Glamorama (71 page)

“Why do I need to see it?” I ask. “I don’t care anymore.”

“Victor,” she starts. “I … think I … knew that girl you met on the
QE2
…. ” Jamie swallows, doesn’t know where to look, tries to compose herself, barely succeeds. “The girl who disappeared from the
QE2
…”

I just stare at her blankly.

When Jamie grasps my reaction—its hatefulness—she just nods to herself, muttering, “Forget it, forget it.”

“I’m leaving.” I’m walking away as it starts raining confetti.

Because of how the apartment is lit, extras have to be careful not to trip over electric cables or the dolly tracks that line the center of the living room, and in the lobby the first AD from the French film crew hands me tomorrow’s call sheet and Russell—the Christian Bale guy—is wearing little round sunglasses, smoking a joint, comparing shoe sizes with Dermot Mulroney, but then I realize that they’re both on separate cell phones and not talking to each other and Russell pretends to recognize me and “drunkenly” shouts, “Hey, Victor!”

I pretend to smile. I reach out to shake his hand.

“Hey, come on, dude,” he says, brushing the hand away. “We haven’t seen each other in months.” He hugs me tightly, dropping something in my jacket pocket. “How’s the party?” he asks, stepping back, offering me the joint. I shake my head.

“Oh, it’s great, it’s cool,” I’m saying, chewing my lips. “It’s very cool.” I start walking away. “Bye-bye.”

“Great,” Russell says, slapping my back, returning to his conversation on the cell phone as Dermot Mulroney opens a bottle of champagne gripped between his knees.

In the cab heading back to the house in the 8th or the 16th I find a card Russell slipped in my pocket.

A time. Tomorrow. An address. A corner I should stop at. Directions
to that corner. Suggestions on how to behave. All of this in tiny print that I’m squinting at in the back of the cab until I’m nauseous. I lean my head against the window. The cab swerves around a minor traffic accident, passing patrolmen carrying submachine guns patiently strolling the streets. My back aches. Impatiently I start wiping makeup applied earlier off my face with a cocktail napkin.

At the house, after paying the cab fare.

I press the code to deactivate the alarm. The door clicks open.

I tumble through the courtyard.

The living room is empty—just the furniture pushed aside earlier this afternoon by the French film crew.

Without taking off my overcoat I move over to the computer. It’s already on. I tap a key. I enter a command.

I type in
WINGS
.

A pause. The screen flashes.

WINGS ASSGN
# 3764 appears.

Letters start appearing. A graph starts unfolding.

NOV
15

BAND ON THE RUN

Beneath that: 1985 And then: 511

I scroll down to another page. A map appears on the screen: a highway, a route. It leads to Charles de Gaulle airport. Below this the Trans World Airlines logo appears.

TWA
.

Nothing else.

I start tapping keys so I can print out the file. Two pages.

Nothing happens. I’m breathing heavily, flushed with adrenaline.

Then I hear four beeps in quick succession.

Someone is entering the courtyard.

I realize the printer’s not switched on. When I switch it on, it makes a soft noise, then starts humming.

I press another key: a flash.

Voices from outside. Bobby, Bentley.

The
WINGS
file slowly prints out.

Keys are being entered into the various locks on the front door.

The
WINGS
, slightly overlapping it.

In the foyer, the door opens: footsteps, voices.

I pull the two pages out of the printer, shoving them inside my jacket, then flick off the computer and the printer. I lunge toward a chair.

But I’m realizing that the computer was on when I came in.

I fall toward the computer, flicking it back on, and lunge again toward the chair.

Bobby and Bentley walk into the living room, followed by members of the French film crew, including the director and the cameraman.

My head rests on my knees and I’m breathing hard.

A voice—I’m not sure which one—asks, “What are you doing here?”

I don’t say anything. It’s winter in here.

“Victor?” Bobby’s asking, carefully. “What are you doing here?”

“I felt sick,” I say, gasping, looking up, squinting. “I don’t feel well.” A pause. “I ran out of Xanax.”

Bentley glances at Bobby and, while walking by me, mumbles disinterestedly, “Tough shit.”

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).