January 28.
Two days that were all he had left with Monica, hand in hand through Venice. He devoted himself to taking in the beauty of the city he had walked so many times before, while people followed them in one way or another. Cameras kept flashing as they strolled through the beautiful city, visiting the finest restaurants, places worth as much as they could possibly charge. The beauty of each one made Billy want to recreate that same elegance himself in future locations.
A restaurant built atop a centuries-old chapel, which later became a residence, then a small hotel, eventually renovated into at least a four-star establishment, only to be sold before the war due to financial troubles, and transformed into a breathtaking restaurant. Every corner was filled with striking artistic details, no matter where one looked.
Da Bubi was a restaurant that overwhelmed its guests with delights. It offered a menu of wines, cocktails, meats and fish, desserts, and a rotating selection that changed each month. The best chefs worked in its kitchen, drawn from different places, each one operating under a lead chef who nurtured their talent over the course of one or two years before they moved on to another restaurant. Billy tasted the richness of the sauces; the pasta reached a level where everything seemed perfected upon the palate—it was the pure pleasure of fine dining.
They were served everything to sample.
--The wine I love most is the '76 vintage—a harvest my father bought with nearly a year's savings for my graduation celebration in 1886. Almost ten years passed, and since then, I've only ever wanted to drink that vintage. And ever since I learned you purchased nearly two cellars from that year, you've created something deeply real for me. —she said, doing her best to hold back tears, savoring both the food and the wine that once she had been almost afraid even to pour, terrified of wasting a single drop.
—It's what we have, or what makes us happy. —Billy replied, thinking of family and the significance of those '76 bottles, which he had gifted for the celebrations on December 24th and 31st, ensuring every detail was perfect. He hoped those gestures would not be decisive, yet sometimes what is done out of generosity—without expecting anything in return, not even a simple thank you—carried its own quiet weight.
—How wonderful. —Monica said, taking a sip.
As they arrived, he noticed Matt Damon entering, accompanied by his good friend Ben Affleck—a young man who spoke with disarming honesty, grounded in simplicity, and who could easily become part of something significant. The two came from different paths: one more precise in directing and production, the other more artistic, more of a writer than anything else—two distinct talents. For anyone seeking opportunity, they were a cornerstone for future collaborations, and having two people so recognized and admired was simply part of Hollywood's collective flow.
Each of them was stepping into the next twenty years, destined to become essential figures. Still somewhat innocent within the cinematic world, they acted on instinct, guided by emotion—they were the kind of people who let themselves be carried forward. The slender women at their arms said much about the kind of company they were beginning to keep.
—Well, well… this is quite the fortunate encounter for all of us. —Matt said, trying to remain casual, though the discomfort showed. Standing before Hollywood's newest rising superstar, a man dominating headlines, felt almost surreal—like a golden opportunity, a coincidence that might offer a touch of luck, perhaps even a chance to be part of something larger within the world of film.
—We're still shooting, and the ending is far more scandalous than you'd expect. It feels like a free fall—you know, when you unravel yourself in a sequence that keeps collapsing inward. —Matt added. For some time now, he had realized the role would evolve entirely with the unfolding events, all of it shaped by a strong perspective—especially after missing out on that defining audition, that institution of collective approval.
Matt didn't have time to continue, because Ben quickly shifted the conversation toward European hotels, even making Monica laugh—a native accustomed to such things. Yet it was fair to say that humidity was an unavoidable discomfort for visitors; the issue wasn't the smell, but the constant desire to bathe, the delicate way one adjusted, or how everything eventually translated into an indifferent reality—or a stuttering life shaped by unseen germs.
—I think I'd jump at it for a well-paid million dollars. —Matt said, his eyes slightly teary, that being his way—an early expression of the life he was building.
—Well, money—and perhaps an incentive. What about it? Two beautiful women are waiting for us, completely naked. Just as life was meant to be when we were born. —he replied lightly, with that same familiar ease.
What could happen? What could people do when reality itself began to intertwine? A woman arrived—invited by Gwyneth—ten minutes late to the cocktail gathering. Cate Blanchett was the perfect presence, one of the most celebrated actresses of her time, known for her remarkable talent and destined to win acclaim for performances that carried the depth of a truly gifted woman.
—Thank you for the invitation. —Cate said. —I'm sorry for arriving late; I suppose it always ends up feeling like everything revolves around you, which hardly seems fair. -
—Billy invited all of us. —Matt replied, greeting her. —It seems the film is just as good as we imagined. Though honestly, it hardly does justice to you, such remarkable beauty now gathered here. It's a shame we'll have to leave soon. -
As quickly as they arrived, they left again—off to a club, perhaps to dance. It must have been unsettling for those who preferred to take their time, to enjoy things quietly. Cate Blanchett and close by Gwyneth both tried to appear friendly, yet they were entirely different people, each distant from the other's nature. Meanwhile, Monica and Gwyneth spoke about fashion and the latest French collections.
And even if it went unspoken, Cate hinted at her imminent trip to New Zealand. It was simply how she carried herself—bold, composed, ready to take on such a production and make it her own.
-So you turned down the role of Aragorn… just like everyone else has. —Cate whispered.
-Everyone turned it down? —Billy asked, intrigued.
-They have a few options, but there's little support. Besides, it's known that you only invested money that you're still under Peter Jackson's direction. —Cate said, thinking of that young filmmaker who proudly pushed forward, refusing the backing of major studios that sought both influence and a share of the profits. Instead, a team of thirty people and perhaps a modest studio stood behind the project.