At first I’m able to look as if I’m concentrating intensely on what she’s saying and in fact some of it’s registering, but really I’ve heard it all before; then, while talking, she moves closer and there’s a quickening and I’m relieved. Silently focusing in on her, I realize that I’ve been activated. I stare into her face for over an hour, asking the appropriate questions, guiding her to certain areas, mimic responses that I’m supposed to have, offer sympathetic nods when they’re required, sometimes there’s a sadness in my eyes that’s half-real, half-not. The only sound, besides her voice, is the sea moving below us, faraway waves lapping against the hull of the ship. I notice idly that there’s no moon.
She sums things up bitterly by saying, “The life of a model—traveling, meeting a lot of superficial people—it’s all just so—”
I don’t let her finish that sentence, because my face is so close to hers—she’s tall, we’re the same height—that I have to lean in and kiss her lips lightly and she pulls back and she’s not surprised and I kiss her lips lightly again and they taste like strawberries from the ice cream and cold.
“Don’t. Please, Victor,” she murmurs. “I can’t.”
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Victor, not … now.”
I pull back and stretch, pretending nothing happened, but finally I can’t help saying “I want to come to Paris with you” and she pretends not to hear me, folding her arms as she leans against the railing with a sad, placid expression that just makes her face seem dreamier.
“Hey, let’s go dancing,” I suggest, then check the watch I’m not wearing and casually pretend I was just inspecting a nonexistent freckle on my wrist. “We can go to the Yacht Club disco. I’m a good dancer.”
“I don’t think you’d like the Yacht Club,” she says. “Unless you’d like to dance to the disco version of ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina’ for hours on end. There’s a DJ named Jamtastica too.”
“Well, what about a drink? It’s not that late.” I check the nonexistent watch again. “I’ve gotta stop doing that.”
“It actually is getting late,” she says. “I should get to sleep.”
“You want to come by my room? For a drink?” I ask, following her as she walks away from the railing. “I have an unopened fruit basket in my room that we can share. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“That’s very sweet, Victor,” she says. “But I’m tired.”
“I want to come to Paris,” I say suddenly.
Marina stops walking and turns to me. “Why?”
“Can I?” I ask. “I mean, we don’t have to stay at the same place but can I like travel with you?”
“What about London?”
“London can wait.”
“You’re being impulsive,” she says apprehensively, resuming walking.
“It’s one of my many really really great qualities.”
“Listen, let’s just …” She sighs. “Let’s just see how things go.”
“Things are going fine,” I say. “Things can only get better. Look, I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I’ve just spent the last hour gazing at you and and and now I want to come to Paris.”
“What do you want me to say to that?”
“Just say yeah, cool, hip. Just say, ‘Yes, Victor, you can come to Paris with me,’” I tell her and then, mock-seriously: “You know, I don’t need an invitation, baby—I can just simply follow you.”
“So you’d be, um, like stalking me through Paris?”
“Just say, ‘Victor, you may come with me—I give you my permission,’ and then I’ll bow and kiss your feet and—”
“But I don’t know if I can say that yet.”
“I’m saving you the embarrassment of admitting what you really want to express.”
“You have no idea what I want to express.”
“But I know all about you now.”
“But I don’t know anything about you.”
“Hey.” I stop walking, spread my arms out wide. “This is all you need to know.”
She stares, smiling. I stare back until I have to look away.
“Will you at least join me for dinner tomorrow night?” I ask “bashfully.”
“That would be …” She stops, considering something.
“Um, babe? I’m waiting.”
“That would be …” She pauses again, looking out past me at all that blackness.
I start chewing a nail, then check my pockets for Kleenex, a cigarette, Mentos, any prop to keep me occupied.
“That would be … nice.”
I let out a great sigh of relief and hold my hand over my heart as if I’ve just recovered from an enormous blow. We aren’t miked anymore when we say good night and the crew’s been waved away and there’s another kiss and in that kiss I can’t help but sense some kind of pattern being revealed, and then departure.
9
While I’m getting dressed to meet Marina at the Queen’s Grill Lounge at 7:30 before dinner with the Wallaces, the captain makes an announcement over the intercom, something about a distress signal emanating from a shipping vessel that the QE2 will be intercepting around 9 in order to pick up a diabetic crewman who ran out of insulin, and walking to the lounge I’m passing dozens of worried old people asking if this unscheduled stop is going to delay the arrival time at Southampton and the exceedingly patient ship directors, harried but sincere, assure them it will not and I’m wondering what if it fucking does? You’re old. If I was a ship director my answer would’ve been, “It doesn’t matter, you’ll be dead before we dock this boat.”
Tonight my hair’s slicked back, I used a tiny splash of cologne, I’m wearing the Comme des Garçons tuxedo—freshly pressed—and I’m feeling semi-retro. When I called Marina this morning and suggested maybe lunch she said she planned to spend the day pampering herself out of her funk—facial, massage, yoga, aromatherapy, palm reading—and since I already felt linked to her I didn’t have to be told to spend the day basically keeping to myself, bumming around, goofing off in the gym, replaying imaginary conversations with her while on the StairMaster, rehearsing the words I’d use during sex.
I order a martini, positioning myself on a plush antique couch by the bar where a steward lights my cigarette and 7:30 turns into 8:00 rather suddenly and I’ve ordered another martini and smoked two more Marlboro Lights, staring at the extras. It’s a formal night on the ship and men are wearing tuxedos (I actually don’t spot a single decent one) and cheesy sequined gowns hang off old women, everyone passing by on their way to various dining rooms, chattering incessantly about absolutely nothing.
From the bar phone I dial Marina’s cabin but there’s no answer.
At 8:15 the crew finally says it’s time for the next setup, that the Wallaces are waiting. I stub out a half-smoked cigarette, cursing, and before I can finish the rest of the second martini the director takes it “gently but firmly” away, suggesting I’ve had “enough,” that perhaps I should “pace” myself, that maybe this will “aid my performance.” I grab the martini back from the director, finish it and, smacking my lips together, say loudly, “I—don’t—think—so.” I toss the Gold VIP Card prop at him and mutter, “Sign for it, doofus.”
8
The Queen’s Grill is jammed but the Wallaces are at a table for four up front by the entrance. As I make my way down the steps leading to the table, Stephen stands up, dressed in a tuxedo, waving me over as if this were some sort of grand occasion, Lorrie sitting primly next to him wearing the same strapless Armani gown from last night. There are huge flower arrangements everywhere in the Queen’s Grill to navigate around and dozens of waiters carrying trays of champagne glasses brush past me. I gently bump into a maître d’ at the table next to ours as he prepares crêpes for a group of Japanese women, who smile admiringly at the handsome young gaijin as he shakes Stephen Wallace’s beefy hand.
“Ah, Victor—hello,” Stephen says as a waiter pulls a chair out for
me. “Where’s your guest?”
“I’m not sure, man,” I say, about to lift my wrist to check my nonexistent watch. “She said she’d meet me in the lounge for a drink and never showed.” I pause glumly. “She knows where we’re eating, but man, I’m bummed.”
“Well, we do hope she comes,” Stephen says. “In the meantime—champagne?”
“Definitely,” I say, reaching for a glass.
“That’s, um, mine,” Lorrie says tentatively.
“Oops, sorry,” I say as a waiter pours from a bottle of Dom Pérignon into a flute sitting by my napkin.
“So Victor, what is it you’ve been doing?” Stephen asks.
“You know, Stephen old chum,” I start vaguely, pondering this while chugging down the bubbly, “I’m really not quite sure what I’ve been doing.”
Dismayed, they both laugh.
“What do you two do?” I finally ask, catching my breath.
“Well, I work in an advertising agency in London—” Stephen starts.
“Oh really? That’s nice,” I interrupt. “But I actually meant on this boat, but whatever. Continue. Can I get another glass of champagne?”
“I open restaurants,” Lorrie offers, a little too greedily, while a waiter fills my empty flute. “We were just in Manhattan scouting locations in TriBeCa. It would be my first in the States.”
“Oh really?” I say again, groaning inwardly. “That’s super. What kind of restaurants?” I finish the new glass of champagne and point to the flute again after the waiter finishes topping off Stephen’s and Lorrie’s glasses. Hesitantly, he fills mine again. Stephen then nods at the waiter, a gesture to bring another bottle.
“The last one I opened was in Holland Park,” Lorrie says. “Which I would love to have you visit when you’re in London.”
“But see, I’m not—going—to—be—in—London, baby,” I say, straining, leaning toward Lorrie for emphasis, but when I realize how rude that sounds, I add, “Though that’s a very, um, cool offer.”
“Lorrie’s a splendid cook,” Stephen adds.
“Oh really?” I say again, grinding my heels into the floor. “What’s your specialty, babe?”
“It’s a variation on classic Californian cuisine, you might say.” Lorrie tilts her head thoughtfully.
When it becomes apparent that I’m supposed to say something, I ask, staring, “You mean compared to just … Californian cuisine?” and then, measuring each word carefully, totally not interested in an answer, “or … post—Californian cuisine?”
“There’s definitely a Pacific Rim influence as well,” Stephen adds. “I mean, we know it sounds awfully trendy, but there is a world of difference.”
Stuck, I ask, “Between?”
“Between … Californian cuisine and, well, post-Californian cuisine,” Stephen says, a little too patiently.
“And Pacific Rim as well,” Lorrie adds.
There’s a long pause.
“Does anybody have the time?” I ask.
Stephen checks his watch. “Eight-forty.”
There’s another long pause.
“So it’s like the whole baby-vegetable-guava-pasta-blue-corn-scal-lops-in-wasabi-fajitas situation, huh?” I ask, glazing over.
“Well, that’s in the ballpark,” Lorrie says hesitantly.
I have nothing more to say and just when I’m about to look over at the director and shout out “Line!” I’m startled by the sound of a champagne bottle being uncorked, followed by Stephen asking, “So you’re still going to Paris, Victor?”
“I think I was always going to Paris, Stephen old chap,” I say.
“What’s really taking you to Paris, Victor?” Stephen asks, his eyes narrowing. “Do you have friends there?”
“Actually I’ll let you in on a little secret,” I say.
“Yes?” they both say, leaning in.
“I was supposed to go to London,” I admit, then smile sheepishly and whisper, “I got sidetracked.”
“Well, I hope not for too long,” Stephen says. “You must stop by London on your way back to the States.”
“We’ll see how things turn out in Paris, Stephen old chap,” I say confidently, downing another glass of champagne.
Since my back is to the entrance of the Queen’s Grill I don’t see Marina come in but heads start turning and even though Stephen and Lorrie have never met Marina, their drone is interrupted by her arrival, and instinctively, on cue, I turn around. Marina looks stunning, effortlessly inhabiting the role that will create a star; Makeup and Costume have done an unbelievable job and her hair is pulled back so tightly and in such an elegant way that I’m practically squirming in my chair and then I’m holding out a hand, guiding her to the table. Delicately she accepts it, as if I were helping her cross a threshold she was wary about but since I’m on the other side—hey, it’s okay. Introductions are made as she’s seated.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Marina says genuinely.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “We were having a very, very interesting and lively conversation about …” Stuck, I have to look over at the Wallaces.
“Californian cuisine,” Stephen reminds me.
“Oh yeah.”
“Champagne?” Stephen asks Marina a little too eagerly.
“Thank you,” Marina says as Stephen pours, and then, trying to insinuate herself immediately into the conversation, asks, “Are we supposed to be stopping soon?”
“In about fifteen minutes,” Stephen says, placing the champagne back in its bucket. I lift out the bottle and pour myself another glass.
“Doesn’t anybody find this odd?” Marina asks, letting the maître d’ drape a napkin across her lap.
“I think the law of the sea requires vessels to help each other in times of distress,” Stephen says. “I don’t think the QE2 is exempt.”
“It’s really not that much of an inconvenience,” Lorrie says, slowly looking Marina over.
“I don’t know how they’ll find that boat in all this fog,” Marina says.
“Really—there’s fog?” I ask, having assumed that I had been staring at a giant gray wall but actually it’s a huge window that overlooks the starboard deck. “Whoa,” I mutter.
“Well, radar is quite sophisticated these—” Stephen starts.
“Excuse me,” Lorrie says, staring intently at Marina, “but do we know each other?”
Marina studies Lorrie. “I’m not—”
“I mean, have we met?” Lorrie asks. “You look remarkably familiar.”
“She’s a model,” I interject. “Thass why.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Lorrie says, then, gently prodding, “Are you from New York? Could we have met there?”
“I don’t believe we have,” Marina says, then smiles and tightly adds, “But who knows?” She lifts her champagne flute, brings it to her lips but doesn’t sip.
“But I’m sure we have,” Lorrie murmurs, gazing. “Positive, in fact.”
“Really?” Marina asks with a subtle kind of panic.
“Yes, I’m sure we’ve met,” Lorrie insists.
“Where, darling?” Stephen asks.
“That’s what I can’t place,” Lorrie murmurs.
“Are you in the States often?” Marina asks.
But our waiter arrives and Stephen suggests we order dinner now, before the boat makes its stop, which I’m all in favor of so this night can proceed elsewhere. Marina demurs, saying she really isn’t that hungry. Stephen says something along the lines of “Well, my dear, you can’t order off the children’s menu,” and that’s our cue to “laugh heartily.” First course: caviar. Second course: the girls opt for lobster medallions instead of foie gras. Third course: duck. Stephen orders two bottles of wine from the sommelier, who seems impressed by the selections.
“So how do you all know each other?” Marina asks.
“Actually we know Victor’s father,” Stephen says.
“Yes, I’ve never met these people before in my life.” r />
“Oh really?” Marina asks, turning to me. “Who’s your father?”
“I really don’t want to get into that right now,” I say. “I’m on vacation and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Were you in Berlin recently?” Lorrie suddenly asks Marina.
“No.” Marina smiles but freezes up slightly before answering again.
“No.”
“I think it was Berlin, but your hair’s different,” Lorrie murmurs, implying something. “Yes, it was in Berlin.”
“Darling, please,” Stephen says. “Let’s move on.”
“I haven’t been to Berlin in years,” Marina says, frowning.
Lorrie’s squinting at her. “This is driving me mad, but I know we’ve met.”
“She’s a model,” I say, tugging at a waiter for more champagne. “That’s why, baby.”
The sommelier has opened both bottles of wine and after Stephen tastes each the sommelier decants them into carafes and the four of us concentrate on that. Gold-rimmed plates are placed in front of us as a tin of Beluga is wheeled toward the table. While the maître d’ arranges the caviar on our respective plates and I’m babbling on about the new design—not the old design but the new design—of Raygun magazine, a photographer who has been combing the room interrupts us by asking if we’d like our picture taken.