The Fifty-Second Night

“I had no idea you were friends with someone that famous!” Nick exclaimed when he arrived at my house for his customary Saturday visit.

“I wouldn’t say we are ‘friends,’” I replied. “He and I play on very different teams, so to speak. I would rather say that we appreciate each other’s virtues despite our differences.”

“There you go again with the philosophy,” Nick said, rolling his eyes. “Man, I just really wanted a picture with him.”

“That is precisely the point, you see. He is an internationally renowned actor and obscenely wealthy. If he comes to visit me on an island in the South Pacific, it is because he desires privacy and discretion. Of course I told him about you and said I would be delighted to introduce you, but he preferred to remain unnoticed. That is why he stayed here with me this week, in quiet seclusion.”

“Guess he didn’t factor in that everybody knows everybody on an island like this.”

Nick drew a long breath, bracing himself into reluctant acceptance, and continued:

“I get it. I really do. Still, I’m somewhere between shocked, offended, and straight-up frustrated, and I have no idea when I’m gonna recover.”

“I hope very soon,” I said, drawing a chair out for him. “Now sit down and let us have dinner.”

“So how did you two even meet?”

“In the most prosaic manner imaginable. He was once staying in London for a première, at a hotel where I was employed. By pure accident, I entered his room to tidy it just as he was stepping out of the bath.”

“And you saw—”

“Everything,” I said, as casually as one might comment on the weather.

“I hate you. I honestly hate you,” Nick replied.

“I know. There was the customary exchange of apologies—‘no harm done, please continue your work.’ The most difficult part was concealing my excitement and refraining from behaving like a fan. We exchanged a few banalities, yet he took a liking to me and said he wished to continue our conversation.”

“And what was that conversation about?”

“Truthfully, I do not remember. We met three more times, outside the hotel. I took him on those walks that lie beyond the tourist routes—the ones only residents know.”

“And you still talk?”

“Yes. At first by email and telephone. Nowadays, mostly through the internet.”

“So what’s he like?”

“A delightful person, though somewhat eccentric. At times I suspect I serve as a certain restraint upon his extravagances, and that it does him good.”

I smiled at a recollection: when I told him of my intention to launch myself as a professional artist, he declared he would purchase all my finished works at once, and I told him to go take his psychotropics.

“He takes those?”

“Of course not! I was merely reminding him to curb himself.”

We laughed.

“He is a dear soul. Only—at times—a little too much so.”

After dinner, we watched one of his films—I possess them all on DVD. Certain names deserve such privilege.

As he took his leave, Nick said to me, “You know, part of me wants to be seriously offended and never call you again. You’re lucky I’ve got some sense.”

We laughed once more. And when Nick’s car vanished, swallowed by the night, I stood contemplating the sea and gave thanks to God for granting me far more than I deserve.