The Silenced Tale, стр. 32
Partway through dinner, Gil, the producer at Flageolet Entertainment, calls to say he’s emailing over some head shots and would like Elgar’s opinion. Trying not to look as if he has anything to hide, and yet also hiding, Elgar takes his laptop into a corner, along with a cup of coffee (which Juan also isn’t here to scold him about), and peruses the options.
Along with the head shots, Gil sent video files labeled “self-tape,” which turn out to be the actors speaking into a camera with lines the producers wrote up specifically for their auditions. They’re no more than a few minutes each, but he doesn’t have his headphones with him, so he starts with just the photos.
They’re looking for relative unknowns on purpose—the production company wants to cast actors for their ability to play the characters rather than the star-magnetism someone known would bring to the project (though that doesn’t mean they don’t intend to use big stars for one-offs and cameos)—so Elgar doesn’t know any of the faces. He has to flick back and forth between some of them to be certain that they are, in fact, two different people. He’s been awfully particular about how each character has to look, and the groups of actors do, he’s pleased to note, actually resemble his characters. And therefore, one another.
He searches online databases for some of the names, flipping through their credits and screenshots of their other work to get a sense of what the actors look like in motion. Of course, he knows it’s probably a bit too in-depth for what Gil wants; Gil probably just wants his opinion on how they look. It’s even possible that this is just busywork meant to keep him pacified and feeling like he’s a part of the production. He’s never heard of any of his colleagues being asked to participate in the casting process, and he wonders if maybe he’d been too pushy at the beginning, too eager to meet his characters before he, well, met his characters.
A shiver passes over his shoulders, and after a moment of looking around for a throw blanket, or considering getting up to go put on another pair of socks, Elgar realizes that he isn’t actually cold. It’s just that it’s so . . . not quiet, that isn’t the word he’s searching for. Because Jackson is snoring upstairs, and Riletti has the television on. But . . . Linux isn’t here, fighting for space on his shoulders, and Juan isn’t in the other room pretending not to be mother-henning, and it’s . . . wrong.
Quiet, but not in noise level. In people. In the right people.
In . . . in attention, if he’s going to be honest with himself. Which he’s been trying to do a lot more. It made finishing the Shuttleborn trilogy harder, because he kept second-guessing his choices, asking why the things that felt natural to him did, and were they actually natural, and could they be harmful, and . . . all that. He tries in his daily life, too. Because Juan would look at him all disappointed-like. And Lucy would smack him. And Forsyth would tut.
And . . . and he has a granddaughter now. Sort of. He owes it to Alis to . . . try to do better.
He doesn’t really need the help, but he’s curious about her opinion and, to be honest, he’s . . . feeling a little lonely. He’s used to being the focus of the room. Wherever he goes—conventions, meetings, networking events—all eyes turn to him when he walks in, and it’s always for his attention that people are vying. To be in the same room with someone else and to be so thoroughly ignored in favor of the television is . . . frustrating.
It’s a calculated risk, inviting her help, and okay, maybe he is showing off a little, but he wants her to like him. He doesn’t want her pity, because she has to protect him; he wants her interest because he’s interesting. If his mere presence isn’t enough, then the sneak peeks and tidbits he can entice her with will have to do. He wants to fall into the personality of Convention-Elgar, where everything rolls off his back and he is charming and gregarious. Convention-Elgar wouldn’t be scared of men on benches and bloody threats in his pantry. Convention-Elgar wouldn’t be concerned about a room full of the wrong kind of silence.
How’s that for insight? he huffs at himself.
So he licks his lips, screws up his courage, and says: “Hey, Riletti.”
“Yeah?” she asks, immediately sitting up and turning off the TV. Her free hand hovers at her hip, and Elgar realizes that she’s waiting for him to say that he saw something, or that something’s bothering him. She isn’t ignoring him, she’s bored.
“I . . . I wanted to say thank you, you know, to you. And to your partner. For being here.”
“It’s what we do, sir,” she says with a smile.
“I know that, but all the same. The detective is right, I wouldn’t have wanted to stay at home alone tonight.”
“I get that.”
“Do you have someone I’m keeping you from?” Elgar asks, and then catches sight of her ring. “A husband?”
Riletti cuts him a side-eye. “A wife, actually.”
“Oh,” Elgar mumbles, feeling his face go red. “Sorry.”
“Hey, it’s fine. I don’t have a dyke haircut, so everyone assumes I’m straight. Stereotypes; am I right?”
“Right,” he says, then clamps down on the ridiculous urge to tell her that he knows other gay people, like Juan. Why would she care? Lots of people all over the world know more than one queer person. It’s not like they’re rare or anything. “Look, uh, you look bored. If I swear you to secrecy, will you help me with something?”
Riletti’s glare softens. “Sure.”
Elgar heaves himself to his feet and trundles over