mixture of shyness and insistence.
“I only look like him, that’s all,” said Ralf.
The man eyed him suspiciously.
“It’s my job. I do it onstage. I’m an impersonator!”
The man let them pass. The woman found his answer so funny, she was still laughing minutes later in the taxi.
That night, watching in the gray mirror as their two naked silhouettes merged, he wished himself with all his heart transported to the other side of its flat surface, and the next morning, as he listened to her breathing peacefully beside him he felt some stranger had wandered into the room by accident, and the stranger wasn’t her.
He had long suspected that the act of being photographed was wearing out his face. Was it possible that every time you were filmed, another person came into being, a less-than-perfect copy that ousted you from your own presence? It seemed to him that after years of being famous only a part of him survived, and all he needed to be whole again was to die, and to be alone in the place he truly belonged: in films and in his myriad photographs. That body, the one that still breathed, felt hungry, and wandered around for no good reason, would cease to be a burden to him—a body that in any case bore little resemblance to the film star. So much work and so much makeup, so much effort and remodeling went into making sure that he really looked like the Ralf Tanner on the screen.
He called Malzacher, his agent, canceled the trip to the Valparaiso Film Festival, then set off to a discotheque called Looppool on the outskirts of town, where, according to whathe’d found on the Internet, there was going to be an appearance by famous actors’ doubles. He told his chauffeur to wait outside, and went in, feeling shyer than he had in years. Someone wanted an entrance fee, but, when he saw Ralf’s face, waved him on in.
It was hot and sticky, the light harsh and flickering. Over at the bar was a man who looked like Tom Cruise, Arnold Schwarzenegger was clearing a path through the crowd at the other end, and of course there was a Lady Diana in an outfit straight from a discount store. People turned as he went by, but their glances were brief and unfocused, slightly indifferent. Diana now climbed up onstage and sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”; there was obviously some mix-up, but the crowd roared its approval. A woman smiled at him. He looked back at her. She came toward him. His heart began to thump, he didn’t know what he should say. She was at his side and then they were on the dance floor, her body pressed close to his.
Shortly after that he found himself up onstage. People stared up at him as he did his famous dialogue with Anthony Hopkins from I’m the Man in the Moon. He did the Anthony part really well, but stumbled a bit in his own replies. The audience clapped and whooped, he jumped back down into the room, and the woman he’d been dancing with whispered in his ear that her name was Nora.
The owner of the discotheque tapped him on the shoulder and gave him fifty euros. “That was okay, though not terrific. Tanner talks differently, and he holds his hands sort of likethis.” He demonstrated. “You look like him, but you haven’t got his body language yet. Watch more of his movies! Come back next week.”
As he and the woman stepped out onto the street, he panicked. He couldn’t take her home with him. The moment she saw the house and the servants, she’d know that he wasn’t who he claimed he was—or, rather, that he really was. He pretended not to see the waiting chauffeur, flagged down a taxi, invented something about a brother who was visiting right now; with a look that told him she didn’t believe a word and assumed he must be married, she said her apartment was in a mess.
It was in fact small and extremely tidy, and Ralf Tanner spent the last night of his life there. It wasn’t him but someone else who clasped Nora’s body with a strength he’d never possessed before. In the
“I only look like him, that’s all,” said Ralf.
The man eyed him suspiciously.
“It’s my job. I do it onstage. I’m an impersonator!”
The man let them pass. The woman found his answer so funny, she was still laughing minutes later in the taxi.
That night, watching in the gray mirror as their two naked silhouettes merged, he wished himself with all his heart transported to the other side of its flat surface, and the next morning, as he listened to her breathing peacefully beside him he felt some stranger had wandered into the room by accident, and the stranger wasn’t her.
He had long suspected that the act of being photographed was wearing out his face. Was it possible that every time you were filmed, another person came into being, a less-than-perfect copy that ousted you from your own presence? It seemed to him that after years of being famous only a part of him survived, and all he needed to be whole again was to die, and to be alone in the place he truly belonged: in films and in his myriad photographs. That body, the one that still breathed, felt hungry, and wandered around for no good reason, would cease to be a burden to him—a body that in any case bore little resemblance to the film star. So much work and so much makeup, so much effort and remodeling went into making sure that he really looked like the Ralf Tanner on the screen.
He called Malzacher, his agent, canceled the trip to the Valparaiso Film Festival, then set off to a discotheque called Looppool on the outskirts of town, where, according to whathe’d found on the Internet, there was going to be an appearance by famous actors’ doubles. He told his chauffeur to wait outside, and went in, feeling shyer than he had in years. Someone wanted an entrance fee, but, when he saw Ralf’s face, waved him on in.
It was hot and sticky, the light harsh and flickering. Over at the bar was a man who looked like Tom Cruise, Arnold Schwarzenegger was clearing a path through the crowd at the other end, and of course there was a Lady Diana in an outfit straight from a discount store. People turned as he went by, but their glances were brief and unfocused, slightly indifferent. Diana now climbed up onstage and sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”; there was obviously some mix-up, but the crowd roared its approval. A woman smiled at him. He looked back at her. She came toward him. His heart began to thump, he didn’t know what he should say. She was at his side and then they were on the dance floor, her body pressed close to his.
Shortly after that he found himself up onstage. People stared up at him as he did his famous dialogue with Anthony Hopkins from I’m the Man in the Moon. He did the Anthony part really well, but stumbled a bit in his own replies. The audience clapped and whooped, he jumped back down into the room, and the woman he’d been dancing with whispered in his ear that her name was Nora.
The owner of the discotheque tapped him on the shoulder and gave him fifty euros. “That was okay, though not terrific. Tanner talks differently, and he holds his hands sort of likethis.” He demonstrated. “You look like him, but you haven’t got his body language yet. Watch more of his movies! Come back next week.”
As he and the woman stepped out onto the street, he panicked. He couldn’t take her home with him. The moment she saw the house and the servants, she’d know that he wasn’t who he claimed he was—or, rather, that he really was. He pretended not to see the waiting chauffeur, flagged down a taxi, invented something about a brother who was visiting right now; with a look that told him she didn’t believe a word and assumed he must be married, she said her apartment was in a mess.
It was in fact small and extremely tidy, and Ralf Tanner spent the last night of his life there. It wasn’t him but someone else who clasped Nora’s body with a strength he’d never possessed before. In the
Similar Books
