Silver Nitrate(3)

She shook her head, thinking about the long nights that awaited her. Too many people thought they could skimp on the audio portion of a shoot. Then they ended up with ambient noise, cutoff tracks, or low sound quality. They often expected miracles, too, from their sound editors, and Montserrat had to deliver those miracles for a measly amount of cash. She wasn’t even on staff, for God’s sake. Mario didn’t believe in hiring people full-time because it was cheaper and easier to keep them coming in by the hour. That way, when he didn’t need someone, as he had with Montserrat lately, he could cut them off without sweating it.

The problem was that Montserrat liked editing at Antares. A full-time job for a TV show would be steady money, but it also meant she’d have to work with a lot more people. Two audio editors in the same room, and then maybe the lead editor and the director giving notes while they worked. She knew someone who had made the switch to working as a sound recordist because it at least meant less insane schedules, but she despised sets, with all their technicians and actors. Small productions, low-budget flicks, these appealed to her because she often worked alone, no need for a gigantic team of ADR experts, foley artists, and music supervisors to suffocate her. People. She didn’t wish to deal with people, although sometimes she feared she’d end up with a vitamin deficiency from spending all daylight hours inside, and she’d start talking back to the characters on screen, like an editor she knew did.

Montserrat wondered if she shouldn’t poke her head around the set of Enigma. Cornelia could introduce her to her contacts, or there might even be an opening with Cornelia’s TV show. She hated the idea of a desk job, but maybe there was freelancing she could do on the side to augment her paycheck. Research. Administrative work. Something other than audio editing, because audio was uncertain: canceled gigs, clients changing their minds, or the composer scoring a film being late, which meant hurry, hurry, hurry.

No one cared about the audio, anyway. People noticed only when you fucked it up, not when you got it right. It was a thankless job that had her sometimes catching three hours of sleep on one of the couches around Antares so she could keep working through the night.

Montserrat made it into the restaurant on time and took a booth, ordered a coffee and a slice of pie. Tristán arrived twenty-five minutes later. His coat was a lush plum color with big buttons and a wide belt.

His hair looked a little ruffled, and he was wearing his sunglasses, which he took off with practiced theatrical panache as he sat down at the table. “Well! They were out of Benson and Hedges at my usual newspaper stand, so I had to walk around.”

“I thought you were a snob who only bought imported cigarettes.”

“I’m trying to save money this month. Dunhills are out of the question for a few weeks,” he said, taking out his lighter and a cigarette. “You’ve been waiting long?”

“Yes,” she said. “You shouldn’t smoke.”

“Keeps me thin, and I have to have at least one vice.”

“Maybe, but we’re sitting in the non-smoking section,” she said, pointing to the sign behind him.

Tristán looked around and sighed. “Now why’d you seat us here?”

“Because it’s full in the smoking area and they said there’s no way we’re getting in there.”

“Maybe I can ask for us to be moved,” he said and raised his hand, trying to attract the attention of a waitress.

“Please don’t,” she said, poking at the slice of pie she had almost finished eating. She’d assumed he’d be late and had been wise enough to order quickly.

“Miss?” he said.

A waitress turned around. He threw her his careless, sixty-watt smile that was all teeth. The smile had a success rate of 70 percent. The waitress approached him, notepad in hand.

“Are you ready to order?”

“I’d like a Diet Coke. Could you move us to the smoking section?”

“It’s full.”

“If there was a table that opened up, could we move there? What’s your name? Mari. That’s nice. Mari, would you be able to keep an eye out for a table for us?” he asked. “As a special favor for me, please.”

He spoke with that deep, velvet-smooth voice he always used when he wanted to get something. The voice had a success rate of 90 percent. The waitress smiled at him. Montserrat could tell by her expression that she was wondering if she didn’t know Tristán from somewhere. She had that curious look people got around him. Maybe she’d remember him later.

“Well, all right,” the waitress said, blushing.

“Thank you, Mari,” he said.

Tristán Abascal, born Tristán Said Abaid, was Montserrat’s age. Thirty-eight. They’d grown up in the same building, and they both loved movies. But their similarities ended there. Tristán was tall and handsome. Even the years of drug use and the car accident hadn’t completely marred his looks. He wasn’t the same crazy-beautiful boy he’d been, but he still cut a striking figure. And although it had been about ten years since he’d acted in a soap opera, some people still recognized him.

Montserrat, on the other hand, was small and plain. When they were kids, the others mocked her limp. After three surgeries, her foot had improved quite a bit, though it pained her when it got cold. Now that there were bits of silver in her hair, her plain face was only growing plainer.