His Cruelest Moves

Chapter 1

one

The blizzard raged, sending snow flying almost horizontally across the barren hillside, beyond which a range of sun-bright mountains raised their lofty peaks against a sky that was such an icy shade of blue it might slice you.

Up the slope struggled two distant figures toiling through the driving snow, gouging deep tracks in the thigh-high drifts.

As they neared, it could be seen they were two men, one old and the other scarce older than a boy.

Each wore a vast stiff oilskin, a wide-brimmed Stetson hat, and carried a blanket tied over one shoulder.

Hat brims, shoulders, and blankets were all piled in driven snow, while the men’s eyebrows, mustaches, and stubble were white and stiff with frost.

“Patró, if he ain’t there, what’ll we do?” called the youngest cowboy, a pale languid youth, desperately struggling after the older man, the snow driving like bullets into his face, making speech difficult.

The old guy, the one called el Patró, paused, the camera slowly zooming in on his eyes, as he blew out a cloud of icy vapor.

“If he ain’t there,” he announced after a long pause, “we pray.”

The younger cowboy said nothing, but as the lens panned across to him, his eyes flicked once to el Patró, before focusing again on the path ahead.

He swallowed nervously. Keep it real. He could feel the cold snow trickling down inside his collar, freezing water running down the nape of his neck.

He shivered, using the sensation. Keep it real.

Extend the moment… Damn, he’d lost it… Get it back… Find it…

“Cut!”

Finally! They slumped and straightened up, shaking out tense shoulders. Toni on SFX cut off the wind. Immediately the snow and sleet stopped. That was a relief.

“Good, that’s a take! Change camera, and let’s get the close-ups on Daniel and Isard!” the First Assistant Director called.

The cowboy playing el Patró, a big strong actor of around sixty-five, with a neck on him like a bull, his mustache thick and his hands meaty like clubs, so tall he had to duck when he went through doors, gave a little squeal and began hopping about hysterically:

“Mare de Déu Santíssima! I’ve got water all down my collar! Guys, couldn’t you have heated that sleet just a little bit! I’m chilled to the bone! Make-up, towel please! I’m freezing my tits off over here!”

“That was nice.” The director, Valentí, appeared beside Isard, the young cowboy, eyeballing him intensely. “I liked your vulnerability there. When he gives that line, remember your fear: ‘If he doesn’t come, will I die today?’”

Isard nodded, reassured he didn’t seem to have messed up, though he’d lost his concentration at the end of the shot.

He was about to apologize, but Valentí, catlike, had already crept off and was now talking to the actor playing el Patró, one of Catalonia’s most bankable stars, a veteran by the name of Daniel Crespo.

So Isard ducked behind the boulder beside him, where little Joanet was crouched down out of the camera shot, holding a battery-powered blow dryer and a towel.

Turning it on, he began to blow-dry the young cowboy with hot air.

“How’s that, Sir?”

“Blissful, thank you!”

He leaned into the hot blast, warming up his chilled body, even as he dabbed more errant water from around his neck with the towel.

He also had to admit, he loved the pampering you got on set, even a young rookie like himself.

Joanet was a small eager lad a few years his junior, desperate to make it big in the film industry, in whatever job was needed.

He was compact and tanned with huge trusting dark eyes that Isard found hard to resist. One evening before the end of the shoot perhaps he might suggest going for a drink.

Joanet seemed eager. But was he into Isard, or just starstruck?

Isard was hardly a known star, but just having a speaking part on set gave you VIP status.

Right now he was chilled to the bone, hungry and tired.

Preferable to have Joanet raising his body temperature just with his hair-dryer; he needed nothing more for now, however nice it would be to kick back with him in the hotel’s spa and get friendly.

What had prompted him to accept a part in a western, set high up in the freezing Pyrenees of all places?

OK, his agent kind of implied he couldn’t refuse. Even so….

“You get one shot at the big time, kid,” she’d said. “Think carefully before you turn it down. You may not get another offer.”

Yeah, thanks for believing in my innate talent, Dolors.

But she was right. Maybe he wasn’t the right type for film?

That’s ridiculous! There is no right type for film!

Introducing Isard Muntaner. All the way through drama school, they’d had him pegged for effete willowy types: layabout sons, older men’s catamites, the odd devious hooker.

That isn’t who he was, but he did seem to give off a sensual air if the crème de la crème of Catalonia’s casting directors could be believed.

He was actually the opposite. A homebody and ridiculously ethical, not the sort who’d ever dream of raunchy late nights out or deceiving their boyfriend when his back was turned.

Give Isard a nice cup of tea and a worthy cause any day.

Plus, he’d never been particularly promiscuous.

Maybe he didn’t have the body for it? Puny was a word he’d leveled at himself.

Slim, if you were being gracious. Willowy was his preferred adjective.

Straight dark hair. Huge deep eyes. Hypnotic is how they’d been described in a review of their end-of-course show.

And he wasn’t exactly a muscular superman.

El flequillo, the forelock, was how the script described him, a nickname the character Armand levels at him in his opening scene.

So the scriptwriter must have intended that to be pretty definitive. Hence his casting.

What was he doing in a western? Excellent question.

Something to do with contrasts? His milkmaid against the hero’s old-school machismo?

The plot of Relentless seemed to suggest it—it even included a kung fu sequence at the end.

This was his first proper movie role, so he didn’t want to blow it, and he had no idea why they’d called on him, but he was going to make the best go of it he could.

Even Javier Bardem had started out during police procedurals.

Speaking of, they’d even brought in a martial arts coordinator to bring him up to speed in the macho department.

Well, it was their money they were frittering away.

He was all in, but whoever this kung-fu honcho they’d got signed up for him was, they certainly had their work cut out.

Though if that got him out of this freezing oilskin for a few hours, he’d be one hundred percent on board.

“Joanet, have I got time to go to my caravan? I need a cup of tea and to warm up.”

“I think so. They’re switching over the cameras for the close-ups. I reckon you have about thirty or forty minutes. I’ll call you.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

And he made a beeline for his caravan—yes, even the minor stars up here were given their own mobile quarters for the day—where wisely he’d left the heater on full blast. So it would be warm and toasty when he got there.