We Eat Our Own: A Novel by Kea Wilson

Author:Kea Wilson [Wilson, Kea]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2016-09-06T04:00:00+00:00

RICHARD

* * *

Ovidio

Here is something that fills you with shame when you think of it, three days later:

The morning after you saw the prop body and Irena finally told you what the film was about, after you’d stayed up all night doing Meisner exercises in the mirror to convince yourself that you were Richard Trent, you came up with what you thought was a brilliant plan.

You combed your hair eighteen times on each side. You did forty push-ups and walked a straight, fast line across the parking lot, your blood still jumpy under your skin.

You found Ugo at the meal tent.

I’m ready, you said. What are we shooting today?

The director pinched a piece of unbuttered toast between his fingers and looked at it, disturbed, like it had just spoken to him. We don’t need you yet, he said, incredulous.

Something in you deflated, but you tried to smile over it. Is there a production schedule I could look at? You know, just to get an idea of what I need to prepare?

The director just chewed, gazing blankly past your shoulder.

You wondered if it was a translation issue. You tried again: Do you know when you’ll need me next? For what scenes?

How would I know that? Ugo said, and then shoved the toast into his cheek, turned and whispered something urgent to his DP.

It happened three days in a row, some version of this conversation. The first day, you’d gotten on the bus like everyone else, waited on the sidelines in case he’d changed his mind. You watched Irena and Teo film a scene where Irena stepped half-naked into a river again and again, threw her arms over her chest when she realized he was watching. Ugo made her do a dozen takes, and every time, her body was a surprise—T-shirt tan lines and unexpected freckles. You were never desensitized to it. Every time, you waited for the director to say it was your turn, to call you into the scene with her.

He didn’t.

The second day, you didn’t get on the bus to set, just to see if anyone would notice.

They didn’t.

You told yourself that maybe it’s cultural; maybe American filmmakers are the only ones who are so neurotically organized, with their thick binders full of storyboards and shot orders, twiddling the sound levels for two hours before they let you say a word. They just have a different process, these Europeans, more associative, more free-form. They must.

The crew all speaks in Italian, so you didn’t understand the things you heard them whispering as they loaded up: that Ugo had been filming nothing but the Indians hunting for days, close shots of spears bending into the surface of the river, close shots of impaled eels dragged out after. Close shots of Teo and Irena, gaping in reaction. You ignored the sound guy who whispered, in English like he wanted you to hear, that maybe Richard’s character has been cut altogether.

With everyone gone, you took long showers in the single outdoor stall that

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