Mr. Igor Pavel, what fines do you have in the United States?"
"Sir, if you answer us correctly, we could set you free, like a dove."
He blinked constantly; he seemed both present and absent at the same time.
He squinted, taking in the dark, cold room, as if he were in the heart of Siberia.
He noticed two men staring at him, their eyes and lips fixed on him, waiting for an answer to their questions.
The table, like the room, was cold.
When he realized where he was, his hair stood on end.
Had he traveled back in time? How was this possible...?
"If you don't answer my questions, things could get complicated."
He leaned back in his chair, straightened his back, and looked at them both.
"What were the questions? Excuse me if I didn't hear you clearly."
One of the officers ran a hand over his exhausted face; the one beside him sighed, his thin eyebrows twitching.
What traffic violations do you have in the United States?"
"What kind of fines do you have?"—in search of a better life than the one he had before.
"From what we saw, Igor, you're a member of the KGB... or rather, a former member, according to what I told airport security."
"Exactly, you weren't wrong. I am a former member of the KGB. I was in Morocco for a while. My situation wasn't good, so I decided to come to the United States."
The two agents listened attentively to what he was saying. One of them was writing in a notebook; the words piled up on the paper, the ink seeming to remind him that he was no longer the citizen he once was.
It was 1995. Obviously, two FBI agents suspected a former KGB agent of setting foot on American soil, and they weren't prosecuted.
The agent stood up from his chair while on the phone, perhaps with his superior. He hung up and sat back down.
Mr. Igor Pavel, this is how things will be, and I want you to listen carefully. Otherwise, you could be extradited. You'll be in the United States, since you're apparently no longer an agent, much less a spy. But for about two years, if we detect any suspicious activity, you won't be able to defend yourself."
....
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How he had returned to the past, he didn't know. He sat on one of the airport benches, looking at his hands, his fingernails. He was alive again, and that intrigued him, but sometimes it was better to remain with the question than the answer.
He got up and hailed a taxi.
He was in Los Angeles, so he would have to find a place to live, although... he didn't have enough money.
He looked at himself in the taxi's rearview mirror: blond hair combed back, thin eyebrows, and what always stood out most about his appearance.
He had heterochromia; one eye was green and the other brown. Because of this condition, they nicknamed him "the cat" while he served in the army.
At 26, he wanted to fulfill a dream, but also a whim.
To be a film director, something many considered impossible, but not him.
He knew which films would be successful and which wouldn't, and he knew in which years the film industry would struggle to achieve success.
"I expected better... But oh well, I've been through worse."
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his neighbor arguing. The apartment he lived in was, anyone would say, a dive, a place frequented by drug addicts.
He sat on the floor and leaned his head against the wall.
He didn't know if his companions were alive or not. When he was alive, before he was reborn, they never saw each other again, and that was the thorn that broke his heart before it stopped beating.
He licked his lips because they were dry.
In Los Angeles, California, there were several film studios, both large and small. She had to start with one of them. She had to send them a letter outlining the plot of the film she wanted to make to see if she could get a project.
She could start with… Casino.
CASINO
She stood up quickly and rummaged through her bag until she found a notepad and a pen. It was like finding a pirate's treasure chest.