Glamorama (77 page)

“What is it, then?” I groan mindlessly. “Punishment?”

“No.” Before slipping out, the director says, “It’s an instruction.”

13

An hour later I’m vaguely aware of brushing my teeth in the shower. I barely dry myself off—the towel keeps dropping from my hands. I get dressed. Numb, giggling to myself in the darkness of my bedroom, I accidentally start forming a plan.

12

Walking slowly down the circular staircase into the living room, fear grafted onto my face, I can’t stop shaking. A cameraman is gloomily sipping a cup of watery coffee while leaning against the big Panaflex camera that takes up so much space in the foyer and the director’s sitting in the director’s chair, staring at a video console, preparing a scene I will not be appearing in. The crew mills around. Someone actually says to someone else, “It scarcely matters.” There’s a lot of shrugging and slinking off.

I’m promising myself that this will be the last time I see any of these people.

Bentley has spent all morning being prepped for a segment on MTV’s “House of Style—Dubai!” and right now he’s facing a mirror in the corner of the living room as a stylist blow-dries his hair and Bentley, shouting over the noise, explains to an interviewer, “It’s the classic bistro look in what’s basically a modern kitchen.” The interviewer wants to touch on eyeball fashion, what country has the sexiest soldiers, and then, “Ooh, can I have a pretzel?” I’m trying to block a tear with my finger. My heart feels sore, on the verge of bursting. I manage a wave, a small acknowledgment, to Bentley. The interviewer whispers something to Bentley while gawking at me and Bentley mutters “I already did” and they scream hysterically while giving each other high fives.

Jamie’s lying on a couch, a pink face mask over her eyes, recovering
from the abortion she had yesterday afternoon, hungover from the Planet Hollywood opening she had to attend last night, and she’s talking sullenly into a cell phone. A book, an astrological forecast for Aquarians, lies on her chest and she looks like someone dropped her, picked her up, then laid her across the couch. She’s pressing a flower into her face, fingers stained from newspaper ink. She holds up a hand warily as I pass and mouths
Shhh—it’s my manager
and someone with a handheld camera crouches low, capturing Jamie’s blank face on super-8.

Bobby sits at the computer wearing Helmut Lang jeans and a Helmut Lang moleskin jacket, a rusted-green Comme des Garçons sweater underneath. On the computer screen are the words
BRINK OF DESTRUCTION
and automatically I’m thinking, Who’s Brink? and I’ve never heard of that band, and Bobby, in one of his “barely tolerant” moods, asks me, “Where are you going?”

“To see Chloe,” I say, stiffly walking past him to the kitchen. I force myself to peer into the refrigerator, struggling to be casual, a very hard moment. Outside, lightning flickers and then, on cue, thunder sounds.

Bobby’s considering what I just said.

“Are you trying to rescue her?” he muses. “Or are you trying to rescue yourself?” He pauses. “That’s not really a solution,” he says, and then, less sweetly, “Is it?”

“I’m just going to make sure everything’s okay with her.”

“I think that’s another movie,” Bobby says. “And I think you’re confused.”

“So you have a problem?” I ask, walking back into the living room.

“No,” he says. “I just don’t think that’s all you’re going to do.” He shrugs. “It’s just a … quandary.”

“Do I really need to make arrangements with you in order to visit my ex-girlfriend?” I ask. “It’s pretty fucking simple—”

“Hey, don’t talk that way to me.” He scowls.

“—to grasp, Bobby. I’m going to see Chloe. Bye-bye.”

Bobby’s expression subtly changes, becoming bored, almost trusting.

“Don’t act so wounded,” he finally says, flashing a warning look. “You’re not very good at it.”

It seems impossible that I will ever get out of this house. Under my
breath I’m telling myself,
It’s just another scene, it’s just another phase
, like it’s a lyric from a song that means something.

“Do you think I’m lying?” I ask.

“No, no,” Bobby says. “I just think there’s a hole in your truth.”

“Well, what do you want to hear?” I ask, daring him. He ponders this, then simply turns back to the computer screen. “I think I’ve decided to listen to something else.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“You want it translated?” he mutters. “Sober up. Learn your ABCs.”

“I’m just trying to have a so-called normal conversation,” I say.

“I don’t think you’re being particularly successful,” he says.

“I’m not going to be put off by your negativity,” I’m saying, teeth clenched. “Later, dude.”

The director glances up at me and nods, once.

“Okay, we need some spontaneous sound bites,” the interviewer from “House of Style” says.

I’m walking by Bentley as he shows off a stack of 1960s movie magazines, a book of photographs featuring dismembered dolls, a new tattoo in the shape of a demon laced across his bicep.

“We’ll miss you,” Bentley says, batting his eyes at me.

Outside, it’s raining lightly. A bearded man worriedly walks a dog. A girl glides by holding a dozen sunflowers. I break down again, tears spilling out of my eyes. I hail a cab. Inside the cab, I’m trying not to shriek. A moment of doubt rises, but I blame it on the rain and then I tell the driver, “The American embassy.”

11

I’m sufficiently calm to minimize crying, to curb the hyperventilating. But I’m also on so much Xanax that the following is merely a dark blur and the only thing keeping this scene from being totally black is the mid-level panic that still beats through me, acting as a dull light.

I’m just assuming we’re on Avenue Gabriel as the taxi stops in front of what I’m just assuming is the American embassy. I give the driver
whatever bills I have left in my wallet—250, maybe 300 francs. I don’t care, I tell myself as I stumble from the cab.

I’m vaguely aware of walking up steps past a sentry box into the building. I’m glancing sideways at members of the Police Urbaine, at a machine gun, at a security camera, at a guard who responds only slightly with bland suspicion when I move by, serenely smiling.

In the lobby I’m allowed to walk through a metal detector without incident. I’m allowed to step up to a plexiglass window.

I tell the woman sitting behind the plexiglass window that I need to speak to an official. “Un officiale … ?”

In English, she asks if I have an appointment with anyone.

“No,” I say.

She asks me my name.

I tell her, “Victor Johnson.”

She asks me what this concerns.

I tell her, “A bomb.” I tell her, “It concerns a bomb.”

She picks up a phone, utters words into it I can’t hear. She continues to explain something that I’m too numb to decipher.

Two policemen carrying machine guns suddenly move into my line of vision, guarding me, not saying a word, standing at attention, waiting.

A young man, familiar-looking and nondescript, vaguely European, vaguely not, wearing a gray Prada suit with a stylish green tie, moves quickly down a corridor to where I’m standing.

The young man asks, “How can I help you, Mr. Johnson?”

“We need to talk elsewhere,” I’m saying.

“What is this about?” he asks carefully.

“I know the people who planted the bomb at the Ritz,” I say. “I know where they live. I know their names. I know who they are.”

The official just stares at me, unsure of how to respond. “You do?”

“Yes,” I say solemnly. “I do.”

“And?” he asks, waiting.

“They blew up the Institute of Political Studies,” I say. “They’re also responsible for the bombing at Café Flore.” Breaking down, I tell him, “They’re responsible for the bomb that went off in the métro last week.” Confidence collapses and I start crying.

The official seems to take this in stride. He makes a decision.

“If you would please wait here,” he says to me.

He leans and says something in French to the two guards, who because of this command nod, relax a little, even as they move in closer.