Lugardian Bubble

Everyone knows how to play hide-and-seek, right? The rules are simple and easy, even for children. But what if I told you that this game has different levels?

Have you ever done something truly remarkable, so extraordinary that it would earn you the recognition and love of millions? Only some people can boast of such a feat. Imagine you created a cancer vaccine, designed a time machine, or made a brilliant film, and then decided to stay in the shadows, telling no one it was your doing. Who does that?

Exactly, no one. Hide-and-seek: level one hundred.

“Where are you off to again?” My friend Alma’s call caught me at the airport.

“I was at a teachers’ conference, coming back now.”

“Did you read my message?”

The crowd ahead of me began to flow towards boarding, tickets flashing, and I lazily reached for the bag next to me on the metal bench. This was my fifteenth flight this year, and the once-desirable scent of duty-free, which had previously promised skies in clouds, new adventures, and unknown lands, now only induced nausea.

“Liz,” came Alma’s insistent voice from the phone.

“Yes,” I reluctantly returned to the conversation.

“Did you read it?”

“Yes, yes, I did. But I’m going to refuse.”

“Why? Care to explain?”

If Alma resorted to a restrained tone like that, she was angry. Usually justifiably. She was my friend, but she was also my editor, who perpetually had problems because of me.

“Listen, Liz. I covered for you when you refused to set up a social media account to promote the book, even though it’s in every author’s contract. I covered for you when you wanted to stay an ‘anonymous author,’ and refused to attend autograph sessions and meet readers. I had to swallow a lot of crap from the management because I was the one pushing your manuscript through...”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You’re welcome, you jerk! ‘Thank you, Alma, for showing my book to the world, thank you for making me the most talked-about writer of the year, thank you for opening the door to the publishing industry for me!’”

“You know I’m grateful, I’ve told you many times...”

I didn’t even have the energy to argue. I just wanted to go home to my familiar den, clutch my favorite mug, cover my legs with my favorite poncho blanket, and chat again in Spanish with my favorite students, smiling at me from the monitor.

But giving up was not in Alma’s DNA.

“Don’t thank me, just go to that damn shoot!”

“Al...”

“I know you don’t want to be in the spotlight, we all get it by now,” she snorted, and I knew she rolled her eyes at that moment. “Forget about the PR. Think about Sammy.”

I stopped, gazing at the majestic iron bird outside the window.

“What’s there to think about? The book is written, Sammy lives his own life now, I’ve long since let the characters go.”

“Oh no, sweetie, the life of your characters now depends on how they’re portrayed on screen. You don’t want to watch the film later and fall into a depression because they didn’t get what you wanted to say at all?”

The crowd at gate sixty-two had thinned considerably, and I started to say goodbye to Alma.

“Just go there, Liz,” she switched to a persuasive tone. “Your lessons are online anyway, you’re always traveling. Grr, you’ll live on Lugardo for three months, what a torture!”

Already in the cabin, as passengers were taking their seats and a sweaty man was stowing his travel bag over my head, I went online, found the “Liz Savat” page, and scrolled through a few posts. I had refused to engage in social media and demanded secrecy regarding my identity, so the publishing house handled the account on my behalf. They came up with a clever move: they gave the blog girl a mask – a white maiden’s face with huge eyes and lashes, like Betty Boop, and entrusted her with managing the account as “Liz Savat.” That is, her job was to pretend to be me. In three months, the account gained several hundred thousand followers, and now, a year later, it was on the list of million-follower blogs. This publicity stunt on secrecy brought my book insane popularity, and Alma got a raise because it was her idea.

“Liz Savat” was a pseudonym, so I didn’t have to worry about attention to my life – it simply wasn’t there. Even my friends didn’t know it was me, and sometimes they made comments about ‘pseudo-Liz.’ Remarks about my book also came up often in our conversations, and I silently accepted compliments, praying that the silly smile on my face wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Of course, it’s nice to hear unbiased praise!

But I didn’t want to tell the truth to anyone – the deception had gone too far, and the publishing house stuck its neck out to accommodate me. It was enough for me that my book meant something to so many people. Isn’t that the fulfilment of purpose? The reason we come to this world? To create something great that heals hearts and nourishes minds? That made me feel good, and whether they knew who I was seemed completely unimportant.

But that girl behind the mask, that “pseudo-Liz,” irritated me like the pea under a dozen mattresses. Too confident, agile, and quick on the uptake – something I could never be. Even my “mattresses” of purpose and mission didn’t smooth out this discomfort. People would always think she wrote “The Route,” it would remain in Wikipedia (and as we know, what’s written on the internet is the truth).

I suddenly thought of Sammy: what if they embellished him too? Fit him into a common movie hero formula? And he would remain in the minds of millions not as I had created him...

I remembered where he first came to me: on Lugardo. I stood on the shore, watching the colorful boats sway on the waves, and suddenly envisioned a young man with a tanned, weathered face, but he certainly wasn’t a fisherman, because I saw him cutting through the waves on nothing other than a bus! At that moment I knew he was a driver, only his vehicle had rebelled and stopped driving on the road, taking its owner into impassable thickets, ocean waters – places no one had been before, so Sammy could learn what no one else had. That’s why his clothes and long hair were saturated with salt – who knows how many seas he and his bus had conquered by the time he reached here, to these colorful boats, to this yellow-stone church on the cliff with its weather-worn door and old clock face, reflecting sunlight onto the coastal waters.

Sammy came to me. It may sound pretentious, but he chose me. When the work on the book was finished, I was quite tired of him, but now I felt again that I had to be part of his life. Besides, Alma was right, I wouldn’t forgive myself if the film turned out completely different, and I knew I could have influenced it but chose to stay on the sidelines.

As the flight attendants checked seatbelts, I quickly redialed.

“I’ll go, but I need the studio to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

I could almost hear Alma’s mouth stretching into a smile.

“That’s how I know you didn’t open my email,” my friend concluded triumphantly.

“You already arranged it, didn’t you?”

“It’s all in the contract. And Liz?”

“Hmm?”

“Read the damn script, will you?”

Two months later, I met my first love again. This encounter affirmed the adage: there are no exes.

Lugardo. My golden island.

A wave of nostalgia hit me as I stepped off the ramp, dulling my intuition. Now I remember it screamed that it was the biggest mistake of my life, a vicious trap, and I should get out of there. But I didn’t notice those signs then. All I saw before me was my island.

Lugardo’s air welcomed me warmly. I had forgotten that I would need to relearn how to breathe there. As soon as I stepped off the plane, my body began to adjust to the new temperatures. It will take some time before my skin finally learns to enjoy the humidity and sun, and I will start gathering my blonde hair into a bun again after torturous attempts to wear it down—“Why else did I grow it out?“—because in this climate, no one wears their hair down.

The taxi took me through the same streets as three years ago, past trees covered in a pink foam of flowers, along the waterfront path made for long walks, and those boats that rocked tirelessly on the waves, like ducks waiting for bread from tourists.

But how much my perspective has changed! I see it in my reflection in the window. Back then, I was so greedy, swallowing every new landscape that unfolded around each corner. Now I take Lugardo in cautiously, carefully, so as not to become intoxicated.

The driver interrupted my flooding memories with a sudden question:

“Are you sure you’re going to the Garuda Hotel?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Looks like the filmmakers are back in Lugardo; seems they’ve booked half of the hotel. I saw them unloading equipment today...”

In the rearview mirror, a typical Lugardian looked at me: large facial features, skin the color of cappuccino, an openly curious gaze.

“You said they were back?” I asked. “Does this happen often?”

“Every year!” he chuckled kindly. “So, you have a reservation there?”

I assured him everything was arranged while I nervously bit my nails: if everyone already knew about the shoot, reporters would be on standby. The studio’s non-disclosure agreement won’t save me. And then I remembered Alma’s words:

“They might photograph you on set without knowing who you are: you can be an extra, a cleaner, maybe someone’s assistant! Wanna learn how to relax?” she said knowingly. “Before stepping onto the set, take a deep breath and tell yourself firmly, clearly, and convincingly:

‘Nobody gives a shit about me.’”

Thanks, girlfriend. You are a guru of affirmations no less...

“Nobody gives a shit about me”.

Well, I didn’t know yet that I shouldn’t have listened to her. But I was about to discover that in the most painful way possible.