November 11.
Billy took a breath after stepping out of the water, the sea slightly freezing, though he hardly cared—he grew used to the cold over time. It was part of his work to endure it that way.
--Shivering after a swim is not sexy at all.—Matt Damon laughed. For some time now, they had been swimming out to the skylight and back. Both of them were cold, but it was a good way to train. Matt was on a calorie deficit, while Billy ate twice as much meat. He enjoyed thick cuts of sirloin, paired with steamed vegetables, yet he never turned down cheese—and it was the cheese that made him breathe in satisfaction again and again, however he pleased.
--When you can't stop your teeth from chattering, what else can you do? This time I won—you're paying for breakfast.—Billy replied, avoiding turning it into too much of a betting matter. For some time now, they had been wagering breakfast—no rice, always replaced with pasta or vegetables, but every kind of meat was fair game. That was where skill became the least expected factor.
--Alright, alright… the rich always steal from the poor. Meat for breakfast, how annoying that a cut of meat costs more than a tiramisu.—Matt replied.
--Then it's simple. Beat me next time, and we'll settle it. But anyway, filming starts today, and by the time we're done, your salary will be in my hands.—Billy said.
Matt was one of those people who took everything with humor. He was known for being funny, always landing his remarks with effortless instinct. It was true that, more often than not, he fit perfectly into roles of charm and romance. That was why he pursued Gwyneth, who had ended up entangled with Leonardo—a bold relationship that turned into a quiet conflict. Now she seemed rebellious, always watching Billy with a kind of madness ever since they had met again. But Billy paid no attention, and those turbulent moments remained behind in Prague, buried completely in oblivion.
--Just a coffee.—were the words of the beautiful woman.
--Chicken piccata, with a fine slice of serrano ham.—Billy replied, thinking of breakfast. A serrano ham sandwich with vegetables would give him time to eat properly—a perfect complement. The afternoon was warm despite the season; winter was arriving, but it was only a matter of dressing for it. People didn't worry as much here—the harsher cold lay farther north. In Venice, for instance, one had to be careful; the cold was biting, almost freezing. But near the shoot, the climate felt almost tropical by comparison.
The blue sky stretched above them, and their food was served with care.
--I heard you worked with my godfather recently.—Gwyneth said, surprised in her own way.
--A project that will hit theaters next December. He had the film for a while and wanted me to back it in some way… and I decided to accept.—Billy replied, taking a breath.
--I liked The Matrix.—the girl said. She understood that for some time now, her path had been tied to finding some form of relief. Ever since she read the script for Shakespeare in Love, she had tried to claim her place within it, resorting to small tricks until she was stopped outright. She was humiliated when it was revealed that Ryder had already purchased the production rights to the script. She was left looking foolish, chasing favors in vain—and the anger she felt toward Winona, and the way she handled things, burned deeply within her.
Billy, on the other hand, was her friend—and she was his. Yet none of it truly mattered in a world where people were diminished by the cruelty of the industry. Now she stood under Billy's spotlight, wanting to become the right woman under those lights, to build the reputation she urgently needed for future roles.
--Lately, I've been thinking about roles I want to play. I mean, being a killer is fine, but I'd also like to be a great CIA spy, a magician… and a Casanova type who has everyone at his feet.—Matt said.
--You change every day. Not long ago,o you wanted to be a Jedi, and just a moment ago, you were talking about continuing The Matrix.—Gwyneth replied playfully. She had known for some time that Matt was a dreamer, someone who thrived on closeness—and well, his friend Ben wasn't bad company either.
--Great role.—Billy whispered, with sarcasm.
--It's a shame they shot everything in one take.—Matt said with a grin.—Honestly, it's so difficult, so complicated… being Neo. But in truth, it wasn't anything extravagant. Still, when you commit to a production and bet everything on telling a story in three acts, it feels right to do it that way—even if you lose the money.—
The question lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken. What did it take? It was a question out of place, one he couldn't answer by admitting that his opportunities came from knowledge of the future. It was time speaking through memory—through things he carried from long ago.
--It's the feeling of going all in. It comes from a strong script, the right people beside yoand u, and from doing everything within your reach. That moment arrives when you realize that if you don't do it, someone else will—and you'll lose the chance. Whether it's for money, for faith, or simply because you know you'll succeed… that's what drives you.—Billy replied, unsure if his answer was enough. He took a sip of juice to mask the slight embarrassment. What more could he say? It was the same wager he repeated time and time.
--Always so serious and mysterious.—Matt said, trying to keep things from settling into simplicity.
--I mean it, Matt. You're intelligent, you have more than enough talent. But when you dream, it's a pleasure to choose paths that go against the odds—that's when you'll understand what I'm saying.—Billy replied.
--I hope so.—Matt answered, taking a sip of juice. He had thought the same when working on A Beautiful Mind, but now it all seemed like luck—and that luck felt like nothing more than a fragile breath, always on the edge of failure.
***
The beach was colder than it had been in the morning, but that was good—at least he wouldn't fall asleep.
Scene 3. Take 4.—
EXTERIOR. MONGIBELLO. DAY.
Ripley steps out of one of the beach huts and stands at the edge of the sand, on a wooden walkway. He wears a tiny lime-green swimsuit. He hates beaches. A couple of boys turn lazily and stare at him. Ripley slips on his shoes and runs toward the sea. He feels ridiculous, his alabaster-white skin against the sunburned bodies around him. Finally, the embarrassment becomes too much; he kicks off his shoes and runs into the water, enjoying its coolness before emerging and walking straight toward
Dickie.
RIPLEY: Dickie Greenleaf?
Dickie squints at Ripley, who awkwardly holds his shoes.
DICKIE: Who's this?
RIPLEY: It's Tom. Tom Ripley. We were at Princeton together.
DICKIE: Right.
(He stands)
Did we know each other?
RIPLEY: Well, I knew you, so I suppose you knew me, too.
DICKIE (to Marge): Princeton's like a blur. America's like a blur.
(to Ripley) This is Marge Sherwood. Tom, sorry—what did you say?
RIPLEY: Ripley. Hi. How are you?
MARGE: How are you?
DICKIE: What are you doing in Mongi?
RIPLEY: Nothing. Nothing important. Just passing through.
DICKIE (finding the idea absurd):
Passing through! You're so pale. Have you ever seen anyone this pale, Marge? More like gray.
RIPLEY: It's just a base coat.
(Marge laughs)
DICKIE: What was that?
RIPLEY: You know… primer.
DICKIE: That's funny. He shares a moment of intimacy with Marge, making her laugh. Ripley stands there as they move around him. Marge looks up.
MARGE: You should have lunch with us before you leave, Dickie?
DICKIE: Sure. Whenever you like.
MARGE: And be careful with the sun. Your grays might turn a little pink.
RIPLEY: Thanks. Wow… what a coincidence.
--Cut.—
Billy sighed. The scene carried everything he had been weighing in his mind.
...