"The producer is an old friend of Tad's," his publicist, Corinne, explains apologetically.
Keanu sits in a makeup chair in an old television studio just outside of Frankfurt, Germany, nodding his head over and over. He is feeling a little dizzy after spending twenty minutes underneath the flickering lightbulbs in the dropped ceiling. Corinne hands him his jacket as he stands up.
"They were classmates at Exeter," she shrugs. "It's a favor."
He takes a deep breath. In thirty minutes, he would be on set of a local comedy show in a smaller area of Germany. He knows only that he is in for a slapstick experience at his expense, but reassures himself that at least it isn't international. Filling his lungs again, he steels himself for the invasion of privacy he knows will soon come. He follows the producer down the narrow hall, his feet planted firmly on the ground, but his mind back at Heathrow.
Well-versed in the art of keeping his private life private, it wasn't hard to hear Sandra's request to keep it quiet. He excels at avoiding a personal spotlight so much that paparazzi sometimes make things up to sell covers. There are continual rumors of him involved with many big names, both men and women. He wastes no energy concerning himself with the gossip, and his aloof nature in the face of tabloids just adds to his allure. He is an expert at evading any question.
However, he doesn't like being asked to pretend there is nothing happening in his life at all. Still, he intends to honor her request. She wants to move slowly, which doesn't bother him. When she started talking about hindering each other's options, though, he could feel his teeth clench tightly together. Hot air shot out of his nose as she continued, even going so far as to suggest they keep things more friendly for now. What the fuck is that about? He wanted her to explain herself and she didn't miss a beat, launching into a justification using Nathan and needing time after that long of a relationship. He didn't buy it. Truthfully, he didn't believe she had ever put her whole heart into that relationship. So why am I surprised now? He thought before challenging her.
"I hadn't pegged you for a coward."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well that's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?" A pinched, unhappy expression on her face, she reminded him of the world at his feet, and that it doesn't make sense not to explore it. "Last thing I need is you resenting me for missing out on this time, y'know?"
"You think I'm some kind of a man-whore?" his lip curled as he stroked his throat.
"Well, if Amy's tongue fits..."
He drew a slow breath and released it. "Come on, Sandy. It wasn't like that."
"You forget I was there when it 'wasn't like that' all in your mouth," she retorted with a grim determination.
He was sure in that moment that he'd seen a flash of regret in her eyes, but instead she straightened her spine and shook her bangs out of her face. He opted for silence, then, his brain and heart disengaging from the conversation. There was no use debating her. It was clear she had her mind made up and she was not going to let facts get in the way. All I can do is show her, he thought as he watched her tuck her hands in deeper behind her elbows. So he went through the motions, declaring himself single in London during that awkward interview.
Now he finds himself in Germany, unsure what will face him except that it'll be unusual and, hopefully, interesting. He walks onto the cold set and is introduced to a tanned woman ten years his senior with a short, blonde cut: the host, Margarethe Müller.
She greets him, retaining her grip on his hand and leading him to a gaudy chair in the shape of a throne, framed like a makeup mirror with lightbulbs.
What is it with these strange sets over here? He swallows hard and casts a sidelong glance at Corinne, who is standing off stage.
She waves him on with a strange grin, and he looks all around him to see if anyone else noticed.
He takes his seat in the brightly colored chair, shifting his weight several times. *"What am I doing?"
Margarethe speaks only in German, an English translation running across the screen behind her. *"It's a game," she starts, still gripping onto his now slick palm.
He gently tries to remove his hand from hers, but her fingers only tighten.
*"When you catch an animal, it also tries to escape. We will now put some cables on you."
An assistant producer walks up with some stickers and wires.
Keanu looks to his white-knuckled hand, then to his publicist, then back at his hand before turning away entirely. *"This is some game," he half jokes.
Margarethe laughs. *"Nothing will happen. Just turn your hand." Without waiting for compliance, she turns his hand for him.
He sighs, raising an untamed brow in annoyance. His shoulders rigid, he stares at the assistant producer as he attaches the electrodes.
*"Don't you trust me?"
*"I trust you Margarethe, I trust you," he sings out in an untrusting key.
*"Yes, you can trust me. I am here with you." She leans in, her Chanel No. 5 tickling his nostrils. *"The rules are as follows: I will ask you ten questions."
*"Uchh, no," he mutters, pounding his wired hand against the armrest. When Margarethe continues to hold him in her vise, his loose fingers dangling, he presses his knees together and lowers his head in defeat.
Margarethe beams sadistically at the camera before returning to him. *"Big surprise. Regrets? Does it hurt?"
*"Not yet." He forces a smile, his shoulders now curled.
*"I won't hit you. You won't be electrocuted. Nothing will happen to you. Ten questions."
Sensing her momentary distraction, Keanu frees his hand from her grip and fingers the electrodes on his palm.
The freedom is short-lived, however, as she promptly pulls his hand back into hers and away from the wires.
*"These buttons won't sting you. Please answer only with a yes or no, okay?"
Keanu glares off stage at Corinne, who is now counting cobwebs on the ceiling.
*"During questioning..." she begins, watching the muscular bands in his neck pop out. She shares a surprisingly pained glance with the camera before tilting her head back towards him. *"Oh God, I am so sorry," she giggles, "I feel very bad."
*"Oh, sure you do. Yeah."
Whatever sympathy she felt soon passes. *"We take your pulse during your answers," she continues, penetrating his space again.
*"Okay," he mumbles, unable to meet her eyes yet resigning himself to his fate.
"Okay. *Can a handsome guy get every girl? Yes, or no."
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, a softer smile appearing. *"No."
*"Can you go without drugs?"
His eyes bulge and his jaw pulls back. You gotta be fuckin kidding me. *"Of course," he mocked, then looked away, head to his fist.
Unfazed, the host continues. *"Is there something better in life than riding a motorcycle?"
*"Yes," he answers, rubbing the corners of his eyes with his fingertips before lowering his gaze to the farthest corner away from his would-be executioner.
*"Are you the worst bass player in the world?"
He flops back in the chair, now, sitting up a bit. *"Yes," he emphasizes to the rising laughter of the audience, *"by far."
*"Are you in love right now?"
Stunned, his jaw drops and rises like a fish out of water, gasping to breathe. He takes in the eclectic mix of folks in the audience, the peeling paint on the set, and the cheesy gold chains around the neck of the producer. A sly smile forming, he leans to the side. *"Yes," his voice is soft.
Offstage, Corinne rushes to the ear of the producer to explain they can't use that footage.
*"Very much," he adds. Turnabout, Corinne, turnabout.
*"Do you like taking the bus?"
He sinks into the chair, the side of his mouth inching upwards even further. There is liberation in these questions here in this podunk, German town with this small, anonymous audience and a run-down set. Those two consecutive questions offer far more than his answers provide. He knows it. Margarethe knows it. Corinne definitely knows it. And Sandra? The likelihood of her seeing this interview is slim-to-none, he is sure of it. Did he like riding the bus? What she is really asking is if he liked riding the bus with her.
*"Yes," he admits, preparing for follow up questions. But they never come.
*"Can you drink beer for breakfast?"
*"Yes," he sits up straight again, shaking his head emphatically.
*"Would you like to have children?"
The silence vacuums the air from the room. Keanu is still for a strong ten-beat, head down towards his lap. In his mind's eye, he is back in Hawaii, playing on the beach with his younger sister Kim. Life was good, then, or at least it was better than it was about to be. He splashes ocean water onto his father's chest and his dad picks him up and spins in circles before falling into the crash of the waves.
"Would you like to have children?" Margarethe repeats.
*"Yes," he says with a wistful smile. On the monitor, his heart rate is even and calm. "If I'm lucky, yes."
"And the last question, *would you spend your last dollar on your loved ones?"
*"Yes."
With the torture complete, the electrodes are removed from his sweaty palm. He slinks down as though he might slide right out of the chair.
*"Why is this so terrible?" Margarethe chides him.
*"Why? Uh, um, why? Why."
Before he can answer, she grabs his hand again. *"Okay, we have the results. Shall I pick one question? You reacted strong to three questions."
*"Uh huh. How do you know this so quickly?"
*"This is from the machine, I am not fast."
*"Oh, the machine," he cringes, shaking his head.
*"Would you like me to pick a question to talk about?"
*"Uhm, go ahead," he waves her on, resigned to his fate.
*"Shall we talk about being in love?" she giggles, fanning herself with her question cards. She is unabashedly flirting with her guest, ignoring the lack of reciprocation.
Cornered, Keanu tries to distract her. *"Oh I have to pick a question to talk about?"
Knowing good TV when she sees it, she is not letting him off the hook. *"About being in love is okay with me. Okay? You answered with yes."
He looks down, realizing he's said too much, but shakes his head yes because to do otherwise would mean to be caught publicly in a lie.
"What is her name?" she starts, allowing a mere heartbeat before pressing further. "Okay, her initials then?"
He presses his lips firmly together, nostrils flaring.
"How long have you been in love?" She is insistent, intent on getting more from him.
"The game is over, Margarethe."
"Okay, okay, you don't want to say. Then tell me this—when were you in love for the last time?"
He rakes his fingers through his hair, then taps the tips against his mouth several times.
Jude's voice rings in his ear: It's cosmic, my friend. Enjoy your time with another soul, we're never promised anything beyond today.
*"Um, I fall in love every day," he deflects. Fall in love every day? What does that even mean? He rubs the knuckles of his closed fist against his forehead as though that will knead some sense into him. The wrong answer will send the tabloid world into a tailspin, even in this small, podunk German town. *"I'd say three years ago."
He peers up at Margarethe through his now separated fingers, praying she'd be satisfied enough to leave him alone. He will never know because her producer is now making a rolling action with his hands, indicating the allotted time is now up.
*"Okay, I believe we have to relieve you from this misery."
*"Oh, okay, okay." The relief floods his senses like sugar, invigorating him.
*"I have done you so much pain. And I am so sorry cause I am so crazy about you. Can you forgive me?" She leans in and kisses him on the cheek, not noticing his wrinkled nose, or perhaps not caring.
He pops up out of the chair like it is covered with spikes, massaging his palm where the electrodes once stuck. Margarethe is now chatting with the producer so he makes his way offstage in Corinne's direction.
"Mr. Hreevez!"
Her voice carries across the stage, not quite as quickly as her legs carry her. Keanu turns to find her standing directly in front of him, her eyes wide and focused.
"Mr. Hreevez, I vanted to zank you akain fohr youhr time totay," she cooes in broken English, running both hands down the lapel of his jacket. "And I vant to extent an, um, a pehrzonal invitation to show you ahrount ouhr...town."
He places his hands on both of hers with a gentle squeeze, pulling them off of his jacket and down in front of him. Squeezing again, he releases them. "I'm flattered, Margarethe," he starts with a gentle smile, "but I wasn't kidding when I answered that question. My thoughts lie with someone else right now."
"I zee. She iz a vehry lucky girl."
"It was a pleasure. Take care, Margarethe."
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
Sandra is on her knees, her hair pulled into two low pigtails and covered by a blue bandana. The cold metal of the small flashlight she's holding in between her teeth leaves a tangy taste, and she can feel the saliva pooling behind it, threatening to spill over. The rusted retaining nut under her kitchen faucet is a conglomeration of colors that shouldn't be there, from the mossy green of the corroded metal to the dark, dried blood red of the rust. She has a flat head screwdriver in one hand and a hammer in the other. Using the screwdriver as a chisel, she hammers it in between the retaining nut and the bracket surrounding it until it finally comes loose, black and brown flakes of metal falling into her eyes. In surprise, she drops the flashlight from her mouth, using the back of the hand holding the screwdriver to wipe the flakes out of her eyes. Her white tank top is now dotted with dark specks, but she pays no mind, celebrating the release of the rusted retaining nut and bracket. Now she stands to do the same with the faucet itself, slipping the screwdriver into the crevice where the faucet meets the sink.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Gesine walks in with a copy of People magazine rolled up in one hand. She takes one look at Sandra, her white-washed denim overalls smeared with rusty fingerprints and her now speckled tank with splotches of water, and she shakes her head.
The kitchen faucet was always going to be a royal pain with how corroded the fixture is, so Sandra had put it off for months and months while remodeling almost everything else she could think of in the cottage. To see her laser-focused right now, the morning after watching Keanu's interview in London, this could only mean one thing: he had burrowed under her skin and she was trying to beat him out of her head.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
On the counter sat an unopened box holding the new brass fixture she picked out with their father, John. He is responsible for Sandra's interest in remodeling run-down homes, molding them into the pictures in her mind. Gesine would often accompany them when working on their various projects, but the process wasn't as exciting for her. Still, she had seen enough sink fixtures replaced to know that this was not how it was done and those were not the typical tools used. She knows better than to say anything to her older sister, though.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
"There was frost on the lawn this morning, did you see?"
Gesine studies her movements, trying to ease her tension with casual conversation.
Sandra cranks her right hand up and down feverishly, trying to loosen the fixture by using her flat head as a lever.
It wouldn't budge.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
"Raymond and I could see our breath on the hike this morning, reminds me of Germany. Do you ever miss it, sis?"
Clang. Clang. Clang.
"He brought me the most beautiful bouquet this morning. Peonies, roses and jasmine. I've never seen jasmine in a bouquet before, the scent of all three together is amazing!"
Sandra pauses, the rough wood grain of her old hammer suddenly feeling like sandpaper beneath her delicate fingertips. She runs her thumb over the grain, remembering the wooden door at the Chateau Marmont.
The air around her was laden with jasmine and vanilla the night she showed up at his hotel room, the night she finally ended things with Nathan, the first night that she stood in front of him, naked and vulnerable yet no longer able to resist the call of his mouth upon hers.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The strength of her hammer strike intensifies, and Gesine can no longer ignore the urge to question her choices, wrath of big sister be damned.
"Where's your wrench, Sandy?" She frowns when Sandra continues to hammer. "What on Earth are you using that for?"
With a loud huff, Sandra briefly looks back in her direction. "I got it, don't worry about it. I've done a million of these."
Gesine presses, suggesting she be more careful with the hammer, then asking her why she was using the hammer in the first place.
Sandra continues to ignore her.
Over the dismissive treatment, Gesine finally asks what she really wants to ask, what she knows is on her mind, what she needs to talk about.
"Keanu's back today, right?" Gesine asks Sandra. "Sandy? I know something's bothering you, you have to talk about it or it'll eat you alive."
Her eyes clamp shut, burning with irritation. Opening them again, she stares at the scratched handle of the screwdriver, driving her hammer down square.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!!!!
The fixture releases with a crunchy noise, snapping in half where the corrosion is strongest. A hard gush of water shoots straight up into the air, reaching the ceiling. They both follow the stream with their eyes, seeing old paint and pieces of drywall peel away from the point of contact. In her haste to do something with her hands that morning, she'd forgotten to turn the water off before starting.
"SHIT!!" Sandra yells, throwing both hands over the flow as though her flesh could somehow plug the hole and stop the flood. It turns from a stream to a fountain, spraying in every direction around her hands and completely soaking the front of her tank and overalls. Tears of frustration spill down her cheeks and she's grateful the water from the sink has already reached her face, masking her emotions.
Gesine dives under the sink, reaching for the water shut-off valves and cranking them both to stop the supply. Finally the water recedes and then stops.
Sandra stands frozen, arms up as though she were a surgeon who had completed her hand washing routine and was waiting for surgical gloves. Gesine sits cross-legged on the floor, both of them drenched. One look at each other, and they burst out laughing.
Sandra slides down the cabinet doors under the sink and joins her sister on the floor, staring at puddles of water all over the tile.
Gesine lays her head on Sandra's shoulder as their laughter softens, mimicking their positions backstage at their mother's operas when they were little kids. She lifts her head to point out the similarity but stops when she sees Sandra's watery eyes, staring straight ahead. She opens her mouth to ask what's wrong, but Sandra beats her to the punch.
"I don't know what my problem is," she laughs uncomfortably, wiping underneath each eye. "He's doing exactly what I told him to do."
"Maybe you should tell him the truth?"
"The truth about what?!?" Sandra scoffs, "nothing has changed. I'm just...sappy today is all. It must be my period or something."
She sniffs, wipes again, then stands up, walking to the closet to retrieve the mop.
Gesine sits for a moment, contemplating what to say next, but Sandra is already mopping feverishly and Gesine knows her chance to dive deeper has already disappeared like a shooting star. Instead, she rose, grabbed some kitchen towels, and quietly wiped off the counters. This conversation will have to be completed at another time.
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
*Quoted, paraphrased, or inspired by an actual interview. All else is fiction.