What You See in the Dark by Manuel Munoz Page B

attention to the driver, the man at the table, as if she deferred to him in everything. He may not have understood the role she had imposed on him, but the way he cheerfully ordered a full breakfast plate did the trick. The driver looked over at her sheepishly when he placed his order. She’d had an orange juice and a croissant to tide her over, but she realized that he had had nothing, and even after arriving at the hotel, he was still at the call of duty, waiting in case she came out to be driven somewhere. A break was some time off, perhaps when he knew the Director would be taking up a good chunk of her afternoon.
    “I should have realized you hadn’t any time for a decent breakfast,” she told him. “We should have come down here as soon as I’d checked into the room.”
    “Ma’am, my responsibility isn’t over until your Director takes you away. And even then, it would be the professional thing to stay around in case you need something. A bite to eat if you don’t like what’s on set. Or some aspirin from the drugstore.” He spoke with a light, cheerful clip in his voice, but it was still deep and masculine, his face lined here and there on the forehead, someone who raised his eyes a lot and smiled handsomely.
    “You mentioned your wife on the drive over. How long have you been married, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    “Not very long. Three years,” he answered.
    “You have children?”
    “No, not yet,” said the driver, but he didn’t add anything more, and in that lack of continuation, the Actress held her eyes on his, not wanting to look away and reveal her immediatewonder about his wife: if she could bear children, if she came from a religious family, if she was ill, if she had been the right woman to marry.
    “Someday,” he offered, the single word still feeble despite the confidence in his deep voice, hard lined and rigid straight like the horizon of his shoulders. “It must be tough for you as a mother to be on these shoots.”
    “It is. I’m thinking more and more that I won’t be doing it very much longer. I’d rather be with my children.”
    He blushed a little. “I didn’t even ask if you had children. I mean … well … I knew … I’ve read about you in the magazines, so …”
    She laughed. “Oh, I understand. But those are just publicity stories,” she said. “Some easy facts. You could never get a true understanding of anyone from those accounts.”
    “Of course not,” said the driver. “But you do come across as a very nice lady. People like you in this town. In Hollywood, I mean.”
    The early lunch crowd trickled in, yet the sidewalks remained relatively bare otherwise. The waitress who brought their plates wasn’t the same one as before—she was much younger and prepared to chat, staring at the Actress as if she were a puzzle that needed solving, but the hostess who seated them dismissed her quickly. The café began to gather its noise, the waitresses striding by with coffeepots and checks in hand, sliding coins into the pockets of their uniforms. The Actress buttered her toast, a meager little breakfast, aware of the stares on her despite all the activity. The driver splotched some ketchup on his eggs and tore into the bacon with a determinedbut measured hunger: he still held his knife and fork carefully, as if remembering he was eating with a lady.
    “Do you mind if I ask you about the film you’re making?”
    Without the benefit of a full plate of food to help her deflect the question, she paused for a moment and pursed her lips. “I’m under orders not to, I’m afraid to say,” she said apologetically.
    “I won’t say a word if you don’t,” the driver responded, no food in his mouth, everything politely chewed and swallowed, a man with thick dark hair and manners and laugh lines on his forehead, as if maybe he were living without any anxieties, any second thoughts.
    She took a bite of toast, thinking. She stole a glance at one of the customers