenni, who knew what she was doing and even had some tricks of her own up her sleeve. He got off the bike and walked over to Lesli’s area. The gym only had a few people working out, so that she became aware of his footsteps when he had come about halfway. She turned and smiled at him. “Oh, hi, Barry, I didn’t see you.” And she giggled. The giggle would be just right for the secretary part, he thought. “Hi. We must stop meeting like this. I’m kidding,” he added on noticing her puzzled expression. “Would you like to have dinner with me again this evening?” “Oh, sure...” “And then” – he was standing beside her now and speaking softly – “come up to my place?” “Sure, Barry,” she said. “You’re my boss now.” He would have to straighten her out about that, but in private, not there and then. But the way she said it would also be right for the part. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll call you later about the time.” “Yes, sir,” she said with a grin. He smiled back at her and walked to the fly. Albert Bosch and Gina George did, indeed, find themselves fully alive the next morning. A breakfast of coffee and croissants in their suite was followed by a hand-in-hand stroll through the old city and then lunch with the regional culture commissioner and some other dignitaries. The conversation was in English, but it was mostly between them and Albert. Though she did not feel sleepy – it must be that strong espresso, she thought – she felt her mind, clouded by jet lag, wandering. Every so often a question would be addressed to her – these European guys are so polite, she thought – and she, though not always sure of its import, managed to give an appropriate answer, accompanied by the smile that, she thought, they had previously seen in men’s magazines. Of course they stared at her, perhaps not as impudently as the chauffeur, but certainly without the self-consciousness that their American counterparts would have exhibited under the circumstances. At one point the commissioner spoke up, louder and with more emphasis than had been heard up to then. “And we will like to hear speak our language,” he said. The construction made Gina smile inwardly. That’s something for the script, she thought. “You mean the dialect that you speak here?” Albert asked. He had previously told Gina that he grew up speaking a dialect and learned his state’s official language only in school. There was indignation in the commissioner’s reply. “Catalan is no dialect,” he said sternly, “is a language, with old history, literature, theater. You will see.” And indeed they saw.