December 30.
He was exhausted. Even though the administrative burden rested on other people's shoulders, the weight he felt every time he thought about his company was like a fine needle piercing his heart, sinking into everything he had left to rebuild, simply for being the one responsible for everything a person must take care of. Every task he completed had a purpose, and that purpose seemed only to expand. The strain of holding the reins of so many things was a true headache—reviewing, questioning, and hoping everything would be carried out was nothing as people imagined. It was a harsh and uncomfortable path in which everything reduced itself to power, exchange, and the many outdated, repetitive steps in the struggle between people.
—more films, more series, the world seems to fit into one hand, boy. —commented William Dommer, his gaze arrogant as the old man took a seat in Billy's studio.
—not long ago. That stopped mattering to me. —Billy replied.
—There's a bomb about to go off, and that bomb is Regency Agents. —said William Dommer.
—You think so. —he asked.
—In fact, it is. Warner wants to hollow it out, along with Fox… you'll need to convince the entire creative team not to look for new patrons, or find new ones of your own… though I doubt you'll manage that with such a thin list of contacts in your wallet. —answered William.
—I have faith in turning Regency into something made for art. Sometimes Hollywood confuses money with art, and that's a shame. If I wanted money, I'd do other things—maybe make deals with stockbrokers, run my own investment fund, or play around in the weapons market. —Billy sighed, glancing up at the brilliantly blue sky; at least the day was beautiful.
—ahhh, losing so you can win a little—that philosophy is older than you, Fawnn. The question is how long your brilliance can last with the American consumer crowd and all the deals made under the table. —asked William.
Billy saw so much in these people… maybe it was a kind of respect. He was uneasy; everything William said put him on edge or pushed him into a corner with no way out. It was the most indescribable feeling of being catalogued by this cultured, Masonic sort of circle with its secrets and hidden groups, while in the distance a conscious truth waited—one he knew people would eventually face.
—I don't lose. I simply extend my profits across twelve years, from the moment I finish a film to the moment I can recreate something that truly has force. —Billy replied.
He kept the rest inside, information that seemed desperate to slip out as the conversation stretched on—a fury over decisions, over the nature of choice. Trust always runs both ways, and for Billy, trust had now become a luxury caught between secrecy and the reality of forms.
—I simply take pride in doing business. —said William Domer, seeing in trust something no one could blame a man for. Inconsistency does not work on certain people.
—I hope your investment keeps coming. —Billy breathed out, now understanding on a deeper level—something that had dawned on him since mid-morning—that he would have to make yet another investment, this time for the animated-games division. How ironic that salvation might come from the devil himself.
Both remained focused on what could only be called work. One reviewed a lacquered black notebook with gold edges. Billy drew in long strokes, his mind organizing itself through the spatial configuration of each sketch, each line, each reworked detail. He measures himself calmly, thrives in silence, and uses it to his advantage.
How was it possible that December 30th was perhaps one of the busiest days? Both used what little they had left to add and subtract. It was almost idiosyncratic—the American worked while everyone else merely breathed. A culture of twelve-hour days in a country with only four holidays.
—Now I'm ready for the accounts. —answered William D.
***
Swinging a sword, moving his arms with strength as he mimicked each stance. A proper choreography comes from intense practice of simple steps, while another forces you to replicate each movement.
—Move your arms. —said the instructor, completely strict, pushing him at a rhythm that made him uncomfortable, with so many steps, over and over, that it seemed to lead him into a kind of self-realization. The sword cut through the air with force. He moved with power until his hands ached; he had blisters.
—I'm going to wrap them for a moment. —Billy sighed.
—Good work. —said Samuel Johnson, knowing that most of the time being a stunt double demands everything; he was an expert in all things related to sword handling, had choreographed countless films, and understood the pure essence of combat and fencing.
—Let me help you. —Samuel said, wergonomically wrapping the sword grip. Billy watched closely, his eyes heavy as he took a brief rest. Despite what people believed—
—We've got half an extra hour. —Billy said.
Reviewing with complete calm every remaining step, from so many angles, the next half hour of training was anything but fervent, while he waited for a hot-blooded Italian woman eager to be pleased.
Who wouldn't want to arrive and have a marvelous time? Everything brewed with keen intent—her wide hips, her way of being, purely erotic—long sessions in which they spent every part of their soul.
—See you tomorrow, —Billy sighed.
Tomorrow, when you improve your physical condition, training with those hands is a bad idea. And I'll remind you we have at least thirteen months—enough time to acquire real skill. —Samuel replied.
—the fifth. I travel tomorrow, and you've got a New Year to celebrate. —Billy said, signing him a quick check for five hundred dollars—the full week's rate, even though he had only trained two. It was a fair price: two thousand dollars a week, and the time when—
...
—I love traveling to Texas. —said Monica, already thinking about the trip; in Texas, Billy would do everything and anything—except work.