“Who was that?” I ask with a full mouth.
“My mother,” Tatiana says, casually. “She just got into town. I think she’s depressed. We have to go see her.” She reaches for Ray’s hand, and then mine. “Please . . .”
I try to read Ray’s reaction to the mother-love chitchat, but he just keeps sipping his whiskey.
“Is she staying with us?” I ask.
“No. She’s at Soho House,” Tatiana says, and gets up. “I’m sorry, I’ll be right back.” She bolts inside the restaurant.
For the next ten minutes, she’ll be throwing up two hundred dollars’ worth of pasta, which means that I have to play with the army. I look at his thick, bushy hair—probably compensating for years of crew cuts—his on-and-off abashed smile, and I wonder why he enlisted. I wonder whether he’s a Republican, and which square state he’s from, but I don’t care enough to ask—I’ll probably see Montana about one and a half times in my life. Plus, his ease reminds me of stupid Erik.
“Is she any good?” I open.
His childlike smile disappears. “She’s very flexible,” Ray replies.
Jarhead here gives as good as he gets—I’ll show you flex, buddy. “Why’d you join the army?” I demand.
“I wanted to be in the Marine Corps Reserve.”
“What did you do in Iraq?”
“I was a combat rifleman instructor. For the infantry.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I lie.
Ray looks right at me. Why do I want to pick a fight? Ain’t I exhausted enough?
“Land soldiers,” he says. “You fight on foot. Face-to-face.”
“You must’ve seen some intense stuff over there.”
“You have no idea.”
I tilt my head, unsatisfied.
“What?” Ray asks.
“Try me,” I say.
“There’s savagery that you don’t get in your movies.”
My movies? I saw Occupation: Dreamland when I lived at the Mercer. I have seen your fucking life, redneck. “Do you support the invasion?” I ask, and suck down what’s left of my martini.
“To some extent.”
“And which part’s that?” I spit back.
“We removed a butcher and his gang.”
“Even if we butcher our way through to get to them?”
“You’d think there are better ways,” Ray says with a shrug. “But you can’t do things by halves.”
“War is failure,” I say, louder than necessary. “You support a revolution from within. You don’t invade, you never invade. You wanna be a catalyst, not a bully.” I pause and take a breath. Why am I playing Erik? I don’t give a fuck about Iraq, really.
“I like your theory. Tatiana tells me you’re Greek. Were you in the army?”
Bitch. He had me there. “Twice. Once in Greece and once here.”
He does his timid smile again, mixed with I’ll-let-you-off-the-hook-now. What’s up with the charity?
“Do you want another drink?” I offer. “She may take a few.”
“Sure. So I guess we are going to meet her mother.”
“I guess so.”
“She’s beautiful,” Ray says, playing with his empty glass. “She has, like . . . two Oscars?”
“One. But I think Tati’s father has two.”
Ray looks confused. “Tatiana’s father is also an actor?” he asks.
“He’s a musician, and a director or screenwriter, or something.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know he’s a musician, ha! I hear they’re suing each other. Her parents, I mean.”
“Don’t know, maybe.” I turn and pig out on a crazy forkful of pasta. “Ask your client,” I say with linguine hanging from my mouth onto my chin. Red specks hit my tie.
“Copyrights and defama––” Ray stops midsentence, as Tatiana is already behind him, messing with his hair. A quick throw-up, apparently.
“Okay, she’s the dumbest person in the world, but she’s still my mom.” Tatiana sits and undoes my already loose, sauced tie. She rolls it up and puts it in her bag and starts to fiddle with my collar, caringly. “My godmother is here too, who’s insane! Stathis, my angel, will you pay for me? I have no cash and I forgot my PIN,” Tatiana says, worriedly, and answers her phone. “Are you wearing your iguana belt?” she asks as she picks up.
A waiter passes, and I hand him my credit card.
Ray goes through his jeans pockets.
“I got this one,” I say.
“No, here.” He slides two twenties across the table.
I don’t touch the bills. Tension builds as the cash lies between us. I pretend to eavesdrop on Tatiana’s babble while I think of Erik, the times I passed him cash under the table. The vet glances at the forty. I don’t wanna take the goddamn bills. I look at the cover of the magazine under Tatiana’s bag—an actor in his briefs says, “I learned how to grow up.”
“For drinks,” Tatiana whispers, and stuffs the cash in her bag. Then, on her phone, “No, I’m listening. Samsung for girls, BlackBerry for boys. Got it.”
NEWSSTAND PICTURES OFTEN LIE, BUT Tatiana is her mother’s clone. We find her sitting in the lotus position on a rooftop bed by the Soho House pool, playing with the cross pendant she wears over a T-shirt that says “Don’t Talk to Me.” She’s surrounded by women whose body language appears to harbor her.
Tatiana jumps into the harem and kisses her mother, basically makes out with her. “This is Teresa, my mom!” Tatiana says, and they kiss again on the lips before Tatiana moves on to an old woman who has gold hair and more wrinkles than Yoda, and then to two identical well-built redheads.
“I’m Tatiana’s mom,” Teresa says, flirting with her daughter, who’s now resting her head on her mother’s lap.
I pick a satellite chair.
Ray sits by the old lady. She wears a massive bejeweled skull on her ring finger. Her T-shirt, matching Teresa’s, says “Fast Fuck.”
“I’m Tatiana’s godmother and I’m from Spain,” the old lady says without a trace of accent. She already looks bored with our invasion as she taps Teresa’s hand. “I don’t want you to be onstage looking all costumed. It’s Madison Square Garden,” she tells her.
“It’s a gold jacket,” Teresa says, combing her daughter’s hair. “Think Michael Jackson, but the white years.”
“It’s embroidered,” the old lady argues. “This is New York. We should go svelte, black. Something oxidized or sci-fashion.”
“I’ve done ghoulish. It’s not me,” Teresa pushes back.
“Hey, movie star,” Tatiana says to her mother, sitting up. “You look sexy no matter what you wear.” She turns to Ray: “I hate her fucking body.”
“You have my body,” her mother tells her, calmly.
“Which marine division?” I hear one of the redheads ask Ray.
“Oh, don’t be jealous. You’re still our favorite tomboy,” says the godmother, hugging Tatiana.
Tatiana pulls her mother into a three-way hug. “This is God!” Tatiana says, and kisses her godmother. “And this is Mother Teresa!” She kisses her mom. Mild laughter goes around.
“I had a friend in Mossad,” Ray tells the redhead.
“Show me your tattoo,” God orders him. “Tattoo is the new couture,” she explains to Teresa.
Ray lifts his sleeve all the way to his shoulder. “It’s an oceanic whitetip, my favorite shark,” he says, feeling his own arm.
“Why?” Teresa asks him.
“He’s a loner. He patrols the oceans. He doesn’t care about the reefs. The most independent, unpredictable shark.”
“He?”
“Have you seen one?”
“I swam with one in the Gulf of Aden during military exercises. It’s a thick fish with long, rounded fins. I thought a plane was coming toward me. Sha
rks will circle you from fifty feet away before they come to check you out. He came straight up to us. Fearless.”
“I like your face,” God tells Ray. “Come by the studio to have some portraits taken.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Have you killed a man?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Have you seen people die?”
“I have.”
“And how do you feel about all this happening because of Monica?” God asks him.
“Monica?”
“Monica Lewinsky!” she says, and coughs like a barking dog.
“I like Monica,” Tatiana shouts.
“Monica’s a historic figure,” God squawks.
Is God high? Just weird? What is it about wealth and fame, or whatever she’s selling, that makes it impossible to give up? Stop yakking, move to Florida, and be a grandmother, for God’s sake . . .
The cell phone next to Teresa cheeps “The Killing Moon.” Teresa throws a glance at it and ignores it. “Lapsang souchong,” she says to a passing waiter. “With candied ginger. No sugar. And a drop of cream.”
“You put milk in your herbal?” Tatiana pouts.
You put cocaine in your pussy.
“She’s the reason Gore distanced himself from Clinton,” God lectures us. “Which gave us Bush and Iraq, and a hundred thousand people dead.”
“Ma’am, the fatalities—”
“Listen!” God raises her palm, and her skull ring creates a glowing comet’s tail. “Clinton was riding his bike in the Oval Office during a tight race. ‘I stand in front of you as my own man . . .’ My ass!” God yells, coughs, and starts to shake, three feet from the pool. One of the redheads stands up, but God shrugs her off. “Look where that got us. And that embryo he picked to run with him, just because he had bitched about Monica.”
“Who’s Gore? Who the fuck is Clinton?” Teresa murmurs.
I can’t help but stare at her. She’s a knockout. When I’m busted with a thank-you-but-that’s-enough smile, I stretch back in my seat to browse the people at the bar. Surprise—Paul, my b-school mate, is doing shots with a couple of guys. I get up and slowly walk toward him.
“What about Elián González then?” someone yells, and I hear laughter coming from the harem. By the time I make it to the other side of the terrace, Paul’s by himself.
“I have not seen you here before,” Paul says calmly, but he looks at me perplexed, if not alarmed.
“I am not a member, Paul. You know that. And it’s good to fuck you too.”
We sort of hug.
“So, what they say is true,” Paul says.
“What do they say?” I ask.
“That you’re partying hard these days.”
“I think that what I’m doing these days”—Paul’s code for my being dumped—“is pretty boring,” I say.
“Come on . . . palling around with movie stars . . .”
“Care to join us?” I ask unenthusiastically.
“No. Not yet. I know how things work.”
“No clue what you’re talking about,” I say, which is not one hundred percent bull. His father was a prime minister. Don’t these people have a right of passage? A secret code that allows them to acknowledge one another within their Division One?
“But we’re all glamorous now,” Paul whispers, looking behind me at Teresa and company. “Who’s the model?”
“He’s not a model. He’s a vet,” I say.
“In Chelsea?”
“No. He is a vet from Iraq,” I explain.
“Serious?” Paul laughs and looks at me, excited. “Is he Teresa’s new boy? Has she filed for bankruptcy yet?”
“No. I don’t know her.” I look around. The deck is getting rowdy. “Where did your friends go?”
“They are colleagues,” Paul corrects me.
“Are they off to mail anthrax letters to Condé Nast, then?”
“Good one,” Paul says, but his mind is elsewhere. He stops gawking at Teresa and looks at me. “Let’s have a shot of tequila,” he says, and I nod. He gestures the V sign to the bartender.
“So, how are you? Really?” Paul asks me.
I double nod.
“Right,” Paul says. “How’s work?”
“Work’s work.”
“That’s a start,” he says.
“And an end.” I do my shot. Paul does the same.
“Stathis, mate . . .” His voice is off. “It’s funny that I ran into you tonight.”
“Why?” I ask.
“’Cause I’m meeting Erik,” Paul says quickly, and I want to make sure that he’s joking, but blood sprints to my stomach. “With Warren,” Paul adds.
I have to fight to keep my cool. “What? He, here? . . . Why? Warren? Who? . . .”
“Stathis, brother, I’m—”
“I’m not your brother.”
“Listen. I got in touch with Warren when we did that Middle East story, right after we launched AccostingDubya. He’s a cable news anchor. Erik was working on something similar for The Nation. We only met a couple of times . . .”
Paul continues speaking, but I’m deaf. I remember seeing Erik chatting with the news guy at his brother’s party the night we broke up, and my guts spin like a washing machine. I turn to look for Tatiana, but there are too many people between us.
“Are you doing a number on me?” I ask Paul.
“What?”
“You met Erik twice and you didn’t tell me. Are you doing a number on me?”
“It was a work story—”
“That’s exactly my point, Paul. There’s always a story with you.”
“Hey!” He grabs my arm.
“Get . . . the fuck . . . off me,” I say under my breath. My teeth are grinding.
“Stathis!” Paul shouts, but I am already bounding back to my tinseled sense of security.
Tatiana is chatting with a sixteen-year-old girl who is sitting on Ray’s lap.
“Oh my God!” the teenager screams. “At Disney our diet was sleep and watch movies. No popcorn.” She laughs. “Hi,” Minnie Mouse greets me. She looks familiar.
“I’m out of here,” I tell Tatiana.
“What happened?” Tatiana stands up. “Baby, take it easy. Let’s go to the playroom downstairs for a smoke.”
Ray winks at me and pinches the Disney girl. She jumps off his lap, and the four of us walk to the roof elevator.
“I’ll take the stairs,” I say, scared silly of a face-to-face with Erik. That very moment the elevator doors slide open, and I instinctively look at my BlackBerry. I have two missed calls, one from Alkis and one from my sister. People are still getting out, so I keep browsing my phone. There’s a text from Gawel: “Are you stopping by tonight?”
We are inside the elevator, and the damn doors don’t want to close. I get cabin fever. Someone presses the wrong button, and different floor numbers light up. What if I bump into Erik as I exit? It’s only a one-floor ride, but it takes forever. “Jerk off,” I text back to Gawel.
I follow the three of them into a glass-sealed playroom that looks like a gas chamber. Somewhere in the cloud I see Paul’s employees, playing pool, smoking. They check out the Disney girl. Ray starts rolling a joint and I tell Tatiana that Erik is coming. “Good!” Tatiana says, but I can’t breathe right, I can’t follow her. She kisses me quickly on the lips. “Good for you!” she repeats. “Don’t worry, we’ll make out when he shows up.”
Sweat drips down my back. I look enviously at Ray next to me, in his white T-shirt and jeans. I bet my suit makes me look like an accountant. He passes me the joint. I inhale all I can, and I’m in a Baz Luhrmann video—Paul’s dogs accosting me, the Gin Blossoms screaming “Hey Jealousy,” and the buzz of Gawel calling my cell phone.
Teresa walks in with one of her
reds in tow.
“Come to Bungalow with me,” the Disney girl begs, putting her hands around Teresa’s waist. The movie star makes a Cleopatra pose—nose up, hand above her head—which makes the girl laugh a silent laugh and Tatiana’s face turn spiteful.
“Only if my daughter lets me,” Teresa says, and after freeing herself of Disney, she walks over to Tatiana. Tatiana doesn’t really acknowledge her mother, but Teresa spoons her anyway.
Paul comes out of the elevator with a group of guys behind him. Warren’s pink face stands out as they charge into the lounge area. I see that sober, familiar walk next to him. I only see Erik from behind. I know that blue shirt. For a second Warren puts his hand on Erik’s shoulder, leans in, and says something to him. Erik pauses and listens. And then they are gone, into the main room. Did I really see that? My mind refuses to accept it. The Gin Blossoms’ yelling “’cause all I really want is to be with you” is maddening.
Ray offers Teresa the joint.
She looks at it. “I like thick fingers,” she says.
Ray laughs. “I can’t even text,” he says, and places the joint between her lips.
Teresa peeks at the pool table and inhales. “Tatiana, why don’t we all go to Bungalow?” she asks her daughter while studying Ray. Then Ray passes me the joint and I fucking finish it.
The panic is over; pain lunges in. It’s one of those moments when you know that your life has changed, without needing to explain or admit to yourself why. But I do—I have to understand where I messed up. All the things I did and the things I didn’t do, all the opportunities I had or did not have to be Warren, to be walking next to Erik in Soho House. All the times I didn’t play my cards right. The years wasted. And for once I wish I were my father or Jeevan. Instead, here I am, too educated to be a fisherman, too Greek to be Warren, now throwing good time after bad, watching Tatiana being a stupid brat, alone. Suddenly all I want is to escape, to get fucked up and fuck away.
“I need a shirt,” Tatiana tells Teresa. “Give me your room key.”
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