Scar Flowers by Maureen O'Donnell Page A

politely opaque as she took in the surroundings.
    “Your work is fine,” he said. “We’re not here to talk about that. But I want you to understand about Karen. The whole film rides on her state of mind —hers and Victor’s.”
    He realized as he spoke that he did not want to talk about Karen.
    “Of course.” Nadia sat down on the folding chair that had his red-and-white leather racing jacket slung across the back, stiff with padding. “Do you have any water?”
    She slid the velvet bag down to expose the liqueur bottle inside and pulled out two short Pilsner glasses, a box of sugar cubes, and a silver filigree spoon. The bottle had an old-fashioned label with fancy lettering on a draped banner.
    Dishes shifted in the sink as he opened the refrigerator under the counter, with its sucking resistance, its plastic-scented air escaping. He handed her a can of soda water.
    “I don’t want you putting her in a trance again, or anyone on the set, for that matter. We’ve got a film to make.” He sounded like his high-school gym teacher, talking about a big game.
    “You’re right. I let my enthusiasm run away with me.” Nadia handed him the bottle to open. He cracked the seal, and she poured two measures of jewel-green liqueur into the Pilsner glasses. A cough-syrup smell of anise and herbs drifted past. “This will take a moment.”
    “What is it?” Amid the scent of the liqueur he caught a hint of her perfume: spice and sandalwood. If she were embarrassed or angered by his earlier rebuke, she did not show it. Her unexpected agreement unbalanced him, like a stuck door suddenly giving way.
    “It’s from a friend of mine who brings some home every time he goes to Spain. It’s supposed to be hallucinogenic, even mystical. If you believe in that sort of thing. If you believe in trances and mind control and zombies.”
    She smiled with the same flash of charm from the film festival when she asked for the fight choreographer job: a subtext of I know you, we are equals . Nadia tipped a few drops of soda water over a sugar cube that was poised on the spoon, where they melted into the glass in opaque yellow bursts. Tiny underwater explosions, streamers of amber cloud.
    Simon leaned against the wall and stretched his legs out. This meeting was the last task of his day. Soothing, the way her hair slid across her back as she turned her head. The times he had seen her on the set, she had her hair pulled back and her arms crossed. Perfect posture and long legs for her height. Like those Russian ballerinas with the dangerous accents and chiseled cheek -bones.
    “When ’d you learn hypnosis?”
    “Years ago. I’ve always been interested in trances and mind control and zombies.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “This film fit so perfectly with my background that I had to get this job. Julia lives in other people’s minds as much as she lives in her own. Knowing hypnosis helps me understand her. She’s breaking the ethics of her profession. If she’s used to bypassing the usual barriers with people, it would affect her approach to violence.”
    “And is that what you use it for? To bypass barriers?” He glanced at one of his alarm clocks. He had something else to do tonight but could not remember what.
    Nadia set down the slotted spoon. “The barriers I’m talking about are paper-thin. Most people who’ve been hypnotized can’t even tell when it begins. It doesn’t feel much different from having a vivid daydream or being lost in a good book—both of which are mild hypnotic states. ”
    Her hands busied themselves, to reposition the bottle and glasses by a fraction, to wipe the spoon with a paper napkin. Though her face remained serene, her gestures seemed an attempt to restore order. Until now, he had never been able to imagine her as a child or as ever having been in love. Keep it professional, Mercer.
    “You never did ask me what happened with Karen when I hypnotized her,” said Nadia. “I’d asked her how