Scar Flowers by Maureen O'Donnell Page A

you.”
    She also said, “Blake is you, isn’t he?”
    At lunch today, her skin glowed.
    “I’ve read about how to hypnotize someone. But if I’m playing Julia, I should experience it myself. I’ve never been much of a method actor before, but I want to try it.” Karen lifted her sunglasses and stared over his shoulder. “Over there. The fight choreographer. She knows how. I heard she put Ricky in a trance.”
    Simon turned. Nadia sat at an empty table, a large black handbag like a doctor’s satchel poised on the table beside her. Her first week on the set she had worn tailored skirts and high heels, but today she had on a track suit and running shoes. A slant of shadow from the edge of the awning cut across her forehead.
    “I’m going to talk to her. Come with me ,” said Karen. “Please? I won’t go alone.”
    She pulled at his sleeve, and then they were at the fight choreographer’s table. Karen chatted. Nadia wore dark sunglasses with round insectoid lenses. Her long hair was swept over her shoulder. As she leaned back into the sunlight, shadows clung to the side of her face, at her temple and cheekbone. Her knife and fork lay at a five o’clock angle on her clean plate.
    “You eat,” he said to Nadia.
    She did not smile. In the silence, Karen craned her head up at the awning and gave a terse laugh, a shake of her head, so that her hair flared over her shoulders.
    “You liked the food,” he added.
    What a stupid thing to say.
    “Nadia, have you met Simon?”
    “Of course.” Nadia seemed not to notice when Karen’s smile turned fixed. She sat loose-limbed, level-shouldered, as if talking to a good friend.
    The air was soft, bright. Overhead, an airplane droned, and birds sang. The edge of the green vinyl awning overhead waved in the breeze. The women talked on without him: “Is it true you can’t make someone do something they don’t want to?” and “Anyone can get certified in a weekend.” He joined Karen on the picnic-table bench, his body a numb weight riding on his bones.
    Nadia removed her sunglasses. Her long eyelids swept toward her temples in molded relief, rounded and deep at the inner corners and shallow, almost pointed, at the outsides. Karen leaned forward to listen, balanced her chin on her hand like children do. Humoring this red-haired stranger, perhaps thinking of what she would say to Simon later: Wasn’t she funny? So formal, like a ’50s matron. Nadia spoke, a stretching of time and sound, and after a moment Karen sat up, raised one arm straight out from her shoulder, and then the other, held them there.
    Nadia asked a question. In response, Karen turned to Simon, lowered her arms, and began to unbutton her blouse, until Nadia said something to make her stop, asked her to raise her hands again. Parlor tricks. Nadia picked up her water glass, and the ice cubes sailed and circled lazily, a tiny conglomerate iceberg. Oval fingernails, pearly at the tips and half moons. Blush of color on her upper lip. Dew of moisture on the outside of the glass, the tablets of ice inside catching bits of reflected light as they tinkled and swirled. Condensation. Pearls of wetness, slippery ice, smooth glass. Hot sun. Textures. More talk, words blended in with the ice and light.
    Karen had lowered her arms and sat facing away from him. When had she moved into that position? Nadia locked eyes with him, held up two fingers. Was she trying to hypnotize him? No; she said, “I can’t make you do anything. If you’re curious, you’ll take yourself under.”
    Under?
    Then Gunnar was shaking his shoulder and Karen’s.
    “We’re ready,” said Gunnar. “Why aren’t you on the set?”
    Simon blinked, and the present rushed back at him, the pressing weight of time and schedules. Had he nodded off? As Simon rose to his feet, Gunnar added, “A studio VP just called, wanting to know who you were. He was all pissed off until I told him you were directing Babylon ; then he didn’t want your phone