* * *
Julian had a suite. Cushions in muted colors were scattered on the couch, thick bunches of pale hydrangea matched the faded pink and mauve of the room, candles spread a sweet scent. He had taken half a Xanax two hours earlier and canceled dinner with the Italian film distributor, but the night felt like a never-ending threat stretched in front of him. He dialed a number on his phone.
“Hi…”
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mom. Julian.”
“Oh God, Jules…I didn’t recognize your voice, you sound so hoarse. Did you catch a cold on the flight?”
“No.”
“What are you doing awake at this time? Isn’t it the middle of the night over there?”
“It’s not late—it’s just after ten,” Julian said impatiently.
When he had told his mother that his next film would be set partly in Rome she had seemed disappointed, as if he had been in some way disloyal to her and the rest of the family.
“What’s the weather like over there?” she asked. “I saw it’s been raining a lot.”
“It stopped. It’s spring again. Listen—”
“Your brother is in town with the children,” she interrupted him. “They’re coming to lunch on Sunday and—”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
Julian took a long breath.
“I met Valeria today.”
“Who?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer. There were verbs and specific words he needed to avoid, although his mother probably already knew who he was talking about and was only buying seconds.
He cleared his throat.
“Maya’s Valeria.”
“Oh, no,” she said very slowly. Then he heard a slow exhale, like thin air hissing out of a balloon.
“She’s an actress now. My casting director called her for a small role and today she came to the office. We were just talking and suddenly, somehow…”
He stopped. His mother remained silent.
Julian had an ability to decipher the different nature of silences. Some were innocent, full of expectation and longing. Others were dark, filled with resentment. Some felt like marble, like this one. He could picture his mother retracting and curling in alarm. The beautiful bony face, the straight hair parted in the middle—the immortal Joan Didion style she had worn since her twenties and had never changed. He heard a rustling sound and figured she must be reaching for a cigarette with the lightly warped, arthritic fingers that always pained her in the mornings. He pictured the familiar gold ring in the shape of a knot she wore on her index finger. She couldn’t take it off anymore because of the knuckle swelling.
“Somehow?” she finally repeated.
“I can’t explain it—it’s a coincidence, pure and simple. I realized who she was in a way that was like…a flash. Her name is Valeria, but she had a different last name, so it never occurred to me that she…But then, when I mentioned Maya’s name, she—”
She cut him short, reproachful. “Stop it. I can’t have this conversation now. Not like this, out of the blue.”
“I just wanted to let you know.”
“Not on the phone, long-distance,” she said, raising her voice. “Really, Jules, what’s wrong with you?”
Julian threw his head backward, resigned. Of course, he thought—he should have known better. He and his mother had always been incapable of talking fully about Maya. Their grief had turned into a taboo.
“You’re right. This is a mistake. Sorry,” he said, and wondered if their silence would last forever.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s just impossible. It’s not your fault.”
They were both quiet for a few seconds, listening to each other’s breathing. Then his mother’s bitter voice came up again.
“Jesus. I was hoping I’d never have to hear that name again.”
* * *
It was almost eleven at night. Valeria was standing up by the kitchen counter, eating mechanically from a can of beans, eyes fixed on the tiles by the sink. She had washed her makeup off, tied her hair back with a plastic hair clip and changed into more comfortable clothes, a T-shirt with a cardigan and her blue pajama trousers. She was supposed to be going to a movie with a man she slept with on and off, but she told him she was coming down with a bad cold. Being alone hadn’t helped her feel any better. If anything, the weight pressing on her lungs was becoming heavier and heavier. There was nobody she could talk to about what had just happened. There were so many people in her life now who had never even heard the story, and it was too late to tell it. Her brother was in Berlin and they had slowly drifted apart, for no particular reason but geographical distance. Her mother suffered from depression, and was the last person who could help. Her father was dead.
The phone rang.
“Hi. This is Julian.”
It took a second for her to realize it was him.
“I got your number from my assistant.”
“Yes. Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine now, thank you. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like that—”
“No need to apologize.”
“Yes.”
Again, there was a silence. She waited.
“Just in case you were still wondering, I didn’t know who you were when I asked the casting director to see you again,” he said. “I didn’t make the connection. I barely pay attention to the actors’ names, but yours didn’t sound familiar, anyway. Did you change it?”
Was there a slight accusation in his tone? She couldn’t tell.
“I use my mother’s last name for work, just because I was told it has a better sound,” she said, as if to justify herself. “And I didn’t make the connection either. ‘Johnson’ is such a common name and…I didn’t remember she had a brother named Julian.”
Neither one said anything.
“We need to talk,” he finally said.
“Yes, of course.”
“If you don’t feel like it, however, I’d totally understand.”
She paused again, thinking.
“I dread it. But I want to at the same time.”