I bring a hand to my forehead. “Dimly, yeah, dimly I remember.”
“We just saw your father a month ago in Washington,” Lorrie offers.
“Far out,” I’m saying.
“He was at a dinner in a new restaurant on Prospect Street with Sam Nunn, Glen Luchford, Jerome Bunnouvrier and Katharine Graham, as well as two of the forensic experts on the defense team of the O. J. Simpson trial.”
“God,” I groan. “I wish I’d been there. It sounds like a blast. I’ve gotta split.”
“And how’s your sister?” Lorrie asks.
“Oh, she’s cool. She’s in Washington too,” I’m guessing. “But I’ve gotta split.”
“And where are you off to?” Stephen asks.
“Right now? Back to my cabin,” I say.
“No, I meant in Europe,” he says.
Lorrie keeps smiling at me, staring warmly, sending definite horny vibes my way.
“Well, I think Paris,” I say. “Actually Cherbourg, then, um, Paris.”
The woman immediately glances over at her husband when I say this but ultimately it’s awkwardly done and the director has to retake this simple reaction shot four more times before proceeding to the rest of the scene. “Action” is called again and in the background extras resume their positions: old people milling around, the Japanese splashing all over the pool.
“Really?” Stephen asks. “What takes you to Paris?”
“Um, I’m going to … photograph Jim Morrison’s grave for … Us magazine and … that’s, um, for one, yeah .…” Pausing for emphasis, I then add, “And I’m also going to visit the Eiffel Tower, which everyone I know says is a ‘must-see,’ so-o-o …” I pause again. “And the Gothic Eurobeat scene is really big just now, so I might check that out.”
The Wallaces stare at me blankly. Finally Lorrie clears her throat. “Where are you staying in Paris?” she asks.
I remember hotels Chloe and I stayed at and, avoiding the obvious, choose “La Villa Hotel.”
“Oh yes, on Rue Jacob, just off Boulevard Saint-Germain,” Lorrie says.
“That’s the one,” I say, pointing cheerfully at her. “I’ve gotta split.”
“And was that your traveling companion?” Stephen asks, gesturing at the empty chaise Marina was lounging on.
Unsure of how to answer, I ultimately go with, “Oh no, not really. I’m on my own.”
“I thought perhaps you two were together,” Stephen adds, smiling.
“Well, who knows,” I laugh, striking a pose, breaking it up by shifting my weight impatiently from one leg to the other and back again.
“She seems like a lovely girl,” Lorrie says approvingly.
“She’s a model,” I point out, nodding.
“Of course,” Stephen says. “And from what I hear so are you.”
“And so I am,” I say awkwardly. “I’ve gotta split.”
“You know, Victor,” Lorrie begins, “this is terrible but we did see you about three months ago in London at the opening of the Hempel Hotel but you were besieged by so many people that it made contact, well, a little difficult,” she says apologetically.
“Well, that’s just great, Lorrie,” I say. “But I wasn’t in London three months ago.”
The two of them glance at each other again and though personally I think the look they exchange is a little overdone, the director, surprisingly, does not and the scene continues uninterrupted.
“Are you sure?” Stephen asks. “We’re fairly certain it was you.”
“Nope, not me,” I say. “But it happens all the time. Listen—”
“We read that interview with you in—oh, what’s the name of that magazine?” Stephen looks to Lorrie again.
“YouthQuake?” Lorrie guesses.
“Yes, yes, YouthQuake,” Stephen says. “You were on the cover.”
“Yeah?” I ask, brightening a little. “What did you think of it?”
“Oh, it was excellent,” Stephen says. “Excellent.”
“Yes,” Lorrie adds. “We thoroughly enjoyed it.”
“Yeah, I thought it turned out pretty good too,” I say. “Dad wasn’t too happy about it, though.”
“Oh, but you’ve got to be yourself,” Stephen says. “I’m sure your father understands that.”
“Not really.”
“Victor,” Lorrie says, “we would love it if you joined us for dinner tonight.”
“Yes, I think your father would be furious if he knew we were sailing together and we didn’t have dinner at least one night,” Stephen says.
“Or anytime you’re in London,” Lorrie adds.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “But I don’t think I’m going to London. I think I’m going to Paris first. I mean, Cherbourg, then Paris.”
When I say this, Lorrie glances at Stephen again as if I’ve just made some kind of observation that displeases her.
“I’ve gotta split,” I say again.
“Please join us tonight, Victor,” the man reiterates, as if this really wasn’t an invitation but a kind of friendly demand.
“Listen, I don’t mean to like semi-blow you guys off but I’m really really tired,” I say. They seem so worried by this excuse that I have to add, “I’ll try, I really will, but I’ve given up on socializing and I’m really quite out of it.”
“Please,” Stephen says. “We’re in the Princess Grill and our reservation’s at eight.”
“We insist, Victor,” Lorrie says. “You must join us.”
“I feel wanted, guys,” I’m saying, walking away hurriedly. “That’s great. I’ll try. Nice to meet you, cheerio and all that.”
I slip away and race around trying to find Marina, concentrating on all the practical places she might be. Nixing the Computer Learning Center, I hit various art galleries, the library, the bookshop, the Royal Shopping Promenade, elevators, the labyrinth of corridors, even the children’s playroom. With a map in hand, I find then scope out the gym on deck 7: lines for the Lifecycles, the rowing machines, the treadmills, the aerobic room, jammed with elderly Japanese flopping around to lousy British synth-pop, with a male instructor with hideous teeth who waves me over to join in and I nearly barf. Drowsy, I go back to my cabin and lie down, vacantly noticing new pages of the script, faxed from somewhere, lying on a pillow along with the ship’s daily paper, immigration formalities, invitations to parties. During this the entire sky is a low white cloud and the ship sails beneath it indifferently.
11
F. Fred Palakon calls after I’ve finished the room service dinner I ordered and Schindler’s List is playing on the small television set situated above the bed, a movie I had no interest in seeing when it came out but now, since Friday, have watched three times since it takes up an enormous amount of hours. My notes thus far? One, the Germans were not very cool; two, Ralph Fiennes is so fat; and three, I need more pot. The connection when Palakon calls seems unusually crisp and clear, as if he’s calling from somewhere on the ship, but since no one else has called I can’t be sure. “Well, finally,” I mutter.
“How have you been, Victor?” he asks. “I hope you’re well taken care of.”
“I just finished dining sumptuously in my cabin.”
Pause. “What did you have?”
Pause. “An … acceptable turbot.”
Pause. “It sounds … delicious,” Palakon says uncertainly.
“Hey, Palakon—why am I not in a penthouse?” I’m asking, suddenly sitting up. “Why do I not have a butler? Where’s my Jacuzzi, man?”
“Gentlemen do not talk about money,” Palakon says. “Especially when they’re not paying.”
“Whoa,” I say, and then, “Who’s a gentleman?”
“I’m trying to imagine that you are, dear Victor.”
“What are you, Palakon? You talk like some kind of pampered weenie.”
“Is that a cheap attempt to play upon my emotions, Mr. Ward?”
“This traveling-by-sea business is boring,” I say. “There’s no one fam
ous or young on this damn boat. There are sixteen hundred people on this damn boat and they’re all ancient. Everyone has Alzheimer’s, everyone’s blind, everyone’s hobbling around on crutches.”
“Surely you’re exaggerating.”
“I’m really really tired of old people, Palakon,” I say. “I’m just so tired.”
“I’ll call Cunard and tell them to set up a piercing parlor, a tattoo emporium, a cyberspace roller rink,” Palakon says wearily. “Something that has that kind of grungy honesty you young people respond to so well.”
“I’ll still be so tired, Palakon.”
“Then get some sleep,” Palakon says hollowly. “Isn’t that what people do who are tired?”
“I’m tired of muttering ‘Where am I’ whenever I find myself in the wrong corridor or some wrong deck that’s like miles away from the deck I wanted to be on.” I pause, then add, “Surrounded by old people!”
“I’m sure there is no shortage of you-are-here maps to help you out, Victor,” he says, losing patience. “Ask one of the old people for directions.”
“But the old people are blind!”
“Blind people often have an excellent sense of direction,” Palakon practically shouts. “They’ll tell you where you are.”
“Yeah, but where am I, Palakon?”
“By my estimate somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean,” Palakon sighs, giving up. “My god, must everything be explained to you?”
Mortified, I suddenly blurt out, “Yeah!”
“Mr. Ward, I’m just checking in,” Palakon says, seemingly disinterested in my problems. “I’ll call you once more before you arrive in Southampton.”
“Hey, Palakon, about that,” I start.
“Yes, Mr. Ward?”
“How about if I take a little side trip to France before going to London?” I ask.
A long pause before Palakon asks, “Why?”
“I met a girl,” I say.
Another pause. “And so?”
“I—met—a—girl,” I repeat.
“Yes, but I am not understanding you.”
“Like, I’m gonna go with this girl to Paris, duh,” I say loudly. “Why else do you think I’d be going there? To take part in a fromage-eating contest? Christ, Palakon, get your shit together.”
“Victor,” Palakon starts, “that’s not a particularly good idea. Turning back—which is essentially what you’d be doing—is unthinkable at this point.”
“Hello?” I say, sitting up. “Could you please repeat that? Hello?”
“Just go on about your business,” Palakon sighs. “Just follow the script.”
“Palakon, I want to go to Paris with this girl,” I warn.
“That would be a grim alternative,” Palakon warns back, gravely. “That would be self-destructive.”
“But I think that’s in my nature,” I explain. “I think that’s what my character’s all about.”
“Maybe this trip will change your character.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I’ll call you before you reach Southampton, Victor.”
“Palakon, wait—”
He clicks off.
10
Around 12 I dress casually and rouse myself from the cabin, heading ostensibly to the midnight buffet being served in the Mauretania Room but really to any bar where I can very quickly down four vodka-and-cranberries and find Marina. Prowling along the upper starboard deck as if on a catwalk—it’s cold out and dark—I’m spying into windows at all the joyless mingling taking place at the midnight buffet. I spot the gay German holding a plate piled high with smoked salmon and even though he’s heading toward a table just a foot or two away from where I’m standing, I doubt he can see beyond his own reflection in the window, but then he begins to squint past his image and his face lights up so I whirl around and run straight into the Wallaces strolling along the deck. She’s wearing what looks like a strapless Armani gown, Stephen’s tuxedo jacket draped over her shoulders, protection from the midnight chill.
“Victor,” Lorrie cries out. “Over here.”
I bring a hand to my forehead to block out the nonexistent light that’s blinding me. “Yes? Hello?”
“Victor,” they both cry out in unison, just yards away. “Over here!”
I start limping as if in pain. “Jovially,” I hold out a hand, but then I gasp, grimacing and reaching down to massage my ankle.
“Victor, we wondered where you were for dinner,” Lorrie says. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, you were sorely missed,” Stephen adds. “Is something wrong with your leg?”
“Well, I fell asleep,” I start. “I was also, um, expecting a … phone call, but I … fell asleep.”
Pause. “Did you get your call?” Lorrie asks semi-worriedly.
“Oh yes,” I say. “So now everything’s fine.”
“But what happened to your leg?”
“Well, when I was reaching over for the phone … it, well, I accidentally fell off the chair I’d been sitting, er, sleeping in and then, well, while reaching for the phone … it actually fell and struck my”—a really long pause—“knee.”
Another really long pause. No one says anything.
“So then I tried to stand up—all this while speaking into the phone—and then I actually tripped over the chair … by the TV …” I stop to let them interrupt.
Finally Stephen says, “That must have been quite a scene.”
Picturing how ridiculous this scenario seems, I delicately reexplain: “Actually I handled it all quite suavely.”
Lorrie and Stephen both nod, assuring me they’re certain that I did. The following is just basic exposition—these lines fall easily and rapidly into place—because I can see, in the distance, Marina, her back to me, standing at the railing, gazing out over the black ocean.
“Tomorrow night, Victor?” Lorrie suggests, shivering.
“Please, Victor,” Stephen demands. “I insist you have dinner with us tomorrow night.”
“Jeez, you guys are persistent. Okay, okay, tomorrow night,” I say, staring at Marina. “Oh wait—I’m having dinner with someone else tomorrow night. How about next week?”
“But we’ll be off the boat next week.”
“We will? Thank god.”
“Please, bring your guest,” Lorrie says.
“It’s okay if I bring someone?” I ask.
“Oh good—a quartet,” Stephen says, rubbing his paws together.
“Actually she’s an American.”
“Pardon?” Stephen leans in, smiling.
“She’s an American.”
“Why … yes, of course she is,” Stephen says, confused. Lorrie tries not to stare incredulously at me and fails.
“And please,” Stephen adds, “when you’re in London you must stop by as well.”
“But I’m definitely going to Paris,” I murmur, staring off at the girl by the railing. “I’m definitely not going to England.”
The Wallaces take this in stride, seem finally to accept this info, and exit by saying “Tomorrow night, then,” like it’s some kind of big deal they conjured up. But they seem sated and don’t linger and I’m not even bothering to limp away from them. Instead I glide slowly over the deck to where Marina’s standing, wearing white slacks and a white cashmere sweater, and because of how these clothes fit on her she’s semi-virginal, semi-naughty, and my steps become more timid and I almost slink back, stunned by how beautiful she looks right now and she’s eating an ice cream cone and it’s pink and white and the decks are generally well-lit but Marina’s standing in a darkened spot, a place where it seems vaguely windier. Tapping her shoulder, I offer an inquiring look.
“Where did you get that?” I ask, pointing at the ice cream cone.
“Oh, hi,” she says, glancing casually at me. “A nice elderly man—I believe his name was Mr. Yoshomoto—made it for me, though I don’t think I asked him to.”
“Ah.” I nod and then gesture. “What are yo
u looking at out there?”
“Oh, I know,” she says. “It’s all black.”
“And it’s cold,” I say, mock-shivering.
“It’s not so bad,” she says. “I’ve been colder.”
“I tried to find you earlier but I forgot your last name.”
“Really?” she asks. “Why did you want to find me?”
“There was a jig-dancing contest I wanted us to enter,” I say. “Hornpipes, the works.”
“It’s Gibson,” she says, smiling.
“Let’s reintroduce ourselves,” I suggest, backing away. “Hi—I’m Victor Ward.”
“Hello,” she says, playing along. “I’m Marina Gibson.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“No, no, I’m glad you came by,” she says. “You’re a … nice distraction.”
“From?”
She pauses. “From thinking about certain things.”
Inwardly I’m sighing. “So where’s Gavin now?”
She laughs, surprised. “Ah, I see you’ve memorized your lines.” She wipes her lips with a paper napkin, then leans over and tosses what’s left of the ice cream cone into a nearby trash bin. “Gavin’s in Fiji with a certain baroness.”
“Oh, a certain baroness?”
“Gavin’s parents own something like—oh, I don’t know—Coca-Cola or something but he never really has any money.”
Something catches in me. “Does that matter to you?”
“No,” she says. “Not at all.”
“Don’t look back,” I’m saying. “You can never look back.”
“I’m fairly good at severing all contacts with the past.”
“I think that’s a more or less attractive quality.”
While leaning against the railing Marina just simply starts talking: the drastic hair changes, the career that semi-took off because of them, the shaky flights to Miami, getting old, how she likes to be shot with the light coming from the left to offset the tilt of a nose broken in a Rollerblading accident three years ago, a club in East Berlin called Orpheus where she met Luca Fedrizzi, the weekends they spent at Armani’s house in Brioni, the meaninglessness of time zones, her basic indifference, a few key figures, what the point is. Some of the details are small (the way she would unroll the windows in her mother’s Jaguar when racing back from parties in Connecticut so she could smoke, the horrifying bitchery between agents, books she never read, the grams of coke carried in compacts, the crying jags during shoots that would ruin two hours of carefully applied makeup), but the way she tells them makes her world seem larger. Of course during the modeling phase she was always strung out and brittle and so many friends died, lawsuits were started then abandoned, there were fights with Albert Watson, the ill-fated affair with Peter Morton, how everything fizzled out, her mother’s alcoholism and the brother who died of cardiac arrhythmia linked to the ingestion of herbal Ecstasy tablets, and all of this leading up to the designer who fell in love with her—platonically—and subsequently died of AIDS, leaving Marina a substantial sum of money so she could quit modeling. We both admit we know someone who signed a suicide note with a smiley face.
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