On Set in Lugardo

Hide and Seek

Everybody knows how to play hide and seek, right? The rules are simple, even kids get them. But what if I tell you there are different levels to this game?

Have you ever done something truly remarkable, something so incredible that it would earn you the love and recognition of millions? Not everyone can boast about something like that. Imagine creating a cancer vaccine, designing a time machine, or directing a brilliant film, only to decide to stay in the shadows and not tell anyone that it's your handiwork. Who does that? Right — no one. Hide and seek, level hundred.

"Where are you going this time?" Alma, my friend, interrupted my thoughts at the airport.

"I was at a teacher's conference, heading back now."

"Did you read my message?"

The crowd in front of me started streaming towards the gate, flashing tickets, and I lazily reached for my bag lying nearby on the metal bench. It was my fifteenth flight this year, and the once welcoming scent of the duty-free shops, promising new adventures, now induced nausea.

"Liz," insisted Alma over the phone.

"Yes."

"Did you read it?"

"Yes, yes, I read it. But I'll decline."

"Why, could you enlighten me?"

When Alma resorts to elevated language, like "enlighten" or "behold," Alma is angry. Usually rightfully so. She's my friend, but she's also my editor, perpetually dealing with problems because of me.

"Liz, listen. I covered for you when you refused to get on social media to promote your book, even though it's every author's obligation. I covered for you when you wanted to remain an 'anonymous' author, avoiding autograph sessions and reader meetings. I had to swallow a lot of crap from the higher-ups because it was me who pushed your manuscript."

"I didn't ask you to."

"Don't mention it! 'Thanks, Alma, for showcasing my book to the world. Thanks for making me the most talked-about writer this year. Thanks for opening the door to the publishing business for me.'"

"You know I'm grateful; I've told you many times."

"Don't thank me, just go to the damn filming!"

"Alma..."

"I know you don't want the limelight. Forget about publicity. Think about Sammy."

I stopped, staring at the majestic iron bird outside the window.

"What's there to think about him? The book is finished; it's living its own life. I let go of the characters a long time ago."

"Wrong, baby girl! Your characters' lives now depend on how they will be portrayed on screen. You wouldn't want to watch the movie later and fall into depression because they completely misunderstood you and Sammy, right?"

The crowd at gate sixty-two was thinning out, and I began bidding farewell to Alma.

"Just go there, Liz. You teach online anyway; you're always on the move. I'm sure spending three months in Lugardo is not such a t*****e after all!"

Already in the cabin, as passengers settled into their seats and a sweaty man stowed his travel bag above my head, I logged onto the internet, found "Liza Savat's" page, and scrolled through a few posts. After all, I had refused to engage in social media and demanded privacy regarding my identity, so the publishing house took charge of the account on my behalf. They came up with a clever move: they gave a mask to a girl blogger – a white girlish face with huge eyes and eyelashes, reminiscent of Betty Boop – and entrusted her to manage the account on behalf of "Liza Savat." In other words, her job was to impersonate me. In three months, the account gained several hundred thousand followers, and now, a year later, it has more than three million followers. This secretive promotion brought my book tremendous popularity, and Alma received a bonus to her salary because it was her idea.

"Liza Savat" is a pseudonym, so I didn't have to worry about attention to my life – there simply was none. Even my friends didn't know it was me, and they sometimes made comments about "pseudo-Liza." Comments about my book also often surfaced, and I silently accepted compliments, praying that the silly smile on my face wouldn't arouse suspicion. Of course, it's pleasant to hear an unbiased opinion that turns out to be positive! But I didn't want to tell the truth – this deception had gone too far, and the publishing house stuck its neck out to accommodate me. It was enough for me that my book meant something to so many people. Isn't that fulfilling one's destiny? To create something great that heals hearts and nurtures minds? It made me feel good, and whether they knew who I was always seemed utterly inconsequential.

But this girl behind the mask, this "pseudo-Liza," I didn't like her. Too self-assured, agile, and light-hearted – the kind of person I could never become. People will always think that she wrote "The Route"; that will stay in Wikipedia (and, as is known, what is written on the internet is the truth).

Suddenly, I thought of Sammy: what if they embellish him too? Mold him into the uniform formula of movie characters? And he will remain in the minds of millions not at all as I imagined him...

I remembered where he first came to my mind: in Lugardo. I stood on the shore and watched the colorful boats rocking on the waves, and suddenly pictured a young guy with a sunburned, windswept face. But he definitely wasn't a fisherman because I saw him slicing through the waves on nothing but a bus! At that moment, I realized he was a driver, only his transport rebelled and stopped going on the road, carrying his driver into impassable thickets, ocean waters – where no one had been before, so Sammy could discover what no one else had. That's why the guy's clothes and long hair were soaked with salt – who knows how many seas he and the bus had already conquered.

And there, it brought him to these sandy shores, to these colorful boats, to this yellow-stone church on the cliff with a weathered door and an old clock face, reflecting the sunbeams, illuminating the coastal waters. It was here that he was to unveil the secrets of existence...

Sammy came to me. Perhaps it sounds lofty, but he chose me. When the work on the book was finished, I was pretty tired of him, but now felt again that I needed to be part of his life. Besides, Alma was right; I won't forgive myself if the film turns out completely different, and I will know that I could have influenced it but chose to stay on the sidelines.

While the flight attendants checked the seatbelts, I quickly called her.

- I'll go, but I need the studio to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

I heard Alma smiling.

- That's how I know you didn't open my email.

- Have you already arranged it?

- It is already in the contract. And Liz?

- Hmm?

- Read the damn script.

***

Two months later, I reunited with my first love, my island. The wave of nostalgia that hit me when I stepped off the ramp dulled my intuition. Now I remember that it was yelling that it was the biggest mistake of my life, the deadliest trap, and I had to get out of there. But back then, I didn't notice those signs. Back then, only my island was in front of my eyes.

The air of Lugardo greeted me warmly. I had forgotten that here, you have to learn to breathe again. As soon as you step off of the plane, your body begins to readjust to new temperatures, and it will take quite some time before the skin finally learns to revel in moisture and sunlight.

The taxi carried me along the same streets as three years ago, past trees covered in the pink foam of flowers, along the promenade crafted for strolls, and those boats incessantly rocking on the waves, resembling ducks awaiting bread from tourists.

But how significantly my perspective has changed – I see it in the reflection in the window. Back then, I was so eager that I swallowed every new landscape unfolding around each bend, and now I embrace Lugardo measuredly and cautiously, so as not to incur intoxication.

The driver interrupted my flooding memories with a sudden question:

– Are you sure about the "Garuda" hotel?

– Yes. Why?

– Filmmakers have invaded Lugardo again; it seems they've taken over the entire hotel.

Looking into the rearview mirror, a typical Lugardian stared at me: prominent facial features, skin the color of cappuccino, an open inquisitive gaze.

– Did you say "again"? Does this happen often?

– Every year! – he chuckled good-naturedly. – So, do you have a reservation there?

Having assured him that everything was under control, I began to bite my nails. If everyone already knew about the shooting, reporters would be everywhere. The studio non-disclosure agreement won't save me. And then I remembered Alma's words:

– Well, they'll snap pictures of you on the set – who knows who you are: an extra, a janitor, maybe someone's assistant! Let me teach you to relax, - she said knowingly. - Before stepping onto the set, take a deep breath and say to yourself clearly, distinctly, and convincingly:

"NOBODY GIVES A s**t ABOUT ME."

Thanks, friend. A guru of affirmations, that's what you are.

"Nobody gives a s**t about me"... I shouldn't have listened to her, oh, I shouldn't have.