Modern touches in the kitchen: a slate-and-marble mosaic floor, a black-and-white photographic mural of a desert landscape, a prop plane flying over it. Metal furniture from a doctor’s office. The dining room windows have frosted glass. Custom-made chairs circle a table that was purchased at Christie’s at auction.
I walk into the bedroom to check my messages, since a flashing light indicates five more people have called since I left the club twenty minutes ago. In the bedroom, a Chippendale mirror that Dad sent hangs over a mahogany sleigh bed made in Virginia in the nineteenth century, or so they say.
I’m thinking of buying a Dalmatian.
Gus Frerotte’s in town. Cameron Diaz called. And then Matt Dillon. And then Cameron Diaz called again. And then Matt Dillon called again.
I flip on the TV in the bedroom. Videos, the usual. I switch over to the Weather Channel.
I stretch, groaning, my arms held high above my head. I decide to run a bath.
I carefully hang up the Prada jacket. I’m thinking, That’s the last time you’re wearing that.
In the bathroom I lean over the white porcelain tub and turn the faucets, making sure the water is hot. I add some Kiehl’s bath salts, mixing them around with my hand.
I’m thinking of buying a Dalmatian.
I keep stretching.
Something on the floor of the bathroom catches my eye.
I lean down.
It’s a tiny circle, made of paper. I press my index finger on it.
I bring my hand up to my face.
It’s a piece of confetti.
I stare at it for a long time.
A small black wave.
It starts curling toward me.
Casually, I start whistling as I move slowly back into the bedroom.
When I’m in the bedroom I notice that confetti—pink and white and gray—has been dumped all over the bed.
Staring into the Chippendale mirror over the bed, I brace myself before glimpsing the shadow behind an eighteenth-century tapestry screen that stands in the corner.
The shadow moves slightly.
It’s waiting. It has that kind of stance.
I move over to the bed.
Still whistling casually, I lean toward the nightstand and, laughing to myself, pretending to struggle with the laces on the shoes I’m kicking off, I reach into a drawer and pull out a .25-caliber Walther with a silencer attached.
I start padding back toward the bathroom.
I’m counting to myself.
Five, four, three—
I immediately change direction and move straight up to the screen, the gun raised.
Gauging head level, I pull the trigger. Twice.
A muffled grunt. A wet sound—blood spraying against a wall.
A figure dressed in black, half his face destroyed, falls forward, toppling over the screen, a small gun clenched in the gloved fist of his right hand.
I’m about to bend over and pull the gun out of his hand when movement behind my back causes me to whirl around.
Silently leaping toward me over the bed, now above me, an oversized knife in an outstretched hand, is another figure clad in black.
Instantly I take aim, crouching.
The first bullet whizzes past him, punching into the Chippendale mirror, shattering it.
As he falls onto me, the second bullet catches him in the face, its impact throwing him backward.
He lies on the carpet, kicking. I stagger up and quickly fire two bullets into his chest. He immediately goes still.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I’m cursing, fumbling for a cell phone, dialing a number I only half remember.
After three tries, a transmission signal.
I punch in the code, breathing hard.
“Come on, come on.”
Another signal. Another code.
And then I dial another number.
“It’s DAN,” I say into the mouthpiece.
I wait.
“Yes.” I listen. “Yes.”
I give the location. I say the words “Code 50.”
I hang up. I turn off the bathwater and quickly pack an overnight bag.
I leave before the cleaners arrive.
I spend the night at the Carlyle Hotel.
0
I meet Eva for dinner the next night at a supertrendy new Japanese restaurant just above SoHo, in the newly glam area of Houston Street, and Eva’s sipping green tea at a booth in the packed main room, waiting patiently, an advance copy of the New York Observer (with a particularly favorable article about my father that’s really about the new Victor Johnson and all the things he’s learned) folded on the table next to where she’s resting her wrists. I’m shown to our booth a little too enthusiastically by the maître d’, who holds my hand, offers condolences, tells me I look ultracool. I take it in stride and thank him as I slide in next to Eva. Eva and I just smile at each other. I remember to kiss her. I remember to go through the motions, since everyone’s looking at us, since that’s the point of the booth, since that’s the point of this appearance.
I order a premium cold sake and tell Eva that I got the part in Flatliners II. Eva says she’s very happy for me.
“So where’s your boyfriend tonight?” I ask, smiling. “A certain guy is out of town,” Eva says evasively. “Where is he?” I ask, teasing her.
“He’s actually at the Fuji Rock Festival,” she says, rolling her eyes, sipping the green tea.
“I know someone who went to that.”
“Maybe they went together.”
“Who knows?”
“Yes,” she says, opening a menu. “Who knows?”
“The point is: you don’t know.”
“Yes, that is the point.”
“You look beautiful.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Did you hear me?” I ask.
“Nice suit,” she says without looking up.
“Are we making shoptalk?”
“You’re getting quite the press these days,” Eva says, tapping the copy of the Observer. “Wherever you seem to go there’s a paparazzi alert.”
“It’s not all sunglasses and autographs, baby.”
“What does that mean?”
“Aren’t these people ridiculous?” I ask, vaguely gesturing. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “The simplicity is almost soothing. It’s like being back in high school.”
“Why is it like that?”
“Because you realize that hanging out with dumb people makes you feel much smarter,” she says. “At least that’s how I viewed high school.”
“Where were you while we were getting high?” I murmur to myself, concentrating on avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room.
“Pardon?”
“My mind is definitely expanding,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Without us this is all just trash,” she agrees.
I’m reaching for the edamame.
“Speaking of,” Eva starts. “How’s Alison Poole?”
“I have a feeling I’m breaking her heart.”
“I have a feeling you’re good at breaking hearts,” Eva says.
“She keeps asking questions about Chloe Byrnes,” I murmur.
Eva doesn’t say anything. Soon she’s sipping a Stolichnaya Limonnaya vodka and I’m picking at a plate of hijiki.
“What did you do today?” I ask before realizing I’m not particularly interested, even though I’m squeezing Eva’s thigh beneath the table.
“I had a photo shoot. I had lunch with Salt-n-Pepa. I avoided certain people. I contacted the people I didn’t avoid.” Eva breathes in. “My life right now is actually simpler than I thought it was going to be.” She sighs, but not unhappily. “If there are some things I’m not used to yet, it’s still sweet.”
“I dig it,” I say. “I hear where you’re coming from, baby,” I say, mimicking a robot.
Eva giggles, says my name, lets me squeeze her thigh harder. But then I’m looking away and things get diff
icult. I down another cup of sake.
“You seem distracted,” Eva says. “Something happened last night,” I murmur.
“What?”
I tell her, whispering.
“We need to be careful,” Eva says.
Suddenly a couple is looming over us and I hear someone exclaim, “Victor? Hey man, what’s up.”
Breathing in, I look up with a practiced smile.
“Oh, hi,” I say, reaching out a hand.
A fairly hip couple, our age. The guy—who I don’t recognize—grabs my hand and shakes it with a firm grip that says “please remember me because you’re so cool,” and the girl he’s with is bouncing up and down in the crush of the restaurant and she offers a little wave and Eva nods, offers a little wave back.
“Hey Corrine,” the guy says, “this is Victor Ward—oh, sorry”—the guy catches himself—“I mean Victor Johnson. Victor, this is Corrine.”
“Hey, nice to meet you,” I say, taking Corrine’s hand.
“And this is Lauren Hynde,” the guy says, gesturing toward Eva, who keeps smiling, sitting perfectly still.
“Hi, Lauren, I think we met already,” Corrine says. “At that Kevyn Aucoin benefit? At the Chelsea Piers? Alexander McQueen introduced us. You were being interviewed by MTV. It was a screening of that movie?”
“Oh, right, right, of course,” Eva says. “Yeah. Right. Corrine.”
“Hey, Lauren,” the guy says, a little too shyly.
“Hi, Maxwell,” Eva says with an undercurrent of sexiness.
“How do you guys know each other?” I ask, looking first at Maxwell and then at Eva.
“Lauren and I met at a press junket,” Maxwell explains. “It was in L.A. at the Four Seasons.”
Eva and Maxwell share a private moment. I’m silently retching.
“Popular spot?” Maxwell asks me.
I pause before asking, “Is that a true-or-false?”
“Man, you’re all over the place,” he says, lingering.
“Just fifteen minutes.”
“More like an hour.” Maxwell laughs.
“We’re so sorry about Chloe,” Corrine interrupts.
I nod gravely.
“Are you guys going to that party at Life?” she asks.
“Oh yeah, sure, we’ll be there,” I say vaguely.
Corrine and Maxwell wait at the table while Eva and I stare at them vacantly until they finally realize we’re not going to ask them to join us and then they say goodbye and Maxwell shakes my hand again and they disappear into the throng at the bar and the people waiting there look at Corrine and Maxwell differently now because they stopped at our table, because they gave the illusion that they knew us
“God, I don’t recognize anybody,” I say.
“You have to check those photo books that were given to you,” Eva says. “You need to memorize the faces.”
“I suppose.”
“I’ll test you,” Eva says. “We’ll do it together.”
“I’d like that,” I say.
“And how is Victor Ward?” Eva asks, smiling.
“He’s helping define the decade, baby,” I say sarcastically.
“Significance is rewarded in retrospect,” Eva warns. “I think this is the retrospect, baby.”
We both collapse into major giggling. But then I’m silent, feeling glum, unable to relate. The restaurant is impossibly crowded and things are not as clear as I need them to be. The people who have been waving at our table and making I’ll call you motions saw how Corrine and Maxwell broke the ice and soon they will be all over us. I down another cup of sake.
“Oh, don’t look so sad,” Eva says. “You’re a star.”
“Is it cold in here?” I ask.
“Hey, what’s wrong? You look sad.”
“Is it cold in here?” I ask again, waving away a fly.
“When are you going to Washington?” she finally asks.
“Soon.”
6
0
Jamie told me, “You’re the only sign in the horoscope that’s not a living thing.”
“What do you mean?” I muttered.
“You’re a Libra,” she said. “You’re just a set of scales.”
I was thinking, This is just a fling, right? I was thinking, I want to fuck you again.
“But I thought I was a Capricorn,” I sighed.
We were lying on a field bordered by red and yellow trees and I had my hand thrown up to block my eyes from the sun slanting through the branches, its heat striking my face, and it was September and summer was over and we were lying on the commons lawn and from an open window we could hear someone vomiting in a room on the second floor of Booth House and Pink Floyd—“Us and Them”—was playing from somewhere else and I had taken off my shirt and Jamie had haphazardly rubbed Bain de Soleil all over my back and chest and I was thinking about all the girls I had fucked over the summer, grouping them into pairs, placing them in categories, surprised by the similarities I was finding. My legs had fallen asleep and a girl passing by told me she liked that story I read in a creative writing workshop. I nodded, ignored her, she moved on. I was fingering a condom that was lodged in my pocket. I was making a decision.
“I don’t take that class,” I told Jamie.
“No future, no future, no future—for you,” Jamie half-sang.
And now, in a hotel room in Milan, I remember that I started to cry on the field that day because Jamie told me certain things, whispered them in my ear so matter-of-factly it suggested she really didn’t care who heard: how she wanted to bomb the campus to “kingdom fuck,” how she was the one responsible for her ex-boyfriend’s death, how someone really needed to slit Lauren Hynde’s throat wide open, and she kept admitting these things so casually. Finally Jamie was interrupted by Sean Bateman stumbling over, holding a six-pack of Rolling Rock, and he lay down next to us and kept cracking his knuckles and we all started taking pills and I was lying between Sean and Jamie as they exchanged a glance that meant something secret.
Sean whispered into my ear at one point, “All the boys think she’s a spy.”
“You have potential,” Jamie whispered into my other ear.
Crows, ravens, these flying shadows, were circling above us and above that a small plane flew across the sky, its exhaust fumes forming the Nike logo, and when I finally sat up I stared across the commons and in the distance, the End of the World spread out behind them, was a film crew. It seemed that they were uncertain as to where they were supposed to be heading but when Jamie waved them over they aimed their cameras at where we were lying.
1
The next day production assistants from the French film crew feed me heroin as they fly me into Milan on a private jet someone named Mr. Leisure has supplied, which is piloted by two Japanese men. The plane lands at Linate airport and the PAs check me into the Principe di Savoia on a quiet Friday afternoon in the off-season. I stay locked in a suite, guarded by a twenty-three-year-old Italian named Davide, an Uzi strapped across his chest. The film crew is reportedly staying in the Brera section of town but no one provides me with a phone number or an address and only the director makes contact, every three days or so. One night Davide moves me to the Hotel Diana and the following morning I’m moved back to the Principe di Savoia. I’m told that the crew is now filming exteriors outside La Posta Vecchia. I’m told that they will be leaving Milan within the week. I’m told to relax, to stay beautiful.
2
I call my sister in Washington, D.C.
The first time, her machine picks up. I don’t leave a message.
The second time I call, she answers, but it’s the middle of the night there.
“Sally?” I whisper.
“Hello?”
“Sally?” I whisper. “It’s me. It’s Victor.”
“Victor?” she asks, groaning. “What time is it?”
I don’t know what to say so I hang up.
Later, when I call again, it’s morning in Georgetown.
r /> “Hello?” she answers.
“Sally, it’s me again,” I say.
“Why are you whispering?” she asks, annoyed. “Where are you?”
Hearing her voice, I start crying.
“Victor?” she asks.
“I’m in Milan,” I whisper between sobs.
“You’re where?” she asks.
“I’m in Italy.”
Silence.
“Victor?” she starts.
“Yeah?” I say, wiping my face.
“Is this a joke?”
“No. I’m in Milan .… I need your help.”
She barely pauses before her voice changes and she’s asking, “Whoever this is, I’ve gotta go.”
“No no no no—wait, Sally—”
“Victor, I’m seeing you for lunch at one, okay?” Sally says. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“Sally,” I whisper. “Whoever this is, don’t call back.”
“Wait, Sally—”
She hangs up.
3
Davide is from Legnano, an industrial suburb northwest of Milan, and he has black and golden hair and he keeps eating peppermint candies from a green paper bag as he sits in a little gold chair in the suite at the Principe di Savoia. He tells me he used to be a champagne delivery boy, that he has ties to the Mafia, that his girlfriend is the Italian Winona Ryder. He flares his nostrils and offers penetrating looks. He smokes Newport Lights and sometimes wears a scarf and sometimes doesn’t. Sometimes he lets slip that his real name is Marco. Today he’s wearing a cashmere turtleneck in avocado green. Today he’s playing with a Ping-Pong ball. His lips are so thick it looks as if he were born making out. He plays a computer game, occasionally looking over at the music videos flashing by on MTV-Italia. I gaze at him restlessly from my bed as he keeps posing in place. He makes spit bubbles. Rain outside thrashes against the window and Davide sighs. The ceiling: a blue dome.
4
Another day. Outside, rain pours down continuously, the wrong kind of weather. I’m eating an omelette that Davide ordered up but it has no taste. Davide tells me that his favorite TV newscaster is Simona Ventura and that he met her once at L’Isola. In the suite next to ours a Saudi prince is behaving badly with a beautiful married woman. The director from the French film crew calls. It has been a week since we last spoke.