Glamorama (39 page)

“You went to Camden, right?” the woman asks, guessing.

“Yeah, it was actually during Camden when it happened,” I say. “But she’d been sick a long time.” I stare at them hard, making them grasp that it really doesn’t matter now. What does is: I’ve forgotten Marina’s last name, what deck she’s on, her room number.

“Well, the last time we saw you you were practically a baby,” the man says, chuckling, shifting modes. “You wouldn’t remember. It was at a fund-raiser at your parents’ place in Georgetown.”

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 famous 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