Chapter 9
I WAKE UP TO A LIZARD STARING DOWN AT ME FROM THE other side of the netting. But not just any lizard.
One that’s bulked up and muscular. A bodybuilder with humanlike shoulders. I slide out of the bed, trying not to disturb it, and glance at the bottom of the front door. My heart sinks. No schedule.
I tell myself it’s nothing personal. Camila’s just terrible at her job. Or maybe she ran out of printer ink. Doesn’t matter, I tell myself as I get dressed. I don’t need a schedule. I’m just going to go down there and get to work. I’m running on optimistic adrenaline. Brought on mostly by Meri’s texts early this morning.
FROGS?
You’re seriously sending me photos of frogs when you could be sending pics of René?
Unbelievable.
Also, I’m 10 minutes early to tutoring! Thanks again!!
The thought that my notoriously late sister is so eager to get the help she needs makes me feel lighter. And knowing I’m the reason it’s all happening, well, that just adds an extra bounce to my step. This is why I’m here. For her and Mom and our soon-to-be watertight house.
I check my reflection in the mirror and take a deep breath. I’m feeling pretty good in my navy twill blazer, white tee, and ripped-up yet still professional-looking jeans. I feel first-day-of-school jitters bubbling through me.
Nothing can stop me. I’m going to make the best behind-the-scenes of the making of an album of all time. It’s going to be creative and insider-ee.
All I need are two basic elements:
Intimate interviews. This is where the artist shares their innermost thoughts and feelings, how things are going and where the ideas are coming from.
All-access, behind-the-scenes footage of the creative process. This is the good stuff. Nice, close-up shots of the artist, pencil in hand maniacally writing lyrics, stepping inside the recording booth for the first time, addressing the camera directly, letting the viewer inside their world. As if to say, I’m happy you’re here. I want you here. Here as I brush my teeth or go for a swim to let off some steam. Imagine if we’d had a behind-the-scenes of Michelangelo as he took a break from carving David ? Having a slice of pizza as he stared at the slab of marble, contemplating where to hit it next. Looking at the camera and saying, “This is taking a lot longer than I expected.”
I make for the door, but a glimpse at the view outside my balcony stops me in my tracks.
There are clusters of palm trees on the beach, bent over and reaching for the sea. To my left and right are the other cozy cottages surrounded by more palms and fruit trees.
It’s a ridiculously picturesque view. Off on the horizon, there are small white crests of waves. Nothing seems to be moving, like in a postcard. And surprisingly, there’s zero humidity. Only a soft, warm breeze. Suddenly, it’s all too intense, and I have to pull the curtains shut.
The door to James’s room is open. I find him sitting on the floor, under a table. He’s in the process of organizing a mass of cables into neat piles.
“Hey, there you are.” He’s in a great mood. He stands, his cheeks flushed from work. “Here, I brought you a coffee.” He hands me a bright yellow mug off the bedside table. “Cream, no sugar.”
“Thanks!” I take a sip. It’s almost room temperature, but it’s delicious. James has clearly been up for a while. I can tell he’s moved around the furniture in his room to make space for a fold-up table with his laptop. The equipment cases are sitting on his bed, and lights are organized by size against a wall.
His room has very different décor. Mine has 1800s antiques with modern art; James’s is funkier. It’s like the 1970s idea of the future. The Jetsons with lots of pink.
“Hey, nice lava lamp.”
“Right?”
He gets back to work, lifting a large case and dropping it onto his bed with a thud. Inside, there are three cameras, each one tucked safely inside foam dividers. The one on the right catches my eye.
“I have that,” I say without thinking.
“Really?” He looks perplexed. “I didn’t know that.”
“You know I used to take pictures.” Whenever James came over to our place, he’d admire the few prints I’ve let Mom display on the living room walls. The photograph of her holding the cactus. Ten-year-old Meri in a bright red diner booth, biting into a slice of lemon. A self-portrait I took in front of a large mirror, where the camera obscures half my face.
“I didn’t think you still had it.”
“I do. Mine’s a much older version than yours.” No need to disclose that my father and I bought it at a pawn shop. “I should probably sell it.”
“I could buy it from you. Do you have any lenses?”
I feel a prick in my chest at the thought of letting it go. “Yeah.”
“Nice,” he says, his back to me as he plugs a power strip of charging camera batteries into the wall.
“Can we get going soon? I’d like to get down there right away.”
“Sure, sure. Right behind you.” He snaps a case shut and heaves it onto the bed.
We step into the hallway and make our way down the stairs. “I’m anxious to see the studio.”
We’re outside, stepping onto the wooden path, when it dawns on me that James hasn’t brought a camera or any equipment with him. “I guess you’ll come back for the gear once you’ve scouted the studio? So you can set up?”
I hear him come to a stop. “Oh, we’re all done.”
I turn around and see he’s standing a little taller. “What do you mean?”
“Here, I can show you.” Motioning back in the direction of the stairs.
“Where? In your room?” My stomach lurches. Something doesn’t feel right.
He pauses, a bit taken aback by my questions. “Yeah, on my laptop. I can show you where we were allowed to put the small cameras.”
Allowed?
I climb back up the stairs as quickly as I can.
James opens his laptop, and one by one, four small black-and-white squares appear on the screen. Each a fuzzy view from a different angle of the recording studio. The cameras are placed high up on the walls. I see two guys walking around, neither of which is René. As they cross the room, they pop in and out of the different boxes on the screen.
“What is this? Why are the cameras set up like that?”
“That’s where René’s assistant said we were allowed to put the cameras.” He clears away a few things on the table. “I ran the cable through the window so we could sit up here. She didn’t want us in the hallway.”
I let out a puff of air and stare at the screens. This is not what I had in mind. I need to be inside the studio. I want something intimate. I want to capture the first creative moments that kick off the album. This isn’t up close and personal. This is convenience store security footage.
When I reach the recording studio door, I take a deep breath.
I push the door in slowly. Inside, there’s a technician beneath the soundboard and another guy up on a ladder, with a nail gun adding soundproofing to the ceiling.
My eyes dart around the room, at the tiny cameras up near the ceiling. No wonder the images are so terrible. It’s so dark in here. There are moody, neon lights set up under the tables, making the room look more like a night club. I feel so let down by James. Why didn’t he push back, or come find me?
I step back outside and practically collide with Camila.
“I thought you were all set up?” She steps around me and pulls the studio door shut.
“Oh, good morning.” I gather myself. “Yeah, it appears so but—”
“And René won’t do any interviews,” she interrupts me. “Just so you know. He really wants to focus on the album. We’ll worry about all that later.” She doesn’t sound rude. Just matter-of-fact bomb dropping. “If you really need them, we can always try when the album’s done,” she offers. She’s actually attempting to be gracious, though she still comes across less than hospitable. I think it’s something to do with her eyebrows. They’re more angular than curved.
She’s wearing a flowy long-sleeve crop top that ties in a bow beneath her bra and a long skirt with an extended slip. Her style is chic yet messy bohemian. Her long, wavy hair is tangled in places, and she’s perspiring ever so slightly.
Thoughts are sliding around in my brain, but no sentences are taking shape. What I want to say is that an interview conducted later will be too far removed. I want to know how René’s feeling right now . This morning.
Camila sways from side to side, eager to walk away, so I hone my negotiating skills. I gather myself and extend a hand. “I’m Dani, by the way. We haven’t met properly.”
“Right. Camila.” She gives my hand a faint squeeze.
“Listen, I know you have no reason to trust me.” I pause to redirect. No need to focus on the past. “But I really want to make something beautiful here. I have big plans. We just have to be allowed in there with our actual cameras so we can film how it’s going and interview him. Here. Regularly.”
“There’s nothing I can do. Not today. Let’s talk tomorrow.” Her tone says this discussion is over.
Stunned, I walk back to James’s room and take the seat he’s placed next to his so we can watch the movement on the monitors. It’s like we’re on a stakeout, only much worse. We’re powerless detectives. If anything happens, we won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.