Glamorama

by Bret Easton Ellis

  Bobby looks over at the director, who’s studying me as if making a decision. The director finally nods at Bobby: a cue.

  Bobby shrugs, flops onto a couch, unknots his tie, then takes off his jacket. The shoulder of his white Comme des Garçons shirt is lightly flecked with blood. Bobby sighs.

  Bentley reappears and hands Bobby a drink.

  “What happened?” I ask, needing to hear myself. “Why did you leave the party?”

  “There was an accident,” Bobby says. “Something … occurred.”

  He sips his drink.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Bruce Rhinebeck is dead,” Bobby says, looking past me, taking another sip of his drink with a steady hand.

  Bobby doesn’t wait for me to ask how this happened but I wasn’t going to ask anything anyway.

  “He was defusing a bomb in an apartment on Quai de Béthune.” Bobby sighs, doesn’t elaborate. “For what it’s worth.”

  I stay where I’m sitting for as long as I can without going totally insane, but then the director motions for me to stand, which I do, wobbling.

  “I’m … going to bed,” I say and then, pointing with my finger, add, “upstairs.”

  Bobby says nothing, just glances at me indifferently.

  “I’m … exhausted.” I start walking away. “I’m fading.”

  “Victor?” Bobby asks suddenly.

  “Yeah?” I stop, casually turn around, relax my face.

  “What’s that?” Bobby asks.

  I’m suddenly aware that my body is covered with damp sweat and my stomach keeps unspooling reams of acid. “What?” I ask.

  “Sticking out of that pocket?” He points at my jacket.

  I look down innocently. “What’s what?”

  Bobby gets off the couch and walks over so quickly he almost collides into me. He rips the piece of paper that’s bothering him out of my jacket.

  He inspects it, turning it over, and then stares back at me.

  He holds the page out, his mouth turned downward, sweat sprinkled across his temples, the bridge of his nose, the skin under his eyes. He grins horribly: a rictus.

  I take the page from him, my hand moist and trembling.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Go to bed,” he says, turning away.

  I look down at the page.

  It’s the call sheet for tomorrow that the first AD handed out as I left the party on Rue Paul Valéry.

  “I’m sorry about Bruce,” I say hesitantly, because I don’t mean it.

  Upstairs. I’m freezing in bed, my door locked. I devour Xanax but still can’t sleep. I start masturbating a dozen times but always stop when I realize that it’s getting me nowhere. I try to block out the screaming from downstairs with my Walkman but someone from the French film crew has slipped in a ninety-minute cassette composed entirely of David Bowie singing “Heroes” over and over in an endless loop, another crime with its own logic. I start counting the deaths I haven’t taken part in: postage stamps with toxin in the glue, the pages of books lined with chemicals that once touched can kill within hours, the Armani suits saturated with so much poison that the victim who wears it can absorb it through the skin by the end of a day.

  At 11:00 Tammy finally twirls into the room, holding a bunch of white lilies, her arms dotted with sores, most of them concentrated in a patch in the crook of her elbow. Jamie trails behind her. I’ve read the scene and know how it’s supposed to play. When Jamie is told of Bruce’s death she simply says “Good” (but Jamie knew what was going to happen to Bruce Rhinebeck, she knew in London, she knew when we arrived in Paris, she knew the first afternoon she played tennis with Bruce, she knew from the beginning).

  When Tammy is told she gazes at Bobby vapidly, puzzled. On cue Jamie takes the lilies out of Tammy’s hand as it relaxes, losing its grip. “Liar,” Tammy whispers and then she whispers “Liar” again and after she’s able to process Bobby’s weak smile, the French crew standing behind him, the camera filming her reaction, she feels like she’s dropping and in a rush she starts screaming, wailing interminably, and she’s not even wondering anymore why Bobby walked into her life and she’s told to go to sleep, she’s told to forget Bruce Rhinebeck immediately, she’s told that he murdered the French premier’s son, she’s told that she should be grateful that she’s unharmed, while Bentley (I swear to god) starts making a salad.

  19

  Preoccupation with the fallout from Bruce’s death reverberates mildly throughout the house in the 8th or the 16th and because of this there are no errands to complete and everyone seems sufficiently distracted for me to slip away. Endless conversations concern title changes, budget reductions, the leasing of an eighty-foot-tall tower crane, roving release dates, a volatile producer in L.A. seething over a rewrite. Before leaving I shoot a scene with Tammy concerning our characters’ reactions toward Bruce’s death (motorcycle accident, a truck carrying watermelons, Athens, a curve misjudged) but since she’s not even capable of forming sentences let alone mimicking movements I shoot my lines standing in a hallway while a PA feeds me Tammy’s lines far more convincingly than Tammy ever did (cutaways to Tammy will presumably be inserted at a later date). For the scene to end, a wig is placed on another PA’s head and the giant Panaflex dollies in on my “saddened yet hopeful” face while we hug.

  Jamie is either pretending to ignore me or just doesn’t register my presence while she’s sitting at the computer in the living room—vacantly scanning diagrams, decoding E-mails—as I try to walk casually past her.

  Outside, the sky is gray, overcast.

  An apartment building on Quai de Béthune.

  I’m turning the corner at Pont de Sully.

  A black Citroën sits parked at the curb on Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Isle and seeing the car causes me to walk faster toward it.

  Russell drives us to an apartment building on Avenue Verdier in the Montrouge section of the city.

  I’m carrying a .25-caliber Walther automatic.

  I’m carrying the WINGS file printouts, folded in the pocket of my black leather Prada jacket.

  I swallow a Xanax the wrong way then chew a Mentos to get the taste off my tongue.

  Russell and I run up three flights of stairs.

  On the fourth floor is an apartment devoid of furniture except for six white folding chairs. The walls are painted crimson and black, and cardboard storage boxes sit stacked on top of one another in towering columns. A small TV set is hooked up to a VCR that rests on top of a crate. Darkness is occasionally broken by lamps situated throughout the apartment. It’s so cold that the floor is slippery with ice.

  F. Fred Palakon sits in one of the white folding chairs next to two of his associates—introduced to me as David Crater and Laurence Delta—and everyone’s in a black suit, everyone just slightly older than me. Cigarettes are lit, files are opened, Starbucks coffee is offered, passed around, sipped.

  Facing them, I sit in one of the white folding chairs, just now noticing in a shadowy corner the Japanese man sitting in a white folding chair next to a window draped with crushed-velvet curtains. He’s definitely older than the other men—flabbier, more listless—but his age is indeterminate. He slouches back into the shadows, his eyes fixed on me.

  Russell keeps pacing, talking quietly into a cell phone. Finally he clicks off and leans in to Palakon, whispering something displeasing.

  “Are you certain?” Palakon asks.

  Russell closes his eyes, sighs while nodding.

  “Okay,” Palakon says. “We don’t have much time, then.”

  Russell brushes past, taking his stance at the door behind me, and I turn around to make sure he’s not leaving.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says. “You followed directions splendidly.”

  “You’re … welcome.”

  “This needs to be brief,” Palakon says. “We don’t have much time here today. I simply wanted to introduce my associates”—Palakon nods at Delta and Crater—“and h
ave a preliminary meeting. We just need you to verify some things. Look at a few photographs, that’s all.”

  “Wait. So, like, the problem, like, hasn’t been solved?” I ask, my voice squeaking.

  “Well, no, not yet .…” Palakon falters. “David and Laurence have been briefed on what you told me two days ago and we’re going to figure out a way to extract you from this …” Palakon can’t find a word. I’m waiting. “This … situation,” he says.

  “Cool, cool,” I’m saying nervously, crossing my legs, then changing my mind. “Just some facts? Cool. Some photos? Okay. That’s cool. I can do that.”

  A pause.

  “Um, Mr. Ward?” Palakon asks gingerly.

  “Uh, yeah?”

  “Could you please”—Palakon clears his throat—“remove your sunglasses.”

  A longer pause, followed by a realization. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Mr. Ward,” Palakon starts, “how long have you been living in that house?”

  “I … don’t know,” I say, trying to remember. “Since we came to Paris?”

  “When was that?” Palakon asks. “Exactly.”

  “Maybe two weeks …” Pause. “Maybe … it could be four?”

  Crater and Delta glance at each other.

  “I guess, maybe … I don’t really know … I’m just not sure …. I’m not good with dates.”

  I try to smile, which just causes the men in the room to flinch, obviously unimpressed with the performance so far.

  “I’m sorry … ,” I mutter. “I’m sorry .…”

  Somewhere a fly buzzes loudly. I try to relax but it’s not happening. “We want you to verify who lives in the house with you,” Palakon says.

  “It’s a … set,”

  I’m saying. “It’s a set.” Palakon, Delta, Crater—they all stare at me blankly.

  “Yes. Okay.” I keep crossing then recrossing my legs, shivering. “Yes. The house. Yes.”

  Palakon reads from a page in his folder. “Jamie Fields, Bobby Hughes, Tammy Devol, Bentley Harrolds, Bruce Rhinebeck—”

  I cut him off. “Bruce Rhinebeck is dead.”

  A professional silence. Crater looks over at Delta, and Delta, without returning eye contact and staring straight ahead, just nods.

  Palakon finally asks, “You can verify this?”

  “Yes, yes,” I mutter. “He’s dead.”

  Palakon turns a page over, makes a note with his pen, then asks, “Is Bertrand Ripleis also staying with you?”

  “Bertrand?” I ask. “No, he’s not staying in the house. No.”

  “Are you sure of this?” Palakon asks.

  “Yes, yes,” I’m saying. “I’m sure. I went to Camden with him, so I know who he is. I’d know if he was staying in the house.” I’m realizing at the instant I say this that I probably would not know, that it would be easy not to know if Bertrand Ripleis was living in the house in the 8th or the 16th with us, because of how vast it is and how it keeps changing and how it seems new rooms are being built every day.

  Palakon leans in and hands me a photograph.

  “Is this Bertrand Ripleis?” he asks.

  It could be an Armani ad shot by Herb Ritts—a desert landscape, Bertrand’s handsome face scowling seductively, jaw clenched and lips casually pursed, small sunglasses giving off a skull effect. But he’s exiting a van, he doesn’t realize this picture is being shot from a vantage point far away, he’s holding a Skorpion machine pistol, he’s wearing a Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” I say blankly, handing Palakon back the photo.

  “But he doesn’t live in the house.”

  “Does anyone in the house have contact with Bertrand Ripleis?” Crater asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I think they all do.”

  “Do you, Mr. Ward?” Palakon asks.

  “Yes … I said I think they all do.”

  “No,” Palakon says. “Do you have contact with Bertrand?”

  “Oh,” I say. “No, no. I don’t.”

  Scribbling, a long silence, more scribbling.

  I glance over at the Japanese man, staring at me, motionless.

  Palakon leans in and hands over another photo, startling me.

  It’s a head shot of Sam Ho, with Asian script running along the bottom of the photograph.

  “Do you recognize this person?” Palakon asks.

  “Yeah, that’s Sam Ho,” I say, starting to cry. My head drops forward and I’m looking at my feet, convulsing, gasping out sobs.

  Papers are shuffled, extraneous sound caused by embarrassment.

  I take in a deep breath and try to pull myself together, but after I say “Bruce Rhinebeck and Bobby Hughes tortured and killed him in London a month ago” I start crying again. At least a minute passes before the crying subsides. I swallow, clearing my throat. Russell leans over, offers a Kleenex. I blow my nose, mumble, “I’m sorry.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Ward, we don’t like to see you this distraught,” Palakon says. “Are you okay? Can you continue?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I say, clearing my throat again, wiping my face.

  Palakon leans in and hands me another photo.

  Sam Ho is standing on a wide expanse of sand, what looks like South Beach stretching out behind him, and he’s with Mariah Carey and Dave Grohl and they’re listening intently to something k.d. lang is telling them. In the background people set up lights, hold plates of food, seem posed, talk guardedly into cell phones.

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s him too,” I say, blowing my nose again.

  Crater, Delta and Palakon all share contemplative glances, then fix their attention back on me.

  I’m staring over at the Japanese man when Palakon says, “This picture of Sam Ho was taken in Miami.” He pauses.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “Last week,” Palakon says.

  Trying not to appear surprised, I quickly recover from the words “last week” and say, coolly, “Well, then, that’s not him. That’s not Sam Ho.”

  Delta looks back at the Japanese man.

  Crater leans in to Palakon and with his pen points out something in the folder Palakon has resting on his lap.

  Palakon nods irritably.

  I start freaking out, writhing in my chair.

  “They can alter photos,” I’m saying. “I saw Bentley Harrolds do it yesterday. They’re constantly altering—”

  “Mr. Ward, these photographs have been thoroughly checked out by a very competent lab and they have not been altered in any way.”

  “How do you know?” I’m calling out.

  “We have the negatives,” Palakon says tightly.

  Pause. “Can the negatives be altered?” I ask.

  “The negatives were not altered, Mr. Ward.”

  “But then … who the hell is that guy?” I ask, writhing in the chair, gripping my hands together, forcing them apart.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I’m saying, holding my hands up. “Guys, guys, wait a minute.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ward?” Palakon asks.

  “Is this … is this for real?” I’m scanning the room, looking for signs of a camera, lights, some hidden evidence that a film crew was here earlier or is right now maybe in the apartment next door, shooting me through holes strategically cut into the crimson and black walls.

  “What do you mean, Mr. Ward?” Palakon asks. “‘Real’?”

  “I mean, is this like a movie?” I’m asking, shifting around in my chair. “Is this being filmed?”

  “No, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says politely. “This is not like a movie and you are not being filmed.”

  Crater and Delta are staring at me, uncomprehending.

  The Japanese man leans forward but not long enough to let me see his face clearly.

  “But … I …” I’m looking down at the photo of Sam Ho. “I … don’t …” I start breathing hard, and since the air is so cold and thick in this room it burns my lungs. “They … listen, they … I think they double people. I mean, I do
n’t know how, but I think they have … doubles. That’s not Sam Ho … that’s someone else …. I mean, I think they have doubles, Palakon.”

  “Palakon,” Crater says. The tone in his voice suggests a warning.

  Palakon stares at me, mystified.

  I’m fumbling in my pocket for another Xanax and I keep trying to reposition myself to keep my arms and legs from falling asleep. I let Russell light a cigarette someone’s handed me but it tastes bad and I’m not capable of holding it and when I drop it on the floor it lands hissing in a puddle of melting ice.

  Delta reaches down for his Starbucks cup.

  Another photo is handed to me.

  Marina Gibson. A simple color head shot, unevenly reproduced on an 8×10.

  “That’s the girl I met on the QE2,” I say. “Where is she? What happened to her? When was this taken?” And then, less excited, “Is she … okay?”

  Palakon pauses briefly before saying, “We think she’s dead.”

  My voice is cracking when I ask, “How? How do you know this?”

  “Mr. Johnson,” Crater says, leaning in. “We think this woman was sent to warn you.”

  “Wait,” I say, unable to hold the photo any longer. “Sent to warn me? Warn me about what? Wait a minute. Jesus, wait—”

  “That’s what we’re trying to piece together, Mr. Johnson,” Delta says.

  Palakon has leaned toward the VCR and presses Play on the console. Camcorder footage, surprisingly professional. It’s the QE2. For an instant, the actress playing Lorrie Wallace leans against a railing, demurely, her head tilted, and she’s alternating staring at the ocean with smiling at the person behind the camera, who quickly pans over to where Marina lies on a chaise longue, wearing leopard-print Capri pants, a white gauzy half-shirt, giant black tortoiseshell sunglasses that cover almost half her face.

  “That’s her,” I say. “That’s the girl I met on the QE2. How did you get this tape? That’s the girl I was going to go to Paris with.”

  Palakon pauses, pretending to consult his file, and finally, hopelessly, again says, “We think she’s dead.”

  “As I was saying, Mr. Johnson,” Crater says, leaning toward me a little too aggressively, “we think that Marina Cannon was sent to warn—”