While he’s telling me all this, Charles is transforming into the Charles I photographed back in the movie star’s apartment – that tight-faced, glazed-eyed man I don’t recognize.
Charles, he sits back down at the table and pours me another coffee, then fills his own cup. He’s loosened up now, back to his normal self. Watching the steam dance in the air.
He says, The movie star. The movie star is my father’s boss’s son.
And I go, Jesus Christ. Well that’s all starting to make sense then.
He apologizes for not telling me the truth before, and that he understands if I don’t want to help him.
Because, truly, he wants to make the movie star’s life miserable.
Because the movie star is the boss’s greatest achievement. His life, his world, his everything.
Because destroying the golden son while the father watches? That is sweet, sweet revenge.
Because, truly, he’ll never be able to sleep, or get rid of the all-consuming rage that pulses through his veins all day, every day, until the scales are finally balanced.
I think about what young Charles had to go through losing his daddy.
And I think about what I had to go through.
Having to see my dad scared, ashamed and embarrassed because he was losing clumps from what was once a full and thick head of hair: for true one of his biggest fears made real.
Having to resort to a wig that was constantly fussed over, that made him look more pathetic and weak than it did well.
My phone chimes. A message from Mia:
No. You’re the one that’s confused.
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN
Please, says the movie star, on his knees, looking up at the woman in the red dress.
I can’t do this anymore. It was okay when we were on set, I could handle it. But now? It’s killing me.
Akemi blows musky smoke into the dark, and it swirls, lit up in the light, caught in between the flickering projector and the giant screen.
She points and says, I don’t get it. This guy is such a bad actor. Why is he so famous?
I take the nearly finished joint from her, feel the warmth of it on my fingertips. One last deep toke, the red glows brighter in the dark of Charles’s private cinema room, and it’s done.
I feel myself fill up with the smoke, hold it in as long as I can.
I finally exhale, and after a coughing fit that has me doubled up in my seat, I straighten up and say, Looks count for a lot. And that actor’s pretty good-looking. For an Asian guy, anyway.
She glances at me. What’s that supposed to mean?
Tell me one Asian guy who is better looking than George Clooney.
She looks at me, tells me she can think of dozens. No, more.
And then she adds, You realize you’re Asian, right?
And I say, Am I?
The opening credits roll for a new film.
Opening shot over some plinky-plonk orchestral music: Mia, in a kitchen. It’s an old black and white film.
She’s wearing an apron over a dress, fifties housewife style, preparing a meal while the movie star sits at the dining table, reading a newspaper. It’s so big it covers his face and his body.
The camera zooms in on the hob Mia is cooking on: a big bubbling pot of water, another of gently simmering, clear brown broth.
She drops some noodles into the water to cook, and shouts to the movie star in an old-timey American accent, Dinner will be ready in just a tick, honey!
We see Mia drain the noodles. She places them into a deep bowl, she ladles the broth over, she sprinkles some chopped spring onions on top.
She brings it over to the table, where I’m now sitting, the movie star to my left. He bends the top corner of his paper down and grins at me a grin full of perfect, white teeth.
The movie star folds his newspaper up, puts it down on the table next to the steaming bowl, and breathes the fragrance of the dish in deep.
He says, Sweetie pie, you’ve simply outdone yourself, this looks and smells absolutely delicious!
