Glamorama

  A hotel on Avenue Kléber.

  Following the Christian Bale guy down a hallway lined with photos of mostly dead celebrities, I’m so drowsy I can barely keep up with him and the lights above us keep flickering chicly and at the far end we arrive at a door covered with a thin sheet of frost.

  Inside the room all the lights are dimmed, and sitting at a desk, Sky-TV glowing soundlessly on a large-screen television behind him, legs primly crossed, smoking a cigarette, is F. Fred Palakon.

  I appear seemingly nonplussed.

  “Hello, Victor,” Palakon says. “How are things?” he asks menacingly. “Remember me?”

  The Christian Bale guy closes the door behind us, then locks it.

  Palakon gestures toward the edge of the bed. After I sit down, facing him, he recrosses his legs, regarding me unfavorably. It’s freezing in the hotel room and I rub my hands together to keep them warm.

  “I got … lost,” is all I say, shamefully.

  “Well, not really,” Palakon says. “Not what you’d technically call ‘lost,’ but I suppose there’s some truth in your statement.”

  I’m staring at the carpet, at the patterns revealing themselves in the carpet, and I keep rubbing my hands together to keep them warm.

  “I see you’ve taken up with quite a crowd,” Palakon says. “I shouldn’t be surprised. A hip, happening, gorgeous young thing like yourself, all alone in Paris.” He says this with such harsh articulation that I have to flinch and look away. “I see you have a tan.”

  “Palakon, I—”

  “Mr. Ward, please don’t say anything,” Palakon warns. “Not yet.”

  “Palakon, you never called me in England,” I say in a rush. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “That is because I was informed you never checked into the Four Seasons,” Palakon says sharply. “How were we supposed to call you when we had no idea where you were?”

  “But … that’s not true,” I say, sitting up. “Who told you that? I mean, what are you talking about, Palakon?”

  “It means that there are no records of you ever staying at the Four Seasons,” Palakon says. “It means that if someone tried to contact you at the Four Seasons we were simply told that neither a Mr. Victor Ward nor a Mr. Victor Johnson was staying there.” An icy pause. “What happened to you, Victor?”

  “But I checked in,” I’m protesting. “The driver who picked me up in Southampton saw me check in.”

  “No, Victor,” Palakon says. “The driver saw you walk in. He did not see you check in.”

  “This is wrong,” I’m muttering.

  “All attempts to get in touch with you at the Four Seasons proved fruitless,” Palakon says, glaring. “When we finally tried to make actual physical contact, as in searching the hotel for you, we came up with nothing.”

  “Ask him,” I say, pointing at the Christian Bale guy, standing behind me. “He’s been following me ever since I got to London.”

  “Not really,” Palakon says. “He lost you that night after you were at Pylos and didn’t find you again until the other night, when he spotted you at the opera.” Pause. “With Jamie Fields.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “But because of your actions let’s just say his part has been beefed up considerably.”

  “Palakon,” I start. “I don’t care about the money anymore. I just want to get the hell out of here.”

  “That’s very noble, Mr. Ward, but you were supposed to get Jamie Fields out of London and back to the States,” Palakon says. “Not traipse off to Paris. So the money—as of now—is beside the point.”

  Looking down again, I mutter, “I traipsed, I traipsed, I admit it, I traipsed …”

  “Why are you …” Palakon sighs, looks up at the ceiling, curved and stained, and then, thoroughly annoyed, back at me. “Why are you in Paris, Mr. Ward?”

  I’m still muttering, “I traipsed, I traipsed …”

  “Mr. Ward,” Palakon snaps. “Please.”

  “What else do you know?” I ask. “How did you find me?”

  Palakon sighs again, puts his cigarette out, runs his hands over the jacket of a very natty suit.

  “Since you had mentioned that you were going to follow that girl you met on the ship to Paris, we simply pursued a few theories.”

  “Who is ‘we,’ Palakon?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Does the third person alarm you?”

  “Who’s … the third person?”

  “Mr. Ward, what is the situation as of now?”

  “The … situation is … the situation is …” Grasping, unable to figure it out, I just give up. “The situation is out of my control.”

  Palakon takes this in. “That’s too bad.” After a thoughtful pause, he asks, gently, “Can it be remedied?”

  “What does that … mean?” I ask. “Remedied? I told you—it’s out of my control.”

  Palakon runs a hand along the desk he’s sitting at and then, after a long pause, asks, “Are you in any position to fix things?”

  “I don’t know.” I’m vaguely aware of my feet and arms slowly falling asleep as I sit slumped on the edge of the bed. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, let’s start with does she trust you?” he asks. “Is she willing to leave? Is she coming back to the States?” Another pause. “Is she in love with you?”

  “We’ve … been intimate,” I say hollowly. “I’m not sure—”

  “Congratulations,” Palakon says. “So you’ve become a duo. How cute. How”—he tilts his head—“apropos.”

  “Palakon, I don’t think you know what’s going on.” I swallow. “I don’t think you’re in the same movie,” I say carefully.

  “Just get Jamie Fields out of Paris,” Palakon says. “Just get her back to New York. I don’t care how you do it. Promise her things, marry her, perform a kidnapping, whatever.”

  I’m exhaling steam. “She has … a boyfriend.”

  “That has never been an impediment for you before, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says. “Who is it? Who’s she seeing? Someone in that house? Not Bruce Rhinebeck. And it can’t be Bentley Harrolds.”

  “It’s Bobby Hughes,” I say hollowly.

  “Ah, of course,” Palakon says. “I’d forgotten about him.”

  “How’s that possible?” I ask, confused.

  “Depending on what planet you live on, Victor, it’s not so hard.”

  A long patch of silence.

  “There’s a small problem, Palakon.”

  “If it’s small it’s not a problem, Mr. Ward.”

  “Oh, I think this is,” I say, my voice getting tiny.

  “Just take Jamie Fields back to the United States,” Palakon says. “That’s all you need to do.”

  “There’s a small problem,” I repeat.

  “My patience ran out the minute we met, Mr. Ward. What is it?”

  “Well, you see,” I say, leaning in for emphasis, smiling involuntarily, my heart tightening, whispering loudly, “They’re all murderers.”

  Palakon sighs wearily. “Excuses, excuses. Oh Mr. Ward, you can do better than that. You’re not that lazy.”

  In a calm and purposeful fashion I try to express everything that has been happening: how they memorize maps, passwords, warning signals, airline timetables, how they learn to strip, assemble and load an array of light machine guns—M16s, Brownings, Scorpions, RPGs. Kalashnikovs—to throw off tails, how one day they had to eliminate everything in our computer system that connected them to Libya. I tell Palakon about the detailed maps of various American and Israeli embassies scattered throughout the house, that at any given time three million dollars in cash is hidden in a closet downstairs next to the gym, that we know certain people only by code names, that intermediaries lunch frequently in the house and there are so many parties. I tell Palakon about how fake passports are arranged and how those passports are constantly being shredded and burned, how Bobby is always traveling to Belgrade or to Zagreb and visas are applied for in Vienna and there are anx
ious consultations and trips to villas in outlying suburbs. How I am constantly being introduced to just another young Palestinian with a “troubled past” or to someone who was partially blinded by an Israeli letter bomb, patriots who had strayed from the path, people offering pretexts for refusing to negotiate, beautiful men boasting of secret alliances.

  I tell Palakon about the bombing of the Institute of Political Studies, the bombing at Café Flore, the bombing on the métro at Pont Royal. I tell Palakon about a car lined with 120 pounds of explosives that rolled down a hill in Lyons and smashed into a police station, killing eight people, four of them children, injuring fifty-six. I explain the attempted bombing of the Louvre, how Jamie Fields poisoned the pool at the Ritz, the whispered references to TWA flights leaving Charles de Gaulle, how new social security numbers were invented, aerial reconnaissance photos were taken, certain vanishings accomplished. I tell Palakon about a chaotic party, then about another chaotic party, while I’m gripping the comforter and it all seems so insubstantial that I’m reminded of a Basque separatist movement’s motto one of the scriptwriters showed me one day in a red spiral notebook: “Action Unites. Words Divide.”

  Palakon studies me. He sighs, then keeps sighing for what seems like minutes.

  “If I believe you, Mr. Ward—and I don’t know if I’m there yet—what does this have to do with—”

  “Hey, I didn’t make this up,” I shout. “I’m not that good an actor.”

  “I’m not saying you made it up, Victor,” Palakon says, shrugging. “What I’m thinking, however, is that perhaps you have a more active imagination than I realized. Maybe you’ve seen too many movies, Mr. Ward.”

  Something suddenly flashes in front of me. A somber realization.

  “The hat,” I say. “They have the hat.”

  Palakon glances over at the Christian Bale guy.

  Palakon looks back at me.

  “What do you mean?” Palakon asks tentatively.

  “They have the hat,” I say. “The hat you told me to bring.”

  “Yes?” Palakon asks, drawing out the word. “What … exactly are you saying?”

  “I found the hat that Lauren Hynde gave me,” I say. “It was in their bathroom. It was in their bathroom—Jamie and Bobby’s.”

  “I’m confused,” Palakon says. “Did you give it to them?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “But …” Palakon shifts around uncomfortably in his chair until he is sitting erect, his back straight. A new, ominous mood fills the room. “What are you saying? How did they get it?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It disappeared from my cabin on the QE2,” I say. “I found it an hour ago in a bathroom drawer,” I say.

  Palakon stands up, starts pacing, scowling to himself. He’s taking stances that say: this changes everything.

  The Christian Bale guy is leaning over, his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths.

  Everything suddenly seems displaced, subtle gradations erase borders, but it’s more forceful than that.

  “Palakon?” I ask, slowly. “Why was that hat so important?”

  No answer.

  “Why did Lauren Hynde give me that hat?” I ask. “Why is the hat so important, Palakon?”

  “Who says it is?” Palakon asks, distracted, harassed, still pacing.

  “Palakon,” I sigh. “I may be a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them.” Finally I’m so scared that I start breaking down. “I need help. You’ve got to get me out of here. I don’t care about the money anymore. They’ll kill me. I mean it, Palakon. They will kill me.” Panicking, doubled over on the bed, I envision my corpse on a beach, someone’s idea of a “flourish,” and there’s a breeze, it’s midday, a figure disappears into a cove. “I shouldn’t even be here—oh fucking god—I shouldn’t even be here.”

  “You weren’t followed,” Palakon says. “Please Mr. Ward, calm down.”

  “I can’t,” I’m whining, still doubled over, clutching myself. “I can’t, I cannot, I—”

  “Mr. Ward, is there anyone who can help you?” Palakon asks. “Anyone you can put us in touch with?”

  “No no no, there’s no one—”

  “What about family? What about your parents? Maybe something can be arranged. Something monetary. Do they know where you are?”

  “No.” I breathe in. “My mother’s dead. My father—I can’t, I can’t bring my father into this.”

  Palakon suddenly stops pacing.

  “Why not?” Palakon asks. “Maybe if you put us in touch with your father he could come over here and we could make an arrangement to somehow extract you from this mess—”

  “But, Palakon, what mess? What do you mean, a mess? And I can’t can’t get my father involved.” I’m shaking my head, weeping. “No, no, I can’t, no—”

  “Victor, why can’t you get your father involved?”

  “Palakon, you don’t understand,” I’m whispering.

  “Mr. Ward, I’m trying to help you—”

  “I can’t I can’t I—”

  “Mr. Ward—” Palakon shouts.

  “My father is a U.S. senator,” I scream, glaring up at him. “My father is a fucking U.S. senator. That is why he can’t get involved, Palakon,” I scream. “Okay? Okay?”

  Palakon swallows grimly, taking this in. Visibly alarmed, he closes his eyes, concentrating. Waves lap at the body on the beach and behind it hard brown surfers ride buoyantly over green swells below a burning sun high above the horizon and beyond them there’s an island—boulders, woods, an old granite quarry, the smell of salt—and on that island another figure disappears into a cove and then it’s night.

  “Your father is Samuel Johnson?” Palakon asks.

  “Yes,” I hiss, still glaring at him. “Didn’t you know this when you first contacted me?”

  “No, we didn’t,” Palakon says quietly, humbled. “But now I”—he clears his throat—“see.”

  “No you don’t,” I’m saying mindlessly, moving my head back and forth like a child. “No you don’t.”

  “Victor, you don’t need to explain to me who your father is,” Palakon says. “I think I understand.” He pauses again. “And because of this I also understand why this makes the situation more … delicate.”

  I start giggling. “Delicate? The situation is delicate?” I stop giggling, gasp in a sob.

  “Victor, we can help you, I think—”

  “I’m trapped, I’m trapped, I’m trapped, and they’ll kill me—”

  “Mr. Ward,” Palakon says, kneeling, leaning in to where I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. “Please, we will help you but—”

  When I try to hug him he pushes me gently away.

  “—you have got to act as if nothing has happened. You have got to pretend that you don’t know anything. You’ve got to play along until I can figure something out.”

  “No, no, no—”

  Palakon motions for the Christian Bale guy. I feel a pair of hands on my shoulders. Someone’s whispering.

  “I’m afraid, Palakon,” I sob.

  “Don’t be, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says. “We know where you are. In the meantime I have to figure some things out. We’ll contact you—”

  “You’ve got to be careful,” I say. “Everything’s bugged. Everything’s wired. Everything’s being filmed.”

  They’re helping me stand up. I’m trying to cling to Palakon as they lead me to the door.

  “You must calm down, Mr. Ward,” Palakon says. “Now let Russell take you back and we’ll contact you within a couple of days, possibly sooner. But you must remain calm. Things are different now and you must remain calm.”

  “Why can’t I stay here?” I plead, struggling as I’m being led to the door. “Please let me stay here.”

  “I need to get a full view,” Palakon says. “Right now it’s just a partial view. And I need to get a full view.”

  “What’s happening, Palakon?” I ask, finally motionless. “What’s the story?”


  “Just that something has gone terribly wrong.”

  In the backseat of the black Citroën everything is covered with confetti and it seems like hours before Russell drops me off on Boulevard Saint-Marcel and then I’m crossing through the Jardin des Plantes and then I’m at the Seine and above me the morning sky is white and I’m thinking, Stay indoors, go to sleep, don’t get involved, view everything without expression, drink whiskey, pose, accept.

  25

  I’m standing at a pay phone on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, calling Felix at the Ritz. The phone in his room rings six times before he answers. I’m taking off my sunglasses then putting them on, again and again.

  “Hello?” Felix asks tiredly.

  “Felix, it’s me,” I say. “It’s Victor.”

  “Yes?” Felix asks. “What is it? What do you want?”

  “We have to talk.” Across the street from where I’m standing someone’s behaving oddly—weird hair, waving car fumes away with a newspaper, laughing uncontrollably. Across the street the sun is rising, then decides not to.

  “Oh Victor, I am so tired of this,” Felix says. “I am so tired of you.”

  “Felix, please, not now, please don’t go into a rant now,” I’m saying. “There are things you need to know,” I’m saying. “I’ve figured some things out and I need to tell you these things.”

  “But I’m not interested in listening to you anymore,” Felix says. “In fact, nobody is, Victor. And frankly I don’t think there’s anything you need to tell anyone, except of course if it’s about your hair or your gym routine or who you plan to fuck next week.”

  (Bobby flies to Rome and then to Amman, Jordan, on Alitalia. A bag in the overhead compartment in first class contains spools of electric wire, needle-nosed pliers, silicon, large kitchen knives, aluminum foil, packets of Remform, hammers, a camcorder, a dozen files containing diagrams of military weapons, missiles, armored cars. On the plane Bobby reads an article in a fashionable magazine about the President’s new haircut and what it means and Bobby memorizes lines he needs to deliver and flirts with a stewardess who mentions in passing that her favorite song is John Lennon’s “Imagine.” In a soothing voice Bobby compliments her career choice. She’s asking him what it was like being on the Oprah Winfrey show. He’s recalling a visit to room 25 at the Dreamland Motel. He’s planning a catastrophe. He’s contemplatively eating a brownie.)