20 There were two things that Albert Bosch had resolved not to think about on the flight from London to Geneva: Lady G in Paradise and Margaret. But the futility of the resolution struck him the moment he boarded the plane: unlike the past six months, when all of his travel expenses had come from the Lady G budget, he was flying not first class or business but economy, as he was back on his own, relatively meager, resources. Now, if what Geoff Scrivener, who was Gina George’s – or rather Barry Bergman’s – distributor, had told him was true, then the film’s video sales would in a short time make those resources rather ample. This meant, of course, that the videos would have to be sold in shops specializing in erotica, or at best in the erotica sections of general video shops; and that the box cover would have to advertise the product as a Gina George film directed by Albert Bosch, not an Albert Bosch film starring Gina George. His own distributor, Julian Burroughs, had enthusiastically seconded Geoff’s ideas; he saw them as the only way to recoup his investment and, at last, perhaps make some real money. According to Geoff, who was what Americans would call an arty (or was it artsy?) type, the box would prominently feature a naked Gina as a kind of Eve figure in paradise, with a serpent-like creature with Mario Farga’s face coiled around her in some way that would not hide her perfect breasts. When the question arose of who might design the cover, Albert could not help thinking that no one could do it better than Margaret, but he kept her name silent. Nor could he bring himself to give his definitive approval to Geoff’s proposal. He told them that he would think about it and let them know as soon as possible. He nursed a last, lingering hope that the festival in Utah would somehow preserve his project as an art film. And, as hard as he tried, even now he could not keep Margaret out his thoughts. Over the past three years, arriving at the Geneva airport had invariably meant being met by her and taken to her house in the French Jura mountains, if only for a few days. This time he would pick up his baggage and walk, alone, to the railway station in order to board the InterCity train that, in an hour and a half, would take him along the lake, over the mountains and down the Sarine valley to Fribourg. The weather was predicted to be clear and the train ride would be spectacular. As he passed the business-class section on the way to coach, he noticed a man, slightly heavyset and with sandy hair and a ruddy complexion, looking at him from his seat as though recognizing him. Of course he always ran across people who recognized him. But this man, the very model of a jolly pub-going Englishman, hardly fit the cinephile profile, especially in a country where appreciation of Albert Bosch was scant. Once he found his seat and sat down, he quickly forgot about the man and gave in to the two subjects that were pressing to enter his mind. Lady G and Margaret, Margaret and Lady G: he felt torn like Faust, and Margaret’s name took on an additional, literary significance that – to his surprise, in view of his bilingual French-German schooling – had never occurred to him before. About halfway through the flight, a little past Paris, the air became turbulent. The seat-belt announcement was made, in English and in French. And by some strange process – though not so strange after he had thought about it – the plane’s ups and downs put him in mind of Gina. Not Gina the protagonist of Lady G in Paradise, nor Gina George the actress, but Gina George the woman – if indeed such a distinction could be made, and he was not sure of that. He had convinced himself over the years that he could never direct an actress with whom he was sexually involved. Well, Gina proved him wrong. Or did she? Could that have been the underlying problem with Lady G? Had he been too easy on Gina? No, he thought. Throughout the filming she had given every indication of being a disciplined actress. On the set she had followed every detail of his direction obediently, and if she had any differences with him she would express them only in private. And never did her discipline come through more effectively than during the explicit reshoots with Mario, when she heeded every one of his suggestions even while in the throes of erotic pleasure. Gina George was in the throes of a bad cold when she landed in Los Angeles. On the plane she had been on the verge of vomiting, and when she got to her condo – spotlessly clean as a result of the care that the management had given it during her absence – she took an aspirin and went straight to bed. She slept until the following noon, and when she woke up she felt somewhat better. She turned her answering machine back on, but when she tried to call the management office to thank them she found that she had almost no voice. The only person she could call in that condition was her mother, and by that evening she was in Terry Georgopoulos’ kitchen, sipping her famous egg-lemon soup. After two nights at her mother’s she at last felt ready to go home. Unlike many people for whom “home” means the place where they grew up, to Gina George – whose mother had moved several times after she had left – it meant wherever she lived; for the past six months it had been the Ritz Hotel in Barcelona, and now it was her West Hollywood condo again. She finally felt ready to make some phone calls, and the first person she would call would be her travel agent, for booking a flight to Salt Lake City. The second would be Barry Bergman. And the third – but not till the following morning, when it would be evening in Switzerland – would be Albert Bosch, who had left her the number at his apartment in his hometown, Freeberg or something. It would be only after talking to Albert that she would call back Geoff, who had left her a message while she was at her mother’s. Coming into the terminal, Albert Bosch, out of a habit now more than three years old, looked toward the waiting area where Margaret would have been waiting for him. This time he would not go that far, but turn left to take the shortcut to baggage claim. He looked up at the signs and then toward the waiting area again, just before turning off. She was there. He shut his eyes for a good three seconds and looked again. She was still there. But she was not looking in his direction. She was aiming her lovely smile at the ruddy Englishman from business class, who was quickly approaching her. Albert stopped to watch the spectacle, knowing that she would not see him. When the man came near Margaret they threw their arms around each other and fell into a prolonged kiss. Albert began to feel self-conscious, like a voyeur. With a last look he turned his body in the direction of the baggage claim and continued his walk. He speeded up his pace, for he knew that if his rolling suitcase were there waiting for him, then a fast walk to the station would get him to the train on the verge of departure. Otherwise he would have to wait half an hour for the next one, and he did not relish the thought of being alone, on a cold mid-December afternoon, on the platform of the Geneva Airport station. He was lucky. Though he had to wait a minute or two for his bag, he grabbed it quickly and began to run, pulling it behind him, to the station. The treadmill exercises in London had helped: he was panting only slightly when he shoved his bag onto the train and jumped in behind it just as it was beginning to leave. He forced his thoughts back to Gina. But thinking about Gina, and specifically the reshoots, brought back to his mind the shoot with Carla Ortiz. Now that girl had no discipline whatever; she had simply let herself go with Mario, who fortunately knew exactly what to do: a non-simulated replay of his scene with Sofia. But watching Carla at work got Albert excited on the set only for the second time in his career, and the first time had been when he was in his twenties. When the train slowed down as it approached Lausanne, Albert Bosch decided on the spur of the moment that he would get off there and try to call Sylvie, who, as far as he knew, was still unattached. He had done this once, some four years before. He had simply stepped off the train, gone to the nearest telephone and called Sylvie. “Hello, it’s Albert, I am in Lausanne. Can we get together?” And a delightful evening followed. At least he remembered it as delightful, though, as he was now thinking about it, it was shortly after this time that he and Margaret became a couple, and something must have happened to make him choose Margaret over Sylvie. Of course! How could he have forgotten it? Sylvie smoked. He also remembered now that he had not stepped off the train on the spur of the moment but that the train he had taken was not the direct one to Fribourg and he had needed to get off in Lausanne anyway. But no matter: an evening of secondhand smoke, as the Americans called it, might be well worth the rewards of Sylvie’s company. Albert rolled his suitcase to the telephone on the platform. The voice that said “ Allo!” resembled Sylvie’s but did not have its smoky quality. “Sylvie?” he said. “Oui?” “C’est Albert. Je suis à Lausanne. On peut se réunir?” She responded with a peal of laughter that was crystalline. She must have quit smoking! By morning he had decided to stay in Lausanne. He would easily find a fitness club there, and then he could go skiing with Sylvie in Rougemont, where she was from and where her family had a chalet, until it was time to go to Utah. Oh, yes: he needed to make reservations. Five days after the shooting the bandage on Barry Bergman’s left thigh could at last be replaced with a light, superficial dressing. His mobility was greatly improved: he could walk, though for short distances and with a limp; he could drive; he could do upper-body workouts at the gym. And he decided to test another aspect of his mobility by resuming the date with Nancy that the shooting had so rudely disrupted. Nancy had, indeed, initiated proceedings for a divorce on the very day of the incident. Paul was not going to contest it; he was far more preoccupied with his criminal defense, and his lawyer had advised him to be nice to her. It was he, therefore, who moved out of the house and into the discreet hotel, on a quiet street in Brentwood, where he was already a known customer: it was the place where he trysted with his patients to test their sexiness. Barry, Nancy, Jenny and Mario had dinner out together, after which the younger couple went out on the town while Barry and Nancy returned to his house. The spectacle of Nancy’s breasts had its desired effect on Barry; what remained to be determined was a position that would not compromise his injured thigh. After some trial and error they discovered that if they both lay on their left sides with their knees bent, her back to his chest, he could comfortably enter her from behind and his right hand could have free play on her chest. Her panting was gradually becoming voiced and acquiring a moaning quality, one that would soon begin its crescendo toward fortissimo. While it was going through mezzo forte, he could hear above it the ringing of the telephone in his study. This had happened many times on similar occasions, and he had long since trained himself to ignore both the ringing and the ensuing voice speaking to the answering machine. This time, however, it was different. The voice was that of Gina George, and Barry’s erection went down like a punctured balloon. “What happened?” Nancy asked, still panting. “I’d like to say it’s nothing,” said Barry, “but I’d be lying, and Doctor Nancy would know.” She turned to face him, letting her breasts caress his torso as she did so. This had been a specialty of Gina’s, both in private and in her movies. Nancy had never done it before. Where did she learn it? Had she watched a video with Gina George? “Was it Gina George?” Nancy asked as she kissed him. I’m a lucky guy, he thought. “Yes,” he answered, not bothering to ask how she knew. She turned him onto his back and let her mouth roam down his torso, along with a gentle brushing by her nipples. She must have seen Young Wives’ Tales, he thought as her mouth neared his crotch. And then he stopped thinking. For a while, that is. Until he heard the sound of Jenny and Mario coming through his yard toward the cottage, talking and laughing softly. But the effect of this intrusion on Barry was the opposite of that of Gina’s disembodied voice. He grabbed Nancy by her upper arms and pulled her on top of him. The plop of her left thigh onto his right made him wince in pain, which became one with the pleasure that followed. When it was over, he could hear Mario’s roaring. As loud as it was, it had not intruded on Barry Bergman, nor had any sound that Jenny might have made. After pressing 011 and the eleven-digit number, starting with 4126, that Albert had written down for her, Gina George let the phone ring ten times before hanging up. She repeated the exercise several times that morning, each time, however, letting the number of rings before hanging up diminish. And then her phone rang. It was Barry. “I’m fine,” he replied to her query about his state. “Almost back in shape.” “Is it true? Was it Doc? Were you screwing his wife?” “Yes, yes, and yes,” he answered. “And I still am, by the way. They’re getting divorced. But listen, I’d love to see you and hear all about your European adventure.” “You will, but it isn’t over yet. Actually I’m trying this very morning to get in touch with Albert, but so far there’s no answer at his place in Switzerland. It’s kind of urgent, and I’ll explain it all to you when I see you. How about a late lunch, after your workout – or are you working out?” “I am, though it’s limited. Late lunch would be great. How about two o’clock at Mort’s?” “Sure. Take care!” Two o’clock would be eleven in Switzerland, and if she didn’t get Albert by then, that would be it for the day. So Barry’s seeing someone, she said to herself. She was sure that Doc’s wife, a famous psychologist, would not be one for a casual relationship. And Albert was somewhere in Europe, maybe Switzerland, maybe not. It felt strange to Gina George not to have a man at her disposal. She wondered where Mario was. Was he still screwing that Carla from Bill Martinez’ studio? Or had he found another girl by now? In LA as in Barcelona, she was sure, he could screw any woman he wanted. And that, unbeknownst to Gina, was precisely what Mario was doing at that moment. The woman he wanted was now named Jenny Galvin.