41
I had just hit the final period and pulled the sheet from the roller of my Olivetti, the paper still warm.
The last chapter told of Bernie’s grand entrance — who, in my version, had become “a drunk saxophonist dragged around like a ragdoll from bar to bar, with the same enthusiasm of a lost suitcase that’s stopped hoping to be found” — and our lavish detour in Florida.
Afternoon light filtered through the window, slicing the room in two: half in shadow, half in a golden rectangle that lit up the pile of pages and a cup of cold coffee. The smell of ink and paper mingled with the faint tang of furniture polish. It was my little kingdom.
Then Tess burst in — like a Michael Bay trailer spliced into a documentary about bees. She was wearing a tailored suit — the kind that tells you “day off” doesn’t exist in her dictionary — and held a white envelope as if it were the scroll of destiny.
“It’s here,” she declared, planting herself in the center of the room like a royal envoy.
“What is it?”
“The invitation for the next leg of the tour. Montana. Luxury cottage, mountains, fireplace... Ryder in ‘chalet man’ mode.” She paused, her smile sharp. “And it says I can bring Bernie.”
I read the line: “Feel free to bring your… musician friend.”
“He’s playing it cool,” Tess said. “Pretending Bernie’s presence doesn’t bother him. Classic move from someone secretly chewing on his own pride. And I adore when they reach that boiling point.”
“If you say so…”
“I can see it,” Tess went on, eyes glazed as if she were projecting a private movie.
“Ryder, in his hotel suite, naked in front of the mirror with a towel around his waist. He touches his sculpted abs and suddenly doubts: too perfect. Too poster-boy. Too… conventional. Then he thinks of Bernie. Bernie, who embodies everything Ryder only pretends to sing about. And not just because of his physique, which is somewhere between a sloth and a thrift-store mannequin. Bernie is the pure essence of nonconformity. He’s rebellion with dark circles, artistic torment in slippers.
A tiny worm has already started gnawing at Ryder’s brain…
and guess who planted it there? Me, Bea.
Me. And the most delicious part is, he has no idea.
He thinks he’s a tortured genius reaching his truths on his own. ”
“Meanwhile,” I said, “I’m thinking of Bernie right now. Assuming he’s awake… which, really, he never fully is. I wonder if he has the faintest clue he’s been abducted and dragged across state lines just to make one of the most influential men on the planet jealous.”
“Take faintest clue out of that, Bea. Bernie is authentic. Ryder never will be. And on that, la Contessa is absolutely right. She understood everything: artists who rise too fast always end up doubting themselves. The masses cheer, but the masses are ignorant, hypocritical, deceitful. When has true quality ever pleased everyone? Deep down, they know it. So, even if they weren’t commercial at the start, the second they become icons…
boom. They’re commercial. It’s mathematics. ”
“All very interesting,” I replied, raising an eyebrow. “But Ryder is still about a million times better a musician than Bernie.”
“Oh Bea, you don’t get it! I’m talking psychology, not technique. This isn’t about truth or falsity — it’s about perception. Ryder is already half trapped in his own illusions.”
“Sure, sure…” I said with a crooked smile. “I can totally picture it: Ryder pouring out five-hundred-dollar champagne down the sink, then heading to 7-Eleven to buy the same cheap gin Bernie chugs.”
Tess pointed a theatrical finger at me, like a seer glimpsing beyond the veil. “If you could read what’s sneaking into his mind right now… you’d be breathless.”
Then she pointed to a line at the bottom of the letter. “I hope to offer you dinner, away from the spotlight, so I can tell you quietly about my new project.”
“See?” Tess lit up as if she’d just struck gold. “That’s not a dinner invitation. That’s a kneeling. That’s the official act of a prisoner begging the queen for clemency.”
“So,” I asked, “you’re going to accept?”
“This time, yes. But by the end of the night, he’ll realize the steepest price won’t be the bill at the restaurant — it’ll be the hours he has to spend without me.”
She began pacing the room, dictating the plan like a designer stitching the gown for her coronation.
“I’ll look at him as if he’s a secret I already know.
I’ll let him tell me something banal and turn it into tragedy.
If he dares touch me, I’ll let it last exactly three heartbeats.
Never more, never less. Three heartbeats, and he’ll have lost the war. ”
She stood still for a moment, then let out a soft laugh, almost to herself. “You know what la Contessa also says? At the first meeting, don’t try to make him fall in love. Make him believe he already was, in another life, and has just found you again. ”
“Aren’t you afraid of overdoing it?”
“Overdoing it?” she cut me off, arms wide open. “Darling, excess is my natural size. And when it comes to victory, there are no half portions.”
And right then I realized that, for Tess, Montana wasn’t a place at all: it was the final stroke of a siege she already knew she had won.