Page 74 of The Producer: Aaron

For this reason, I am afraid that sooner or later, he will explode into a tangle of feelings from which he cannot extricate himself. Sooner or later, that spark will ignite in his chest and blow up all the emotions that, over the years, he has crushed and compressed in the corner of his heart to not feel.

“Give me a couple of minutes to change, okay?” I tell him and watch him walk toward the door, hesitate on the threshold, as if he wants to add something to our conversation, and then disappear downstairs.

The feeling of discomfort that squeezes my stomach is powerful, almost breathtaking.

***

The funeral is a parade of Hollywood bigwigs who seem to walk a red carpet rather than witnessing the burial of a friend. No one is shedding a tear, all are perfect in their thousand dollar suits, no one’s face is marked by the pain that death causes. Not even his secretary, sitting in the second row, who has lived next to the man every damn day for years, seems troubled by what has happened. She’s been staring at her fingernails since we entered the cemetery as if her main concern right now is a manicure.

I look at Aaron staring at the coffin, his lips clenched in a thin line. His back is straight, resting on the back of the chair, one leg crossed on the other, fingers intertwined in his lap. He is the portrayal of composure. He almost looks like he is sitting in the middle of an important meeting rather than in front of his father’s coffin.

When the priest asks him to say something, he gets up, buttons his jacket, approaches the man in the black tunic who makes room for him, and lays his eyes on the coffin again. His speech is one of those that praises the deceased without exaggerating. He lists all his achievements and seems more like praise for his career rather than the desperation of a son who lost his father. There is no reference to a personal anecdote. It was written this morning and learned by heart. I don’t even know if he or Tracy wrote it, considering how impersonal it turns out.

When he returns to sit next to me, I notice the embarrassmentof the priest, who struggles a few moments before resuming the service, but no one around me seems scandalized by what just happened. Perhaps because none of them have any feelings for the deceased.

I reach out my hand and intertwine my fingers with Aaron’s. The firm squeeze is the only indication that something in him is alive and rattling in his chest.

***

“Condolences.” Jacob Lautner, one of the writers of Aaron’s show, extends his hand and shakes it.

He is just one in a long line of Hollywood bigwigs who stopped after the funeral to offer condolences to Aaron, all with a word of comfort and all determined to be on top of his list, to be noticed, because from this moment on, Aaron is the most significant piece on the Hollywood chessboard, the one whom everyone must kiss his feet before climbing a step higher on the social ladder. Because while everyone has always called Aaron “the producer,” the truth is that he is much more. He is the owner of the streaming division and will soon become the owner of the entire broadcasting company.

“Thank you.”

“I hope our relationship will not change now that your father has passed away.” The half-smile accompanying his words makes me cringe as he tries to juggle this situation.

I don’t know how he managed to get so high in this industry, but he doesn’t seem to be someone who has the communication skills to be a writer. Especially when he is surrounded by sharks and is talking to the biggest of them.

Aaron tilts his head and studies him for a few seconds, certainly as intrigued as I am by his choice of words. “Jacob, you shouldhope that our relationship will change now that you no longer have my father saving your ass.” He coldly dismisses him as his gaze rests on the man behind him in line, who struggles to hold back an amused smile as he reaches out his hand and squeezes Aaron’s.

I see Jacob pale and lower his head as he reaches a small group of other writers waiting for him a few feet away from us, mumbling something to them as they walk away. Some of them glance at us and then return to talk, shaking their heads. I don’t know what just happened between Aaron and that man, but I’m sure the tension between the two isn’t pleasant.

“My deepest condolences.” A man’s voice makes me turn around, too close to be addressed to Aaron, who is a step ahead of me.

When I look in front of me, I find a hand stretched out in my direction. The mourner is a man in his seventies, with gray hair, few wrinkles on his face, and tucked into a black expensive tailored suit. On his arm is a woman only a few years older than me, wearing a little black dress that shows her curves without making her look vulgar, with raven hair that descends her shoulders in perfect waves, and red lipstick that accentuates her fleshy mouth.

The man studies me for a few moments with a look full of curiosity, which gives me the impression of a fox, cunning and waiting to see what my next move will be. Only after long interminable seconds of embarrassment do I realize that those words are addressed to me, not Aaron. He is the first person who has offered condolences to me, no one before him has deigned me more than a look passing by.

“Thank you.” My voice comes out without hesitation, and my grip on his hand is firm.

His grip lasts for a few seconds longer than expected. It seems like he is almost trying to evaluate how much power I have in this circumstance, why I am next to the most important man in this cemetery instead of waiting for him in the black limousine parked behind us. I feel like a token in a chess game. Only in this game, he is the king, while I am one of the simple expendable pawns.

“I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances, but I’m sure there will be other opportunities in the future.” The phrase seems innocent, but the way he says it almost seems like he is trying to understand if I am a permanent figure in Aaron’s future or if I will be forgotten like the previous flames of my partner.

“I’m sure there will be other more joyous occasions to meet.” My voice comes out firmer, accompanied by a discreet smile that I learned to show on the set.

I feel my heart hammer in my chest and buzz in my ears. This is one of those moments when my inability to relate to people in a social context is what can determine my inadequacy next to the man I have chosen. Being able to stand up to this man is essential to project an image of strength, or I’ll soon become Aaron’s weakness, the one they use as a lever to manipulate him.

The flash of surprise he can’t hide makes me realize that I earned my first victory in this game I discovered too late I was playing, and Aaron’s hand on my back is the warmth that comforts me and helps me calm my crazy heart.

“We should go.” My partner’s voice is calm, and when I look up at him, I find him studying our faces.

“It was a pleasure,” I say more strongly toward the man, then turn around and walk next to Aaron toward the limousine that awaits us.

I glance at him one last time and find him with the ghost of asmile on his face.

***

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