A desperate actor will do almost anything to get noticed. Raoul Bontecou was a desperate actor and he did whatever he could to get noticed. And I mean, whatever he could do. Directors, producers and agents were all sadists at heart. If, that was, they actually had a heart, which was open to debate. And each empty promise to get him into films in exchange for this and that, for money, for a night  with a strange  man whom he knew, deep down, he would never see again, they all ate away at his confidence, sinking him further and further into a lurking melancholy and a growing hatred of what he had been forced to become. Give it time, he told himself, one day, one day I’ll be a star and I won’t have to live this life anymore. But a shower didn’t wash away the memories. Each day this silent vow seemed ever further out of reach. A distant dream, as fragile as butterflies wings in the sunlight like jewelled shadows. Something you couldn’t touch, only imagine.
It wasn’t sunny then. A dismal scene met the gaze of anyone who looked out the window of the bustling café into the late morning landscape. Rain drops smeared the glass like silvery snakes, blurring an indistinct view of St Mark’s Square through the grey clouds, the dome of the Cathedral spiralling from sight as it communed with God. Whoever said that it never rained in Venice obviously had never been there. Of course, those who said it were mainly tourists and they tended to go during the summer, rather than towards the end of autumn when a wan sun watched down reproachfully as winter’s icy fingers stole onto the  scene, tugging playfully at thick coats and scarves.

Umbrellas bobbed everywhere in a multitude of colours, drowning in the rain as people scuttled from doorway to doorway, seeking shelter from the weather. Some things you just couldn’t escape. The weather was strangely comforting though as it thrummed down on the roofs. It reflected his mood at that moment. The heavens were weeping for his wasted soul as his breath clouded the window in delicate blooms, softening the haunting quality of dark eyes reflected in the streaked glass.

Watching the rain meander down the pane, a childhood poem sprung to mind, one which his teacher had taught him as a boy while they were learning English.

‘These are my two drops of rain
Waiting on the window-pane.

I am waiting here to see
Which the winning one will be.’

There was more to it, of course, but that was all he could remember at that moment. And so he watched the raindrops but they fell too fast for him to see who won, the individual drops merging into winding ribbons.

Black silken hair spilled over his arms as he rested his head in them, leaning his cheek against the cool plastic tabletop. Pale skin was bruised by lack of sleep around his almond-shaped eyes, his elegant features slightly gaunt with the hunger that touched them but it merely served to give him an almost ethereal look. Evidently he suffered for his love of acting, doing anything for the smallest part. He hadn’t failed entirely. Though he had never done anything big screen he had done several small-screen films. Mainly art-type pictures, pictures, the ones very few people had heard about, let alone seen. But he had never wanted to be famous. Ever since he had been young he had pretended to be someone else, to think that he could do that as a job had seemed a magical prospect to him.

Then he’d been young. Time had soon taken twisted pleasure in showing him the reality of it all. Few actors and actresses did their jobs because
they wanted to (not for long, at any rate) they did it for the money and the fame. Raoul wanted to act because he loved it. And he was desperate.

In the last two years he had been in three short films. ‘Free Speech for Fifty Dollars’, ‘Freedom is a Place Called Nowhere’ and ‘La Ricivuta per una Memoria’ or, in English, A Receipt for a Memory. Two had been speaking parts, one quite a major one as the producer had taken a fancy to the nineteen-year-old Italian actor, though mainly with what he could offer off-screen rather than on it. The silver screen was nothing more than an alloy of cheap metals, peeling away to reveal the world it really hid; a world of avarice and human desire. In truth, it was no different to this world despite the glamorous image it gave off. It was all a lie. Then again, wasn’t everything? And everyone, for that matter, they all lied to him, making promises they wouldn’t keep and blindly he accepted them in the vain hope that one might not be lying to him, for once.

He was still hoping. Some of them had kept their promises but it was always for something. Nothing in this world was for free, one day you would pay for it in one way or another. Surely Then again, wasn’t everything? And everyone, for that matter, they all lied to him, making promises they wouldn’t keep and blindly he accepted them in the vain hope that one might not be lying to him, for once.

He was still hoping. Some of them had kept their promises but it was always for something. Nothing in this world was for free, one day you would pay for it in one way or another. Surely this wouldn’t last forever? It couldn’t.

His jacket leaked a puddle of water at his feet, the coat spread out across the seat beside him. One ivory coloured shoulder peaked out as the once-black jumper, which was too large for his slender frame, slipped off slightly, the ends tumbling over his curled fists. Faded jeans were frayed and torn in places, hidden in the shadows which lay beneath the  table. Sometimes he wished he could do the same, go hide in the shadows and forget it all. And then he was thrust back into the uncaring world, his casual, half existent agent calling him from time to time with a name or a number, never anything particularly specific, all illusions just like everything else. He was meant to be meeting someone here actually. He forgot who, just another person who was promising him the world, probably. They all did. No doubt it made them feel powerful. They could laugh behind his back at his stupidity. He was so eager to believe it was often laughable, so trusting that it was almost painful.

With his head down on the table he looked very much like a child, it was something in his eyes that betrayed his age, belied his innocence and purity. He wasn’t innocent or pure, you didn’t remain either for long in this business. You couldn’t, it wasn’t possible. You could act innocent but wasn’t it just all an act? Raoul led a double style life. At his rural home in the countryside of Italy he was a perfect son, a bit of a dreamer and always wandering his imagination rather than the real world but polite and helpful as well as talented. Talent didn’t get you as far as you might think though, you had to know the right people, go to the right places and so on. Then he’d realized that his home life had been a far stretch from the real world. That was where his second life began, he became someone else altogether, doing whatever it took to get a part and to earn his living.

No one here asked for his autograph. The waitress came over with his coffee and, after a failed attempt at conversation, went, leaving the beverage to cool as he continued his idle study through the window. Animated chattering in several languages washed over him like waves as he waited for this person whom he had forgotten, known only by a number scrawled on a scrap of paper after a party. They might not even come. But he had to try, at least. That’s all you could do in this world, try. But it was never actually enough. Nothing was.