Glamorama

5

The light outside the house has totally faded and the wind keeps screaming high above the courtyard I'm weaving through, a light rain slapping at my face, and the wind is blowing confetti into piles high against the walls like snowdrifts made up of gold and green and purple paper and there are bicycles I never noticed before lying on their sides, their upended wheels spinning in the wind. And in a corner a vague shape is slumped over and when I freeze, noticing it, the courtyard suddenly becomes quiet, which is my cue to slowly move closer.

Above Jamie's head, another sloppy pentagram and in streaky red letters the words

Disappear

HeRE

An empty Absolut bottle rests by her side and she's sitting propped up, stunned, barely lucid, and when I feel her check it's hot, her face puffy. I crouch down. Her eyes are closed and when she opens them she recognizes me but shows no particular interest and we just stare at each other uncertainly, both with dead eyes. She's wearing a white Gucci pantsuit, the collar lightly spattered with blood, but I can't see any wounds because someone has wrapped her in plastic.

"Jamie . . . are you okay?" I ask hollowly. "Should I get help?"

A shaky sigh. She says something I can barely hear.

"What?" I'm asking. "I can't hear you."

"You're . . . supposed to be . . . at the . . . hotel," she sighs.

"Let me get help—"

"Don't get help," she whispers and then she gestures vaguely to something behind me. I turn, squinting. It's the mattress Tammy Devol was murdered on, half-burned, lying in a blackened clump and dotted with white and silver confetti, in the middle of the courtyard.

"I'll call an ambulance," I'm saying.

"No . . . don't, Victor," she says, her voice muffled.

"I want to help you," I say, straining to sound hopeful.

She grabs my wrists, her face drawn and tense, her eyes half-closed. "Don't. I don't want . . . any . . . help."

"What happened?" I'm asking.

"Totally . . . fucked . . . up," she whispers, smiling.

She starts shrugging, losing interest in me.

"Hey Jamie, talk to me—what happened, what happened here?"

"I . . . watched . . . that scene . . . of you at the embassy," she whispers. "They . . . lied to you, Victor." She keeps shuddering and I'm smoothing confetti out of her hair.

"About what?" I'm asking. "What did they lie about?" My voice is hoarse from screaming and her voice is low, the voice of a ghost, of someone lost in sleep, and from somewhere behind us there's a faint crashing sound in the wind.

"Palakon works against the Japanese," she says in a painful rush. "But he also works . . . for them."

She starts giggling, high, a little girl.

"What Japanese?" I'm asking.

"Everything's . . . connected . . . to the Japanese," she says. "Everything is bought with Japanese money from . . . Japanese banks and they . . . supply everything, Victor." Dreamily she starts a list, offers it entirely without tone.

"Plastique . . . blasting caps . . . digital timers . . .”

"Why Japanese, Jamie?" I ask soothingly, stroking her face.

"Because . . . they want your . . . father elected."

Pause. "They want him elected to . . . what?"

"Palakon is . . . also working . . . against your father," she whispers. "Did you hear me . . . Victor?" She tries to laugh. "Your father hired him . . . but he works against him . . . too."

Wind screams suddenly through the courtyard.

"He's also working for . . . the people who don't"—something slices through her, she shifts—"want your father elected."

"Palakon told me my father hired him, Jamie," I say.

"But Palakon has . . . no affinity she says in a wavery voice. "I watched . . . the tape of that scene at the embassy . . . and he lied. He knew about my connection . . . with Bobby . . . before he sent you. He lied about that."

"Jamie, why did Palakon send me?"

"Your father wanted you . . . out of the country," she says. "Palakon did that . . . but the people who don't want your father elected . . . also were in touch with . . . Palakon and . . . they had something else in mind." She sighs. "A proposal . . ."

"Like what?" I'm asking loudly, over the wind.

"A scenario . . ." Her eyes are drifting, half-closed, but she still manages a shrug.

"What scenario, Jamie?"

She's trying to remember something. "What if you . . . Victor . . . got hooked up with a . . . certain organization . . . and what if this information . . . was leaked? How much could Palakon be paid . . . to take care of that as well? . . . Either way Palakon couldn't lose. He set it all up—"

I wipe away a tear that rolls halfway down her face and the gusting wind causes confetti to swirl wildly everywhere around us.

"How?" I'm asking.

"He offered . . . Palakon offered you to . . . Bobby. They made a . . . deal."

"What deal? Why?"

"Palakon"—she swallows thickly—"had promised Bobby . . . a new face. Bobby wanted a man . . . so Palakon sent you. It fit perfectly. Your father wanted you gone . . . and Bobby needed a new face. Palakon put the two together." She coughs, swallows again. "At first Bobby was mad . . . when he found out it was you. . . . Bobby knew who you were . . . who your father was. He didn't like it."

"I thought Bobby liked using people who were famous," I say. "I thought celebrities had an instant cover."

"Your father . . ." Jamie's shaking her head slowly. "It was too much . . . it made Bobby suspicious. He didn't like it and that's when . . . Bobby was convinced Palakon was working for someone . . . else."

Silence.

"What happened, Jamie?" I ask slowly.

"Bobby realized he could . . . use you to his advantage."

"His advantage? How, Jamie?" Panic starts rising.

"Bobby contacted your—"

"No, no, no," I'm saying, grabbing her shoulders.

"Bobby and your father—"

"No, Jamie, no." I'm closing my eyes.

"Your father and Bobby talked, Victor."

"No . . . no . . ."

Everything's slipping behind me, floating away.

"The Japanese . . . were angry at Bobby when he . . . made a deal with . . . your dad." Jamie breathes in. "They just wanted you gone out of the country . . . but now they had to protect you."

"Why?"

"Because if Bobby . . . went to the press with . . . stuff about you and the things you did with us . . . it would destroy your father's chances." Jamie leans her head back and something passes through her, causing her forehead to crease. "The Japanese . . . want your father . . . to win."

Another gust drowns out a sentence. I lean in closer but she's turning away. I place my ear to her mouth.

"Palakon didn't know . . . what was in the hat, Victor," she says. "That was another lie."

"Then why did he tell me to bring it?" I ask.

"Bobby knew what was in the hat. . . . Bobby told him . . . to tell you to bring it," she says. "Bobby needed someone to bring the . . . Remform over here."

Her voice suddenly turns gentle, curious almost. "Palakon didn't know what was in it . . . until later . . . and then he found out and . . . and . . ."

She trails off. Her eyes open, then close. "The Remform . . . was supposed to come . . . to me."

"Jamie, hey, look at me," I whisper loudly. "How did you get into this? Why did Palakon send me to find you?"

"He knew I was . . . involved with Bobby. Palakon always knew that, Victor . . . okay? Palakon thought it would work to his advantage . . . that you and I knew each other at . . . Camden."

She's drifting.

"Jamie, hey, Jamie." With my hands I gently maneuver her face closer to mine. "Who was Marina Cannon?"

Her face crumples slightly. "She was on the ship . . . to warn you, Victor. . . . You were supposed to go with her."

"What happened, Jamie?"

"Bobby sent people . . . from New York to watch you . . . to make sure you would not go to Paris." She starts crying softly.

"Are you talking about the Wallaces?" I'm asking. "That English couple?"

"I don't know . . . I don't know their names. They got back to us and—"

"The ship stopped, Jamie."

"—Palakon also wanted you to go to London."

"It stopped, Jamie. The ship stopped. They said there was a distress signal."

"I know . . . I know . . .”

"The fucking ship stopped, Jamie," I'm shouting. "In the middle of the ocean it stopped."

"Bobby didn't want you to go to Paris. He didn't want you to come to London either . . . but he definitely didn't want you to go to Paris." She smiles secretly to herself.

"Was it Bobby? Was Bobby on the ship that night?"

"Victor—"

"I saw the tattoo," I shout. "What happened to Marina?"

"I don't know," she mumbles. "I found out after you told me . . . that night in the hotel . . . and I confronted Bobby. He wouldn't say . . . he just wanted the Remform."

"What else did he want?" I ask.

"He wanted you . . . dead."

I close my eyes, don't open them for a long time.

"I don't know . . . " she says. "Bobby thought . . . bringing you in was a bad idea . . . but then he realized he could frame you."

"For Sam Ho's murder?"

She just nods. "And once . . . that happened . . . other ideas emerged."

"What other ideas?"

"Oh Victor . . . " she sighs. "Victor . . . it's all been a setup. Even in New York . . . that girl who died . . . that DJ . . .”

"Mica?" I ask.

"Whoever . . . you went to meet at Fashion Café . . . for a new DJ. Do you remember?"

I nod dumbly even though she's not looking.

"She was killed the night before . . . I saw a report."

"Oh Jesus oh Jesus."

"It was all a setup."

"Whose side are you on, Jamie?" I'm asking.

She smiles and when she smiles her upper lip splits open but there's no blood.

"Who do you work for?"

"It . . . hardly matters . . . now."

"Who did you work for?" I scream, shaking her.

"I was working against . . . Bobby," she mutters. "To do that, Victor . . . I had to work for him."

I pull back, panting.

"I worked for the group . . . Marina worked for . . . and I worked for the group Bobby worked for . . . and I worked for Palakon . . . just like you do—"

"I don't work for Palakon."

"Yes . . . you do." She swallows again with great difficulty. "You have . . . ever since you met him." She starts shivering.

"Jamie, how's Lauren Hynde involved in all this?" I'm asking. "Look at me—how's Lauren Hynde involved? She gave me the hat. I've seen pictures of her with Bobby."

Jamie starts laughing, delirious.

"You remember Lauren Hynde from Camden, right?" I say. "She knows Bobby. She gave me the hat." I pull Jamie closer to my face. "They set me up with her, didn't they?"

"That wasn't . . . Lauren Hynde, Victor." Jamie sighs.

"It was Lauren Hynde," I say. "It was, Jamie."

"You didn't pay . . . attention." She sighs again. "That girl was not Lauren—"

"Jamie, I know that girl," I say. "She's Chloe's best friend. What are you saying?"

"That was someone else." Jamie keeps sighing.

"No, no, no . . ." I'm shaking my head adamantly.

"Lauren Hynde died in . . . December 1985 . . . in a car accident . . . outside Camden, New Hampshire."

She leans into me, lowering her voice, almost as if she's afraid someone is listening, and I'm thinking, She's just a shell, and something huge and shapeless is flying over us in the, darkness, hanging above the courtyard, and a voice says, You all are.

"I've gotta talk to Bobby," I gasp. "Where's Bobby?"

"No, Victor, don't—"

"Where did he go, Jamie? Tell me."

"He went to—" She gasps, rolls her head back. "He was on his way to . . ." She trails off.

"Where is he?" I scream, shaking her.

"He . . . went to Hôtel Costes," she gasps. "To see . . . Chloe."

I stand up and start moaning, the wind stinging my face, and Jamie's saying "Wait, wait, don't" and holding on to my arm, gripping it, but I yank it away.

"Victor . . ."

"I'm leaving." Panic bursts through me, spreading "What do you want, Jamie?"

She says something I can't hear.

Hurriedly I lean in.

"What is it?"

She mumbles something.

"I can't hear you, Jamie," I whisper.

Her last words as she drifts off. "I'm . . . not . . . Jamie Fields," is all she says.

And on cue a giant eruption of flies swarm into the courtyard in one massive black cloud.

4

I run back to the hotel.

I burst through the entrance doors and force myself to walk calmly through the lobby and into an elevator.

Once I reach Chloe's floor I race down the hallway.

I start pounding on her door.

"Chloe? Chloe—are you okay?" I'm calling out, my voice high and girlish. "Open up. Chloe? It's me."

The door opens and Chloe stands there, smiling, wearing a white robe.

"You changed," she says, glancing at Bobby's clothes. "Where's your stuff?"

I push past her and shamble into the room, running through the suite, panicked, not knowing what I'd do if I found him here.

"Who was here?" I'm asking, flinging open the bathroom door.

"Victor, calm down," Chloe says.

"Where is he?" I'm asking, opening a closet door, slamming it shut. "Who was here?"

"Bobby Hughes came over," she says, shivering, sitting down on a high-back chair in front of a desk where she was writing something in a large spiral notebook. She crosses her legs and stares at me sternly.

"What did he want?" I ask, calming down.

"He just wanted to talk." She shrugs. "He wanted to know where you were—”

"What did he say?"

"Victor—"

"Just answer me, goddamnit. What did he say?"

"He wanted to talk," she says, shocked. "He wanted to have some champagne. He brought some by. He said it was to patch things up with you—whatever that means. I said no thank you, of course, and—"

"Did you really?"

A long pause. "I just had half a glass." She sighs. "He wanted me to save it for you. It's over there in the ice bucket."

"And"—I breathe in—"what else?" Relief washes over me so hard that tears blur my vision.

"Nothing. It was fine. He was celebrating—what, I don't know." She pauses, signifying something. "He was sorry he missed you—"

"Yeah, I bet," I mutter.

"Victor, he's . . ." She sighs, then decides to go with it. "He's worried about you."

"I don't care," I say.

"I said he's worried about you," she exclaims.

"Where is he?"

"He had to go," she says, clutching herself, shivering again.

"Where?"

"I don't know, Victor," she says. "There was a party somewhere. There was another party somewhere;"

"What party? Where?" I ask. "It's very important, Chloe."

"I don't know where he went," she says. "Listen, we had some champagne, we chatted briefly and then he went off to a party. What's wrong with you? Why are you so frightened?"

Silence.

"Who was he with, baby?" I ask.

"He was with a friend," she says. "Someone who looked like Bruce Rhinebeck but I don't think it was Bruce."

A long pause. I'm just standing in the middle of the suite, my arms at my sides. "Bruce Rhinebeck?"

"Yeah, it was weird. He kind of looked like Bruce. But something was off about the guy. The hair was different or something." She grimaces, rubs her stomach. "The guy said his name was Bruce but he didn't give a last name, so who knows, right?"

I'm just standing there.

"This isn't happening," I murmur.

Bruce Rhinebeck is dead.

"What's not happening?" she asks, annoyed.

Bruce Rhinebeck was defusing a bomb in an apartment on Quai de Béthune, and Bruce Rhinebeck is dead.

"That wasn't Bruce Rhinebeck, baby."

"Well, it looked like Bruce Rhinebeck," Chloe says. This sounds too harsh and she moves into a gentler mode. "That's all I'm saying, okay? Victor, just calm down." She grimaces again.

I start pulling luggage out of the closet.

She turns around. "What are you doing?"

"We're getting out of here," I say, throwing the Gucci luggage on the bed. "Now."

"Out of where, Victor?" Chloe asks impatiently, shifting around in the chair.

"Out of Paris," I say. "We're going back to New York."

"Victor, I have shows tomor—"

"I don't care," I shout. "We're getting the hell out of here."

"Victor, I'm worried about you too," she says. "Sit down for a minute. I want to talk."

"No, no—I don't want to talk," I'm saying. "I just want to get out of here."

"Stop it," she says, doubling over. "Just sit down."

"Chloe—"

"I have to use the bathroom," she says. "But don't pack anything. I want to talk to you."

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"I don't feel well," she mutters.

"Did you eat anything?" I ask, suddenly concerned.

"No, I just had that champagne."

I glance over at the ice bucket, at the bottle of Cristal lodged in it, the empty champagne flute sitting on the desk.

She gets up from the desk. I watch her.

She brushes past me.

I'm staring at the glass and then I'm moving toward it.

Looking down into the glass, I notice granules of some kind.

And then I'm looking down at something else.

On the chair where Chloe was sitting is a huge bloodstain.

I'm staring at it.

And then I'm saying, "Chloe?"

She turns around and says, "Yeah?"

And I don't want her to see how scared I suddenly am but then she sees where my gaze is directed.

She starts breathing harshly. She looks down at herself

The entire bottom half of her robe is soaked dark red with blood.

"Chloe . . . " I say again.

She staggers over to the bathroom door and grabs the edge of it to balance herself and blood starts running down her legs in thin rivulets and when she lifts up the robe we both can see her underwear soaked with blood and she pulls it off, panicking, and suddenly a huge gush of blood expels itself from beneath the robe, splashing all over the bathroom floor.

She gasps, a thick noise comes out of her throat and she doubles over, grabbing her stomach, then she screams. Looking surprised and still clutching her stomach, she vomits while staggering backward, collapsing onto the bathroom floor. There are strands of tissue hanging out of her.

"Chloe," I scream.

She starts scrambling across the bathroom floor, leaving a trail, a drag mark of dark red blood.

I'm crawling with her in the bathroom and she's making harsh panting sounds, sliding across the tiles toward the bathtub.

Another spray of blood comes out of her, along with a horrible ripping sound. She raises up a hand, screaming, and I'm holding on to her and I can feel the screams buzzing through her, followed by another squelching, ripping noise.

In the bathroom I grab the phone and push zero.

"Help us," I'm screaming. "Someone's dying up here. I'm in Chloe Byrnes' room and you've got to send an ambulance. She's bleeding to death—oh fucking god she's bleeding to death—”

Silence and then a voice asks, "Mr. Ward?"

It's the director's voice.

"Mr. Ward?" it asks again.

"No! No! No!"

"We'll be right up, Mr. Ward."

The line goes dead.

Bursting into tears, I hurl the phone away from me.

I run out of the bathroom but on the phone by the bed there's no dial tone.

Chloe's calling my name.

From where I'm standing the entire bathroom floor seems washed with blood, as if something within her had liquefied.

Blood keeps fanning out from between her legs and some of it looks sandy, granular. A thick ring of flesh slides across the floor as Chloe cries out in pain and she keeps crying as I hold her and then she bursts into a series of hysterical, exhausted sobs and I'm telling her everything will be okay, tears pouring from my eyes. Another long crooked rope of flesh falls out of her.

"Victor! Victor!" she screams madly, her skin yellowing, her screams turning liquid, her mouth opening and closing.

I press a towel against her vagina, trying to stem the bleeding, but the towel is drenched in a matter of seconds. She keeps making harsh panting sounds, then defecates loudly, arching her back, another piece of flesh lurching out of her, followed by another rush of blood that splashes onto the floor.

There is warm blood all over my hands and I'm yelling out, "Baby please it's okay baby please it's okay baby—"

Another explosion of blood pours from between her legs, sickeningly hot, her eyes bulging, another giant intake of breath, and I can actually hear the horrible sounds coming from inside her body. Another harsh, startling yell.

"Make it stop oh god make it stop," she screams, begging me, and I'm sobbing, hysterical too.

Another chunk of flesh, white and milky, spews out. After the next flash of pain cuts through her she can't even form words anymore.

She's finally relaxing, trying to smile at me, but she's grimacing, her teeth stained with blood, the entire inside of her mouth coated violet, and she's whispering things, one hand tightly clasping mine while the other pounds spastically against the tiled floor, and the bathroom reeks powerfully of her blood, and as I'm holding Chloe, her eyes fix on mine and I'm sobbing, "I'm sorry baby I'm so sorry baby," and there is surprise in those eyes as she realizes how imminent her death actually is and I'm lapsing in and out of focus, disappearing, and she starts making animal noises and she's sagging in my arms and then her eyes roll back and she dies and her face turns white very quickly and slackens and the world retires from me and I quit everything as water the color of lavender keeps streaming out of her.

I shut my eyes and clap my hands over my ears as the film crew rushes into the room.

3

We're on a motorway. In a large van. We're heading toward the airport. The driver is the best boy from the French film crew. I'm catatonic, lying on the floor of the van surrounded by camera equipment, the legs of my pants sticky with Chloe's blood, and sometimes what's outside the windows of the van is just blackness, and other times it's a desert, maybe somewhere outside L.A., and other times it's a matte screen, sometimes electric blue, sometimes blinding white. Sometimes the van stops, then revs up and starts accelerating. Sometimes technicians are shouting orders into walkie-talkies.

The director sits in the front passenger seat, going over call sheets.

On the dashboard is an Uzi submachine gun.

There's one interlude that plays itself out very quickly on the ride to the airport.

It starts with a warning call from the driver, who is glancing anxiously into the rearview mirror.

A black truck is following us on the motorway.

The first AD and the gaffer crouch down by the rear windows, both of them holding Uzis.

They take aim.

The black truck revs up and starts pounding down on us.

The air inside the van suddenly feels radioactive.

The van shudders violently as it's hit by bullets.

Tiny rapid flashes of light exit the barrels of the Uzis the first AD and the gaffer are aiming at the black truck, which keeps racing defiantly toward us.

I try to balance myself as the van lurches forward.

The black truck's windshield shatters, crumples.

The truck veers to the right and collides with several cars.

The black truck quietly careens off the motorway and overturns.

The van guns its engine, racing away.

Two seconds later a large fireball appears behind us.

I'm lying on the floor, panting, until the property master and a PA lift me up so that I'm facing the director.

Outside, it's a desert again and I'm moaning.

The van swerves into another lane.

The director pulls a pistol from inside his jacket.

I just stare at it.

The only thing that wakes me is the director saying, "We know where Bobby Hughes is."

And then I'm lunging for the gun, grabbing it, checking to see if it's loaded, but the PA pulls me back and I'm told to calm down and the director takes the gun from my hands.

"Bobby Hughes is trying to kill you," the director is saying.

The property master is securing a knife sheath around my calf. A large silver blade with a black handle is slipped into it. The Prada slacks I'm wearing are pulled down over the sheath.

The director is telling me they would like to see Bobby Hughes dead. I'm being asked if this is a "possibility."

I'm nodding mindlessly. I keep moaning with anticipation.

And then we can smell the jet-fuel fumes everywhere and the driver brakes the van to a hard stop, tires screeching, jerking us all forward.

"He needs to be stopped, Victor," the director says.

After the gun is slipped into my jacket I'm sliding out of the van and the crew is following me, cameras rolling, and we're racing into the airport. Over the sound track: the noise of planes taking off.

2

The crew direct me to a men's room on the first concourse and I'm running toward the door, slamming against it with my shoulder, and the door flies open and I stumble inside. The men's room has already been lit, but not for the scene Bobby was expecting.

Bobby's standing at a sink, inspecting his face in a mirror.

I'm screaming as I run toward him at full sprint, my fist raised, the gun in it.

Bobby turns, sees me, sees the crew following me, and his face seizes with shock and he screams, enraged, "You fucks!" and raising his voice even higher, yells again. "You total fucks!"

He pulls out a gun that I knock out of his hand and it slides across the tiled floor under a sink, and Bobby's ducking instinctively as I throw myself forward into him, grabbing at his face, screaming.

He reaches out and pulls my head back and slams into me so hard I'm lifted off the ground and thrown against a tiled wall and then I'm sliding to the floor, coughing.

Bobby staggers back, then reaches out and grabs the lower part of my face.

I suddenly raise an arm, slamming my hand into his mouth, and he reels backward, turning a corner, skidding.

I lurch forward and slam him into a wall. I push the gun into his face, screaming, "I'm going to kill you!"

He swipes at the gun.

I pull the trigger—a bullet opens up a giant hole in the tiled wall behind him. I fire again—four, five, six times, until the gun is empty and the wall is blown apart.

Bobby stops cowering, looks up, first at the empty gun I'm holding and then at my face.

"Fuck you!" he screams, rocketing forward.

He grabs my collar, then clumsily attempts to get me into a headlock. I shove the hand that's holding the gun under his chin, pushing him away. He moves his head back, my hand slipping off. I try again, this time with the other hand and harder, and my fist connects with his chin. When Bobby lets go he tears my shirt open and he lunges forward again, grabbing my shoulders and bringing my face up to his.

"You . . . are . . . dead," he says, his voice low and hoarse.

It's like we're dancing, colliding with each other before we crash into a wall, almost knocking over the cameraman.

We keep hugging each other until Bobby maneuvers around and smashes my face against a wall-length mirror, once, twice, my head impacting against it until the mirror cracks and I fall to my knees, something warm spreading across my face.

Bobby staggers away, looking for his gun.

I lurch up, blinking blood out of my eyes.

A gaffer tosses me a clip to reload with.

I catch it and then slam Bobby back against a stall door. I duck as his fist comes flying toward me, Bobby leaping on me like we're in a mosh pit, his face completely tensed up, and he's slapping at me madly, out of control.

He slams my head against a urinal and then grabs my scalp and shoves my head down as he brings his knee up into it, my forehead connecting, my neck snapping violently.

Bobby pulls me back and starts dragging me across the tiled floor to where his gun rests, now next to the trash can.

"Get it—get his gun," I'm screaming at the crew as Bobby keeps hauling me across the floor.

Desperately, I grab for a stall door handle, hanging on to it.

Bobby grunts, reaches down and grabs the waistband of the Prada slacks I'm wearing and pulls me up until I'm standing with him and then both of us are tumbling backward.

I land on top of him, then roll over, get on one knee and stand up, then run into a stall, slamming and locking the door so I can slip the new clip into the gun but Bobby tears the door off its hinges and throws me out, hurling me against a sink, my hand trying to block the force of impact, and then I'm smashing into the mirror above the sink, shattering it, the clip slipping from my gun.

I shove away from him but Bobby's scratching at my face now and I'm lashing out blindly. Again we both fall, sprawling, the gun knocked out of my hand, skidding along the icy floor, and when I spot Bobby's gun under the sink I reach out but his boot is suddenly on my hand, crushing it, and a giant bolt of pain causes me to become more alert.

Then another boot is on my head, grinding into my temple, and I flip over and grab Bobby's foot, twisting until he loses his balance and slips, falling on his back.

Staggering to my feet, I regain my footing and reach for his gun.

I point the barrel where he's lying on the floor but Bobby kicks out a leg, knocking the gun from my hand.

He lunges up and knocks me back, slamming into my side, and I'm not prepared for the ferocity of Bobby's fist connecting with the side of my head and there's a cracking sound and as he lurches toward me he grabs my throat with both hands, pushing me to the floor.

He's straddling me, shutting off my windpipe, and I'm making choking sounds, both of Bobby's hands clamping my throat even tighter.

And he's grinning, his teeth stained red with blood.

I shove one hand under his chin, trying to push him off.

With one hand crushing my neck, he easily reaches over and grabs his gun.

I'm kicking out, unable to move, my hands pounding the tiled floor.

Bobby holds the gun at chest level, riding me, the barrel tilted toward my face.

I try to scream, lashing my head back and forth.

He pulls the trigger.

I close my eyes.

Nothing.

He pulls it again.

Nothing. For a second we're both still.

And then I spring up yelling and I hit Bobby hard, knocking him backward.

He goes sprawling, blood jetting from his nostrils.

I'm sitting on the floor, looking around madly for my gun and the new clip.

I spot them under the sink, a few feet away.

I start crawling toward them.

Standing, turning in a circle, Bobby reaches into his jacket for a new clip and quickly reloads.

I reach under the sink and slip in the clip, tensing up, closing my eyes.

Bobby fires. A bullet splinters another mirror above me.

He fires again, missing, the bullet thudding into the wall behind me. Tile explodes next to my face as he keeps firing.

I roll over onto my side, aiming at him.

"No!" he cries, falling to the floor, crouching down.

I pull the trigger, screaming while firing.

Nothing.

Bobby's gun is jammed, not firing, and I realize, too late, that somehow the safety on mine got switched on.

He's running at me.

Fumbling, I drop the gun and, still on my back, pull my pant leg up.

Bobby tosses his gun away and shouts out, scrambling toward where I'm lying on the floor.

I pull the knife up out of its sheath.

Bobby sees the knife before he falls on me, and tries to turn away.

I bury the blade in his shoulder to the hilt.

He screams, rolling over.

I yank the knife out, weeping, and when I plunge it into his throat Bobby's expression turns surprised and his face tightens up.

Bobby pushes himself away, making hissing noises, a thick stream of blood squirting out of the wound in his throat, which gets bigger, gaping, as he staggers back.

His knees buckle and he keeps trying to close the wound with his hands, but he can't breathe.

I start inching toward a gun, my hand reaching out until it lands on the smooth, cold metal.

Wincing, I struggle into a sitting position.

The crew keeps filming, moving in as Bobby bleeds to death.

Swooning with pain, I stagger up and aim the gun at his head.

"Ith too laye," he gasps, blood pumping out of his throat in arcs as he manages to grin. "Ith too laye."

I check the safety.

And when I fire at close range it knocks me back, hard.

I stagger toward the exit. I look back and where Bobby's head was there is now just a slanted pile of bone and brain and tissue.

The director is helping me into the production office that has been set up in a first-class lounge, because he wants to show me something on the video console. The crew is high-fiving one another, preparing to clean up.

I wince when the director grabs my arm.

"Don't worry, nothing's broken," the director says, excited. "You're just badly bruised."

1

I'm sitting on a couch by a bank of windows while the crew's doctor wraps my fingers with bandages, applies alcohol to disinfect various wounds, and I'm whispering "Everyone's dead" to myself and a video monitor has been wheeled over to where I'm sitting and the director takes a seat next to me.

"Everyone's dead," I say again, in a monotone. "I think Jamie Fields is dead."

"Don't rush to conclusions." The director brushes me off, peering at another console.

"She was wrapped in plastic and dying," I murmur.

"But her death wasn't in vain," the director says.

"Oh?" I'm asking.

"She tipped you off," the director explains. "She saved lives. She saved an airliner."

As if to remind me, the director hands me the printout I took from the computer in the house in the 8th or the 16th.

WINGS. NOV 15. BAND ON THE RUN. 1985. 511.

"Victor," the director says. "Watch this. It's rough and certain elements have to be edited out, but just watch."

He pulls the console closer and black-and-white video images, hastily shot with handheld cameras, flash across the monitor, but I'm zoning out on the month I grew a goatee after reading an article about them in Young Guy magazine, the afternoon I debated for hours the best angle a new designer beret should be tilted on my head, the various bodies I rejected because the girl didn't have any tits, she wasn't "toned" enough, she wasn't "hard" enough, was "too old" or not "famous" enough, how I waved hi to a model who kept calling my name from across First Avenue and all the CDs you bought because movie stars in VIP rooms late at night told you that the bands were cool. "You were never taught what shame means, Victor," said a girl I didn't think was hot enough to lay but who I otherwise thought was pretty nice. "Like I care," I told her before I walked into a Gap. I'm vaguely aware that my entire body has fallen asleep.

On the video monitor, soldiers storm a plane.

"Who are . . . they?" I ask, vaguely gesturing.

"French commandos along with the occasional CIA agent," the director says blithely.

"Oh," I say in a soft voice.

Delta and Crater find what they think is a bomb in the first-class cabin and begin to dismantle it.

but it's not really a bomb, it's a decoy, the agents are on the wrong plane, there's a bomb on a plane but not this one, what they found isn't really a bomb because this is the movie and those are actors and the real bomb is on a different plane

The extras playing passengers are streaming out of the plane and they're congratulating the commandos and shaking hands with Delta and Crater, and paparazzi have arrived at the gate, snapping photos of these men who saved the plane. And when I notice Bertrand Ripleis playing one of the commandos in the background of a shot I start breathing harder.

"No," I'm saying, realizing something. "No, no, this is wrong."

"What?" the director asks, distracted. "What do you mean? What's wrong?"

Bertrand Ripleis is smiling, looking straight into the camera, almost as if he knows I'm watching this. He's anticipating my surprise and the moans that start emanating from within me.

I know who you are and I know what you're doing

"The bomb isn't on that plane," I'm saying.

I glance down at the WINGS printout, crumpled in my hands.

BAND ON THE RUN

1985

511

"It's a song . . . ," I'm saying.

"What do you mean?" the director asks.

"It's a song," I'm saying. "It's not a flight."

"What's a song?"

"The song," I'm saying. "It's a song called '1985.'" "It's a song?" the director asks. He doesn't understand.

"It's on a Wings album," I'm saying. "It's on the Band on the Run album."

"And?" the director asks, confused.

"It's not a flight number," I'm saying.

"What isn't?"

"Five-one-one," I say.

"Five-one-one isn't the flight number?" the director asks. "But this is it." The director gestures toward the video screen. "That's flight five-one-one.

"No," I'm saying. "It's how long the song is." I take in a deep breath, exhaling shakily. "That song is five minutes and eleven seconds long. It's not a flight number."

And in another sky, another plane is reaching cruising altitude.

0

Night over France, and a giant shadow, a monstrous backdrop, is forming itself in the sky as the 747 approaches 17,000 feet, climbing to cruising altitude. The camera moves in on an airmail parcel bearing a Georgetown address, in which a Toshiba cassette player has been packed. The device will be activated as the opening piano notes to the song "1985" by Paul McCartney and Wings (Band on the Run; Apple Records; 1973) start playing. The bomb will detonate on the final crashing cymbal of the song—five minutes and eleven seconds after it began. A relatively simple microchip timer and strips of Remform equaling twenty ounces are in the Toshiba cassette player, and the parcel has been placed near the skin of the plane, where it will break through the fuselage, weakening the frame, causing the plane to break apart with greater ease. The plane is traveling at 3 5 0 miles an hour and is now at an altitude of 14,500 feet.

A giant crunching sound interrupts the pilot's conversation over the cockpit recording.

A violent noise, a distinct crashing sound, is followed by massive creaking, which rapidly starts repeating itself.

Smoke immediately starts pouring into the main cabin.

The front end of the 747—including the cockpit and part of the first-class cabin—breaks away, plunging toward earth as the rest of the plane hurtles forward, propelled by the still intact engines. A complete row near the explosion—the people strapped in those seats screaming—is sucked out of the aircraft.

This goes on for thirty seconds, until the plane starts breaking apart, a huge section of ceiling ripping away to reveal a wide vista of black sky.

And with its engines still running, the plane keeps flying but then drops three thousand feet.

The noise the air makes is like a siren.

Bottles of liquor, utensils, food from the kitchen—all fly backward into the business-class and coach cabins.

And the dying comes in waves.

People are rammed backward, bent in half, pulled up out of their seats, teeth are knocked out of heads, people are blinded, their bodies thrown through the air into the ceiling and then hurled into the back of the plane, smashing into other screaming passengers, as shards of aluminum keep breaking off the fuselage, spinning into the packed plane and shearing off limbs, and blood's whirling everywhere, people getting soaked with it, spitting it out of their mouths, trying to blink it out of their eyes, and then a huge chunk of metal flies into the cabin and scalps an entire row of passengers, shearing off the tops of their skulls, as another shard flies into the face of a young woman, halving her head but not killing her yet.

The problem is that so many people are not ready to die, and they start vomiting with panic and fear as the plane drops another thousand feet.

Something else within the plane breaks.

In the next moment, another roar as the plane starts breaking up more rapidly and the dying comes in waves.

Someone is spun around frantically before being sucked out of the hull of the craft, twirling into the air, his body hitting the frame and tearing in two, but he's still able to reach out his hands for help as he's sucked screaming from the plane. Another young man keeps shouting "Mom Mom Mom" until part of the fuselage flies backward, pinning him to his seat and ripping him in half, but he just goes into shock and doesn't die until the plane smashes haphazardly into the forest below and the dying comes in waves.

In the business section everyone is soaked with blood, someone's head is completely encased with intestines that flew out of what's left of the woman sitting two rows in front of him and people are screaming and crying uncontrollably, wailing with grief.

The dying are lashed with jet fuel as it starts spraying into the cabin.

One row is sprayed with the blood and viscera of the passengers in the row before them, who have been sliced in two.

Another row is decapitated by a huge sheet of flying aluminum, and blood keeps whirling throughout the cabin everywhere, mixing in with the jet fuel.

The fuel unleashes something, forces the passengers to comprehend a simple fact: that they have to let people go—mothers and sons, parents and children, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives—and that dying is inevitable in what could be a matter of seconds. They realize there is no hope. But understanding this horrible death just stretches the seconds out longer as they try to prepare for it-people still alive being flung around the aircraft falling to earth, screaming and vomiting and crying involuntarily, bodies contorted while they brace themselves, heads bowed down.

"Why me?" someone wonders uselessly.

A leg is caught in a tangle of metal and wires and it waves wildly in the air as the plane continues to drop.

Of the three Camden graduates aboard the 747—Amanda Taylor ('86), Stephanie Meyers ('87) and Susan Goldman ('86)—Amanda is killed first when she's struck by a beam that crashes through the ceiling of the plane, her son reaching out to her as he's lifted out of his seat into the air, his arms outstretched as his head mercifully smashes against an overhead bin in the craft, killing him instantly.

Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she braces herself but changes her mind as she's sprayed with burning jet fuel.

The plane ignites and a huge wave of people die by inhaling flames, their mouths and throats and lungs charred black.

For some, a minute of falling while still conscious.

Onto a forest situated just seventy miles outside Paris.

The soft sounds of bodies imploding, torn apart on impact.

A massive section of the fuselage lands and because of an emergency backup system, all the lights in the plane continue flickering as a hail of glowing ash rains down.

A long pause.

The bodies lie clustered in clumps. Some—but very few—of the passengers have no marks on them, even though all their bones have been broken. Some passengers have been crushed to half or a third or even a quarter of their normal size. One man has been so compressed he resembles some kind of human bag, a shape with a vague head attached to it, the face pushed in and stark white. Other passengers have been mutilated by shrapnel, some so mangled that men and women become indistinguishable, all of them naked, their clothes blown off on the downward fall, some of them flash-burned.

And the smell of rot is everywhere-coming off dismembered feet and arms and legs and torsos propped upright, off piles of intestines and crushed skulls, and the heads that are intact have screams etched across their faces. And the trees that don't burn will have to be felled to extract airplane pieces and to recover the body parts that ornament them, yellow strings of fatty tissue draped over branches, a macabre tinsel. Stephanie Meyers is still strapped in her seat, which hangs from one of those trees, her eyeballs burned out of their sockets. And since a cargo of party confetti and gold glitter—two tons of it—were being transported to America, millions of tiny dots of purple and green and pink and orange paper cascade over the carnage.

This is what makes up the forest now: thousands of steel rivets, the unbroken door of the plane, a row of cabin windows, huge sheets of insulation, life jackets, giant clumps of wiring, rows of empty seat cushions—belts still fastened—shredded and covered with blood and matted with viscera, and some of the seat backs have passengers' impressions burned into them. Dogs and cats lie crushed in their kennels.

For some reason the majority of passengers on this flight were under thirty, and the debris reflects this: cell phones and laptops and Ray-Ban sunglasses and baseball caps and pairs of Rollerblades tied together and camcorders and mangled guitars and hundreds of CDs and fashion magazines (including the YouthQuake with Victor Ward on the cover) and entire wardrobes of Calvin Klein and Armani and Ralph Lauren hang from burning trees and there's a teddy bear soaked with blood and a Bible and various Nintendo games along with rolls of toilet paper and shoulder bags and engagement rings and pens and belts whipped off waists and Prada purses still clasped and boxes of Calvin Klein boxer-briefs and so many clothes from the Gap contaminated with blood and other body fluids and everything reeks of aviation fuel.

The only things that suggest living: a wind billows across the wreckage, the moon rises into an expanse of sky so dark it's almost abstract, confetti and glitter continue raining down. Aviation fuel starts burning the trees in the forest, the word CANCELED appears on a big black arrival board at JFK airport in New York, and the next morning, as the sun rises gently over cleanup crews, church bells start ringing and psychics start calling in with tips and then the gossip begins.

5

9

I'm walking through Washington Square Park, carrying a Kenneth Cole leather portfolio that holds my lawbooks and a bottle of Evian water. I'm dressed casually, in Tommy Hilfiger jeans, a camel-hair sweater, a wool overcoat from Burberrys. I'm stepping out of the way of Rollerbladers and avoiding clusters of Japanese NYU film students shooting movies. From a nearby boom box Jamaican trip-hop plays, from another boom box the Eagles' "New Kid in Town," and I'm smiling to myself. My beeper keeps going off. Chris Cuomo keeps calling, as does Alison Poole, whom I rather like and plan to see later this evening. On University, I run into my newly appointed guru and spiritual adviser, Deepak. Deepak is wearing a Donna Karan suit and Diesel sunglasses, smoking a cigar. "Partagas Perfecto," he purrs in a distinct Indian accent. I purr back "Hoo-ha" admiringly. We exchange opinions about a trendy new restaurant (oh, there are so many) and the upcoming photo shoot I'm doing for George magazine, how someone's AIDS has gone into remission, how someone's liver disease has been cured, the exorcism of a haunted town house in Gramercy Park, the evil spirits that were flushed out by the goodwill of angels.

"That's so brill, man," I'm saying. "That's so genius."

"You see that bench?" Deepak says.

"Yes," I say.

"You think it's a bench," Deepak says. "But it isn't."

I smile patiently.

"It's also you," Deepak says. "You, Victor, are also that bench."

Deepak bows slightly.

"I know I've changed," I tell Deepak. "I'm a different person now."

Deepak bows slightly again.

"I am that bench," I hear myself say.

"You see that pigeon?" Deepak asks.

"Baby, I've gotta run," I interrupt. "I'll catch you later."

"Don't fear the reaper, Victor," Deepak says, walking away.

I'm nodding mindlessly, a vacant grin pasted on my face, until I turn around and mutter to myself, "I am the fucking reaper, Deepak," and a pretty girl smiles at me from underneath an awning and it's Wednesday and late afternoon and getting dark.

8

After a private workout with Reed, my personal trainer, I take a shower in the Philippe Starck locker room and as I'm standing in front of a mirror, a white Ralph Lauren towel wrapped around my waist, I notice Reed standing behind me, wearing a black Helmut Lang leather jacket. I'm swigging from an Evian bottle. I'm rubbing Clinique turnaround lotion into my face. I just brushed past a model named Mark Vanderloo, who recited a mininarrative about his life that was of no interest to me. A lounge version of "Wichita Lineman" is piped through the gym's sound system and I'm grooving out on it in my own way.

"What's up?" I ask Reed.

"Buddy?" Reed says, his voice thick.

"Yeah?" I turn around.

"Give Reed a hug."

A pause in which to consider things. To wipe my hands on the towel wrapped around my waist.

"Why . . . man?"

"Because you've really come a long way, man," Reed says, his voice filled with emotion. "It's weird but I'm really choked up by all you've accomplished."

"Hey Reed, I couldn't have done it without you, man," I'm saying. "You deserve a bonus. You really got me into shape."

"And your attitude is impeccable," Reed adds.

"No more drinking binges, I've cut down on partying, law school's great, I'm in a long-term relationship." I slip on a Brooks Brothers T-shirt. "I've stopped seriously deluding myself and I'm rereading Dostoyevsky. I owe it all to you, man."

Reed's eyes water.

"And you stopped smoking," Reed says.

"Yep."

"And your body fat's down to seven percent."

"Oh man."

"You're the kind of guy, Victor, that makes this job worthwhile." Reed chokes back a sob. "I mean that."

"I know, man." I rest a hand on his shoulder.

As Reed walks me out onto Fifth Avenue he asks, "How's that apple diet working out?"

"Great," I say, waving down a cab. "My girlfriend says my seminal fluid tastes sweeter."

"That's cool, man," Reed says.

I hop into a cab.

Before the door closes, Reed leans in and, offering his hand after a pause, says, "I'm sorry about Chloe, man."

7

After some impassioned clothing removal I'm sucking lightly on Alison's breasts and I keep looking up at her, making eye contact, rolling my tongue across her nipples and holding on to her breasts, applying slight pressure but not squeezing them, and she keeps sighing , content. Afterwards Alison admits she never faked an orgasm for my benefit. We're lying on her bed, the two dogs—Mr. and Mrs. Chow—snuggled deeply in the folds of a neon-pink comforter at our feet, and I'm running my hands through their fur. Alison's talking about Aerosmith as a Joni Mitchell CD plays throughout the room at low volume.

"Steven Tyler recently admitted that his first wet dream was about Jane Fonda." Alison sighs, sucks in on a joint I didn't hear her light. "How old does that make him?"

I keep stroking Mr. Chow, scratching his ears, both his eyes shut tight with pleasure. "I want a dog," I murmur. "I want a pet."

"You used to hate these dogs," Alison says. "What do you mean, a pet? The only pet you ever owned was the Armani eagle."

"Yeah, but I changed my mind."

"I think that's good," Alison says genuinely.

A long pause. The dogs reposition themselves, pressing in close to me.

"I hear you're seeing Damien tomorrow," Alison says.

I stiffen up a little. "Do you care?"

"What are you seeing him about?" she asks.

"I'm telling him"—I sigh, relax—"I'm telling him that I can't open this club with him. Law school's just too . . . time-consuming."

I take the joint from Alison. Inhale, exhale.

"Do you care?" I ask. "I mean, about Damien?"

"No," she says. "I've totally forgiven Damien. And though I really can't stand Lauren Hynde, compared to most of the other wenches that cling to guys in this town she's semi-acceptable."

"Is this on the record?" I grin.

"Did you know she's a member of WANAH?" Alison asks. "That new feminist group?"

"What's WANAH?"

"It's an acronym for We Are Not A Hole," she sighs. "We also share the same acupuncturist." Alison pauses. "Some things are unavoidable."

"I suppose so." I'm sighing too.

"And she's also a member of PETA," Alison says, "so I can't totally hate her. Even if she was—even if she is—fucking what was once my fiancé."

"What's PETA?" I ask, interested.

"People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals." Alison slaps me playfully. "You should know that, Victor."

"Why should I know that?" I ask. "Ethical treatment of . . . animals ?"

"It's very simple, Victor," she says. "We want a world where animals are treated as well as humans are."

I just stare at her. "And . . . you don't think that's . . . happening?"

"Not when animals are being killed as indiscriminately as they are now. No."

"I see."

"There's a meeting on Friday at Asia de Cuba," Alison says. "Oliver Stone, Bill Maher, Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger, Grace Slick, Noah Wyle, Mary Tyler Moore. Alicia Silverstone's reading a speech that Ellen DeGeneres wrote." Alison pauses. "Moby's the DJ."

"Everyone will be wearing camouflage pants, right?" I ask. "And plastic shoes? And talking about how great fake meat tastes?"

"Oh, what's that supposed to mean?" she snaps, rolling her eyes, distinctly less mellow.

"It doesn't mean anything."

"If you heard about leg-hold traps, the torture of baby minks, the maiming of certain rabbits—not to even mention medical experiments done on totally innocent raccoons and lynxes-my god, Victor, you'd wake up."

"Uh-huh," I say. "Oh baby," I mutter.

"It's animal abuse and you're just lying there."

"Honey, they save chickens."

"They have no voice, Victor."

"Baby, they're chickens."

"You try seeing the world through the eyes of an abused animal," she says.

"Baby, I was a model for many years," I say. "I did. I have."

"Oh, don't be so flippant," she moans.

"Alison," I say, sitting up a little. "They also want to protect fruits and vegetables, okay?"

"What's wrong with that?" she asks. "It's eco-friendly."

"Baby, peaches don't have mothers."

"They have skin, Victor, and they have flesh."

"I just think you're reality-challenged."

"Who isn't?" She waves me away. "Animals need as much love and respect and care as we give people."

I consider this. I think about all the things I've seen and done, and I consider this.

"I think they're better off without that, baby," I say. "In fact I think they're doing okay."

I'm hard again and I roll on top of her.

Later, afterwards, Alison asks me something. "Did Europe change you, Victor?"

"Why?" I ask sleepily.

"Because you seem different," she says softly. "Did it?"

"I guess," I say after a long pause.

"How?" she asks.

"I'm less . . ." I stop. "I'm less . . . I don't know."

"What happened over there, Victor?"

Carefully, I ask her, "What do you mean?"

She whispers back, "What happened over there?"

I'm silent, contemplating an answer, petting the chows. One licks my hand.

"What happened to Chloe over there, Victor?" Alison whispers.

6

At Industria for the George magazine photo shoot I can't fathom why the press is making such a big deal about this. Simple before-and-after shots. Before: I'm holding a Bass Ale, wearing Prada, a goatee pasted on my face, a grungy expression, eyes slits. After: I'm carrying a stack of lawbooks and wearing a Brooks Brothers seersucker suit, a bottle of Diet Coke in my left hand, Oliver Peoples wireframes. THE TRANSFORMATION OF VICTOR WARD (UH, WE MEAN JOHNSON) is the headline on the cover for the January issue. The photo shoot was supposed to be outside St. Albans in Washington, D.C.-a school I had sampled briefly before being expelled-but Dad nixed it. He has that kind of clout. The Dalai Lama shows up at Industria, and I'm shaking hands with Chris Rock, and one of Harrison Ford's sons-an intern at George-is milling about, along with various people who resigned from the Clinton administration, and MTV's covering the shoot for "The Week in Rock" and a VJ's asking me questions about the Impersonators' new huge contract with DreamWorks and how I feel about not being in the band anymore and I give a cute sound bite by saying, "Law school's easier than being in that band," and it's all very Eyes of Laura Mars but it's also faux-subdued because everyone's very respectful of what happened to Chloe.

John F. Kennedy, Jr., who's really just another gorgeous goon, is shaking my hand and he's saying things like "I'm a big fan of your dad's" and I'm saying "Yeah?" and though I'm basically calm and amused, there's one awkward moment when someone who went to Camden accosts me and I simply can't place him. But I'm vague enough that he can't become suspicious and then he simply slouches away, giving up.

"Hey!" An assistant with a cell phone rushes over to where I'm standing. "Someone wants to talk to you."

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Chelsea Clinton wants to say hi," the assistant pants.

I take the phone from the assistant. Over static I hear Chelsea ask, "Is it really you?"

"Yeah." I'm grinning "sheepishly." I'm blushing, "red-faced."

A Eureka moment handled suavely.

I find it a little difficult to relax once the photo session starts.

The photographer says, "Hey, don't worry-it's hard to be yourself."

I start smiling secretly, thinking secret things.

"That's it!" the photographer shouts.

Flashes of light keep going off as I stand perfectly still.

On my way out I'm handed an invitation by a nervous groupie to a party for PETA tomorrow night that the Gap is sponsoring at a new restaurant in Morgan's Hotel.

"I don't know if I can make it," I tell a supermodel who's standing nearby.

"You're the outgoing type," the supermodel says. I read recently that she just broke up with her boyfriend, an ex-model who runs a new and very fashionable club called Ecch! She smiles flirtatiously as I start heading out.

"Yeah?" I ask, flirting back. "How do you know?"

"I can tell." She shrugs, then invites me to a strip-poker game at someone named Mr. Leisure's house.

5

On the phone with Dad.

"When will you be down here?" he asks.

"In two days," I say. "I'll call."

"Yes. Okay."

"Has the money been transferred?" I ask.

"Yes. It has."

Pause. "Are you okay?" I ask.

Pause. "Yes, yes. I'm just . . . distracted."

"Don't be. You need to focus," I say.

"Yes, yes. Of course."

"Someone will let you know when I'm there."

A long pause.

"Hello?" I ask.

"I—I don't know," he says, breathing in.

"You're unraveling," I warn. "Don't," I warn.

"We really don't need to see each other while you're here," he says. "I mean, do we?"

"No. Not really," I say. "Only if you want." Pause. "Are there any parties you want to show me off at?"

"Hey-" he snaps.

"Watch it," I warn.

It takes him forty-three seconds to compose himself.

"I'm glad you'll be here," he finally says.

Pause. I let it resonate. "Are you?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad I'll be there too."

"Really?" He breathes in, trembling.

"Anything to help the cause," I say.

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"No." Pause. "You figure it out." I sigh. "Do you even really care?" Pause. "If there's anything you need . . ." He trails off.

"Don't you trust me?" I ask.

It takes a long time for him to say, "I think I do."

I'm smiling to myself. "I'll be in touch."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

4

I meet Damien for drinks at the Independent, not far from the club he and I are supposed to open a month from now in TriBeCa. Damien's smoking a cigar and nursing a Stoli Kafya, which personally I find disgusting . He's wearing a Gucci tie. I want to make this quick. Bittersweet folk rock plays in the background.

"Did you see this?" Damien asks as I swing up onto a stool.

"What?" I ask.

He slides a copy of today's New York Post across the bar, open to "Page Six." Gossip about the women Victor Johnson has been involved with since Chloe Byrnes' unfortunate death in a Paris hotel room. Peta Wilson. A Spice Girl. Alyssa Milano. Garcelle Beauvais. Carmen Electra. Another Spice Girl.

"For mature audiences only, right?" Damien says, nudging me, arching his eyebrows up.

There's a little hug between the two of us, not much else.

I relax, order a Coke, which causes Damien to shake his head and mutter "Oh, man" too aggressively.

"I guess you know why I'm here," I say.

"Victor, Victor, Victor," Damien sighs, shaking his head.

I pause, confused. "So . . . you do know?"

"I forgive you entirely," he says, acting casual. "Come on, you know that."

"I just want out, man," I say. "I'm older. I've got school."

"How is law school?" Damien asks. "I mean, this isn't a rumor, right? You're really doing this?"

"Yeah." I laugh. "I am." I sip my Coke. "It's a lot of work but . . ."

He studies me. "Yeah? But?"

"But I'm adapting," I finally answer.

"That's great," Damien says.

"Is it?" I ask seriously. "I mean, really. Is it?"

"Victor," Damien starts, grasping my forearm.

"Yeah, man?" I gulp, but I'm really not afraid of him.

"I am constantly thinking about human happiness," he admits.

"Whoa."

"Yeah," he says, tenderly sipping his vodka. "Whoa."

"Is everything going to be cool?" I ask. "I'm really not leaving you in a lurch?"

Damien shrugs. "It'll be cool. Japanese investors. Things will work out."

I smile, showing my appreciation. But I'm still very cool about the situation, so I move on to other topics. "How's Lauren?" I ask.

"Ooh-ouch," Damien says.

"No, no, man," I say. "I'm just asking."

Damien hits me lightly on the shoulder. "I know, man. I'm just goofing off. I'm just playing around."

"That's good," I say. "I can deal."

"She's great," he says. "She's very cool."

Damien stops smiling, motions to the bartender for another drink. "How's Alison?"

"She's fine," I say evenly. "She's really into PETA. This People for the Ethical Treatment of . . . oh shit, whatever."

"How unpredictable she is," Damien says. "How, er, slippery," he adds. "I guess people really do change, huh?"

After a careful pause, I venture, "What do you mean?"

"Well, you've become quite the clean-cut, athletic go-getter."

"Not really," I say. "You're just looking at the surface."

"There's something else?" he asks. "Just kidding," he adds desultorily.

"There's no swimsuit competition, dude," I warn.

"And I just got a bikini wax?" He lifts his arms, sarcastic.

Finally.

"No hard feelings?" I ask genuinely.

"No feelings at all, man."

I stare at Damien with admiration.

"I'm going to the Fuji Rock Festival," Damien says when I start listening again. "I'll be back next week."

"Will you call me?"

"What do you think?"

I don't bother answering.

"Hey, who's this Mr. Leisure everyone's talking about?" Damien asks.

3

Bill, an agent from CAA, calls to let me know that I have "won" the role of Ohman in the movie Flatliners II. I'm in a new apartment, wearing a conservative Prada suit, on my way out to make an appearance at a party that I have no desire to attend, and I lock onto a certain tone of jadedness that Bill seems to feed off of.

"Tell me what else is going on, Bill," I say. "While I'm brushing my hair."

"I'm trying to develop interest in a script about a Jewish boy who makes a valiant attempt to celebrate his bar mitzvah under an oppressive Nazi regime."

"Your thoughts on the script?" I sigh.

"My thoughts? No third act. My thoughts? Too much farting."

Silence while I continue slicking my hair back.

"So Victor," Bill starts slyly. "What do you think?"

"About what?"

"Flatliners II," he screams, and then, after catching his breath, adds in a very small voice, "I'm sorry."

"Far out," I'm saying. "Baby, that's so cool," I'm saying.

"This whole new look, Victor, is really paying off."

"People tell me it's exceedingly hip," I concede.

"You must have really studied all those old Madonna videos."

"In order."

"I think you are controlling the zeitgeist," Bill says. "I think you are in the driver's seat."

"People have commented that I'm near the wheel, Bill."

"People are paying attention, that's why," Bill says. "People love repentance."

A small pause as I study myself in a mirror.

"Is that what I'm doing, Bill?" I ask. "Repenting?"

"You're pulling a Bowie," Bill says. "And certain people are responding. It's called reinventing yourself. It's a word. It's in the dictionary."

"What are you trying to say to me, Bill?"

"I am fielding offers for Victor Johnson," Bill says. "And I am proud to be fielding offers for Victor Johnson."

A pause. "Bill . . . I don’t think . . ." I stop, figure out a way to break the news. "I'm not . . . That's not me."

"What do you mean? Who am I talking to?" Bill asks in a rush, and then, in a low, whispery voice, he asks, "This isn't Dagby, is it?" I can almost hear him shuddering over the line.

"Dagby?" I ask. "No, this isn't Dagby. Bill, listen, I'm going to school now and-"

"But that's just a publicity stunt, I assume," Bill yawns. "Hmm?"

Pause. "Uh, no, Bill. It's not a publicity stunt."

"Stop, in the name of love, before you break my heart," Bill says. "Just give me a high-pitched warning scream when you read lines like that to me again."

"It's not a line, Bill," I say. "I'm in law school now and I don't want to do the movie."

"You've been offered the role of an astronaut who helps save the world in Space Cadets-which is going to be directed by Mr. Will Smith, thank you very much. You will have four Hasbro action-figure dolls coming out by next Christmas and I will make sure that they are totally intact, genitalia-wise." Bill veers into an endless spasm of coughing and then he croaks, "If you know what I mean."

"That sounds a little too commercial for me right now."

"What are you saying? That Space Cadets doesn't rock your world?" I hear Bill tapping his headset. "Hello? Who am I speaking to?" Pause. "This isn't Dagby, is it?"

"What else could I do?" I'm sighing, checking my face for blemishes, but I'm blemish-free tonight.

"Oh, you could play someone nicknamed `The Traitor' who gets his ass beaten in a parking lot in an indie movie called The Sellout that is being directed by a recently rehabbed Italian known only as `Vivvy,' and your per diem would be twenty Burger King vouchers and there would not be a wrap party." Bill pauses to let this sink in. "It's your decision. It's Victor Johnson's decision."

"I'll let you know," I say. "I have a party to go to. I've gotta split."

"Listen, stop playing hard to get."

"I'm not."

"Not to be crass, but the dead-girlfriend thing-an inspired touch, by the way-is going to fade in approximately a week." Bill pauses. "You have to strike now."

I laugh good-naturedly. "Bill, I'll call you later."

He laughs too. "No, stay on the line with me."

"Bill, I gotta go." I can't stop giggling. "My visage is wanted elsewhere."

2

A party for the blind that Bacardi rum is sponsoring somewhere in midtown that my newly acquired publicists at Rogers and Cowan demanded I show up at. Among the VIPs: Bono, Kai Ruttenstein, Kevin Bacon, Demi Moore, Fiona Apple, Courtney Love, Claire Danes, Ed Burns, Jennifer Aniston and Tate Donovan, Shaquille O'Neal and a surprisingly swishy Tiger Woods. Some seem to know me, some don't. I'm having a Coke with someone named Ben Affleck while Jamiroquai plays over the sound system in the cavernous club we're all lost in and Gabé Doppelt just has to introduce me to Bjork and I have to pose with Giorgio Armani and he's hugging me as if we go a long way back and he's wearing a navy-blue crew-neck T-shirt, a navy cashmere sweater, navy corduroy jeans and a giant Jaeger-Le Coultre Reverso wristwatch. And there are so many apologies about Chloe, almost as if it was her fault that she died on me (my information is "massive hemorrhaging due to the ingestion of fatal quantities of mifepristone-also known as RU 486"). Mark Wahlberg, fire-eaters and a lot of blabbing about generational malaise, and everything smells like caviar.

Just so much gibberish and so chicly presented. Typical conversations revolve around serial killers and rehab stints and the amount of "very dry" pussy going around as opposed to just "dry" pussy going around as opposed to just "dry" and the spectacularly self-destructive behavior of an idiotic model. I'm so uncomfortable I resort to sound bites such as: "I'm basically a law- abiding citizen." The phrase "back to school"—employed every time a reporter's microphone is pushed into my face—becomes an overwhelming drag and I have to excuse myself, asking directions to the nearest rest room.

In the men's room two fags in the stall next to mine are comparing notes on how to live in a plotless universe and I'm just on my cell phone checking messages, taking a breather. Finally they leave and it becomes quiet, almost hushed, in the rest room and I can listen to messages without holding a hand against my ear.

I'm muttering to myself-Damien again, Alison, my publicist, certain cast members from a TV show I've never seen—but then I have to stop because I realize that the men's room isn't empty.

Someone's in here and he's whistling.

Clicking the cell phone off, I cock my head because it's a tune that seems familiar.

I peer carefully over the stall door but can't see anyone.

The whistling echoes, and then a voice that's deep and masculine but also ghostly and from another world sings, haltingly, "on the . . . sunny side of the street. . . ."

I yank open the stall door, my cell phone dropping onto the tiles.

I walk over to the row of sinks beneath a wall-length mirror so I can survey the entire bathroom.

There's no one in here.

The bathroom is empty.

I wash my hands and check every stall and then I leave, merging back into the party.

1

Back at the new apartment Dad bought me on the Upper East Side. The walls in the living room are blue and Nile green and the curtains draped over the windows looking out onto 72nd Street are hand-painted silk taffeta. There are antique coffee tables. There are beveled French mirrors in the foyer. There are Noguchi lamps and scruffed-up armchairs situated in pleasant positions. Paisley pillows line a couch. There is a ceiling fan. There are paintings by Donald Baechler. I actually have a library.

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 difficult. 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.

"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.

"Where's Palakon?" I automatically ask.

"Ah," the director sighs. "There's that name again, Victor."

"Where is he?" I'm gasping.

"We've been through this a hundred times," the director says. "There is no Palakon. I've never heard that name."

"That's just too heavy for me to accept at this point."

"Well, lighten up," the director says. "I don't know what else to tell you."

"I want to go back," I'm weeping. "I want to go home."

"There's always that possibility, Victor," the director says. "Don't discount it."

"Why aren't you paying attention to me anymore?" I ask.

"You haven't called in a week."

"Plans are forming," is all the director says.

"You haven't called me in a week," I shout. "What am I doing here?"

"How . . . shall I put this?" the director ponders.

"You're thinking the project is unrealized," I spit out, panicking. "Don't You? That's what you think. But it isn't."

"How shall I put this?" the director says again.

"Tactfully?" I whisper.

"Tactfully?"

"Yes."

"Your role is over, Victor," he says. "Don't be shocked," he says.

"Should I read this . . . as a warning?"

"No." He considers something. "Just a long period of adjustment."

"You mean . . . that I could be here until when? August? Next year?"

"Someone is going to extract you from this sooner or later," the director says. "I'm just not sure exactly when." He pauses. "Davide will watch over you and someone will be in touch shortly."

"What about you?" I wail. "Why can't you do anything? Call Palakon."

"Victor," the director says patiently, "I'm at a loss. I'm moving on to another project."

"You can't, you can't," I'm shouting. "You can't leave me here."

"Because I'm moving on, someone else will be brought in to oversee what your, um, future role might be."

"This isn't happening," I murmur.

I start crying again.

Davide looks up from his computer game. He offers a moment of attention, a random smile.

"In the meantime . . ." The director trails off.

Before hanging up, the director says he will try to speed things along by putting me in contact with a war criminal "who might know what to do" with me, and then the director's gone and I never speak to him again.

5

Occasionally I'm allowed out for a walk. Davide always makes a series of calls. We always take the service elevator down. Davide is always armed inconspicuously. On the walk he closely scrutinizes every stranger that passes by. Since it's the off-season and there's no one in town, I'm allowed to browse through the Prada men's boutique on Via Montenapoleone. We have a drink at Café L'Atlantique on Viale Umbria. Later we share a plate of sushi at La Terrazza on Via Palestro. I have so many little theories. I'm still piecing together clues-there's only a blueprint, there's only an outline-and sometimes they come together, but only when I'm drinking from a cold, syrupy bottle of Sambuca. Davide has one big theory that explains everything. "I like the really cool way you express yourself, Davide," I say. Looking down, I add, "I'm sorry." He mentions something about Leonardo and The Last Supper and how cute the waitress is.

And in the late afternoon there's a polluted sky above Milan and it gets dark rather rapidly and then Davide and I are wandering through the fog floating around us and while walking along the Via Sottocorno I notice a limousine idling by the curb and models with orange hair and frostbite-blue lipstick are moving toward a bank of lighted windows and I break away from Davide and run into Da Giacomo and I glimpse Stefano Gabbana and Tom Ford, who glances over at me and nods casually before Davide pulls me out of the restaurant. This outburst means it's time to go back to the hotel.

6

Back in the room shaped like a beehive Davide tosses me a Playboy before he takes a shower. December's Playmate and her favorite things: military insignia, weapon designs, visiting the Pentagon's national command center. But I'm watching MTV and a segment about the Impersonators-the huge DreamWorks contract, an interview with the band, the new single "Nothing Happened" off their soon-to-be-released CD In the Presence of Nothing. I slowly move to a mirror and in it my face looks ghostly, transparent, a vacant stare reminds me of something, my hair is turning white. I can hear Davide taking a shower, jets of water splashing against tile, Davide whistling a pop hit from four years ago. When Davide opens the bathroom I'm huddling on the bed, wilted, half-asleep, sucking on a lozenge.

"You are still alive," Davide says, but as he reads the line I can swear he places a subtle emphasis on the pronoun.

Davide's naked, carelessly drying himself off in front of me. Huge biceps, coarse hair tufting out from his armpits, the cheeks of his ass are like melons, the muscles in his stomach push out his belly button. He notices me watching and smiles emphatically. I tell myself he's here to ward off danger.

Once dressed, Davide is in a gray mood and barely tolerant of any despair emanating from where I'm writhing on the bed, and I'm crying endlessly and staring at him. He stares back, puzzled, low key. He starts watching a soft-core porn film, Japanese girls having sex on a foam-rubber mattress.

His cell phone rings.

Davide answers it, dulled out, eyes empty.

He speaks quickly in Italian. Then he listens. Then he speaks quickly again before clicking off.

"Someone's coming," Davide says. "To see us."

I'm humming listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise.

7

A knock on the door.

Davide opens it.

A beautiful young girl enters the room. Davide and the girl embrace and chat amiably in Italian while I stare, dazed, from the bed. The girl is holding an envelope and in the envelope is a videocassette. Without being introduced, she hands it to me.

I stare at it dumbly, then Davide impatiently yanks it out of my hand and slips it into the VCR beneath the television set.

Davide and the girl move over to another room in the suite as the tape starts playing.

8

It's an episode of "60 Minutes" but without the sound.

Dan Rather introduces a segment. Behind him a mock-up of a magazine story. My father's face. And below that, half in shadow, is my face.

Azaleas. At the home of Pamela Digby Churchill Hayward Harriman . A dinner party for Samuel Johnson. A fund-raiser for his presidential bid. The guests: Ruth Hotte and Ed Huling and Deborah Gore Dean and Barbara Raskin and Deborah Tannen and Donna Shalala and Hillary Clinton and Muffy Jeepson Stout. There's Ben Bradlee and Bill Seidman and Malcolm Endicott Peabody. There's Clayton Fritcheys and Brice Clagett and Ed Burling and Sam Nunn. There's Marisa Tomei and Kara Kennedy and Warren Christopher and Katharine Graham and Esther Coopersmith.

And Dad's standing with a woman in her mid-forties wearing a Bill Blass cocktail dress. I glimpse her only briefly.

Now Dan Rather's interviewing my father in his office.

Dad has obviously had a face-lift and his upper-lip-to-nose area has been shortened, droopy lids have been lifted and his teeth are bleached. He's laughing, relaxed.

Then a series of photos flash by. Dad with Mort Zuckerman. Dad with Shelby Bryan. Dad with Strom Thurmond. Dad with Andrea Mitchell.

Suddenly: file footage. An interview with my mother from the mid- 1980s. A clip of my father and mother at the White House, standing with Ronald and Nancy Reagan.

Dan Rather interviewing my father again.

A montage: Brooks Brothers, Ann Taylor, Tommy Hilfiger.

And then I'm walking along Dupont Circle being interviewed by Dan Rather.

This is suddenly intercut with footage that the "Entertainment Tonight" crew shot last fall of me working out with Reed at his gym.

Various shots from my portfolio: Versace, CK One, an outtake from Madonna's Sex. Paparazzi shots of me leaving a nightclub called Crush. A shot of me leaving the Jockey Club.

I'm being interviewed by Dan Rather downstairs at Red Sage.

I'm laughing, relaxed, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. I'm dressed preppily in a Brooks Brothers suit. I'm nodding at everything that is being asked of me.

Dan Rather shows me a photo from a Vogue layout where I'm wearing Calvin Klein boxer-briefs and painting Christy Turlington's toenails . Dan Rather is gesturing, making comments about my physical attractiveness.

I keep nodding my head as if ashamed.

And then: a photo of Chloe Byrnes, followed by various magazine covers.

A shot of Hôtel Costes in Paris.

A montage of her funeral in New York.

I’m sitting in the front row, crying, Alison Poole and Baxter Priestly both offering comfort.

Interviews with Fred Thompson and then Grover Norquist and then Peter Mandelson.

Shots of me walking through Washington Square Park.

Dad again. He's walking out of the Palm with that woman in her mid-forties, dark hair, pretty but also plain enough not to be intimidating. They're holding hands

Outside the Bombay Club she's there again, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

I recognize this woman.

This woman is Lorrie Wallace.

The Englishwoman who ran into me on the QE2.

The woman married to Stephen Wallace.

The woman who wanted me to go to England.

The woman who recognized Marina.

I lunge for the TV, trying to turn up the volume while Lorrie Wallace is being interviewed. But there's no sound, just static.

Finally Dad and Lorrie Wallace at Carol Laxalt's annual Christmas party. Dad's standing by a poinsettia. He's shaking John Warner's hand.

And in the background, sipping punch from a tiny glass cup, is F. Fred Palakon, a giant Christmas tree twinkling behind him.

I hold a hand over my mouth to stop the screaming.

9

I'm calling my sister again.

It rings three, four, five times.

She picks up.

"Sally?" I'm breathing hard, my voice tight.

"Who is this?" she asks suspiciously.

"It's me," I gasp. "It's Victor."

"Uh-huh," she says dubiously. "I'd really prefer it-whoever this is-if you would stop calling."

"Sally, it's really me, please—" I gasp.

"It's for you," I hear her say. The sound of the phone being passed to someone else."

"Hello?" a voice asks.

I don't say anything, just listen intently.

"Hello?" the voice asks again. "This is Victor Johnson," the voice says. "Who is this?"

Silence.

"It'd be really cool if you stopped bothering my sister," the voice says. "Okay?"

Silence.

"Goodbye," the voice says.

A click.

I'm disconnected.

10

Davide wants some privacy. He hands me a sweater, suggesting I go for another walk. The girl is smoking a cigarette, sitting naked on a plush tan couch. She glances over at me, waiting. Numb, I comply.

At the door, standing in the hallway, I ask Davide, "How do you know I'll come back?"

"I trust you," he says, smiling, urging me out.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because," he says, gesturing, still smiling, "you have no place to go."

The way he says this is so charming I just nod and actually thank him.

"Thank you," I say to Davide.

Behind him the girl walks toward the bed. She stops, twisting her muscular body, and whispers something urgently in Italian to Davide.

Davide closes the door. I hear him lock it.

11

I take the service elevator down to the lobby and outside it's night and the streets are wet and water drips down the facades of the buildings I pass but it's not raining. A taxi cruises by. I step out of the way of fast-skating Rollerbladers. And I'm still feeling filmed. How many warnings had I ignored?

12

Back at the hotel, an hour later. I take the service elevator up to my floor. I move slowly down the empty hallway. At my room, I pull out a key, knocking first.

There's no answer.

The key slips into the lock.

I push the door open.

Davide lies naked in a pile in the bathroom. No specific visible wound, but his skin is broken in so many places I can't tell what happened to him. The floor beneath Davide is washed over with blood, dotted with smashed hotel china. Dramatic lightning from outside. There's no sign of the girl. Blaming myself, I walk downstairs to the bar.

13

In a nearby room in the Principe di Savoia a propmaster is loading a 9mm mini-Uzi.

14

Sinead O'Connor was singing "The Last Day of Our Acquaintance and it was either 11:00 or 1:00 or maybe it was 3:15 and we were all lying around Gianni's pool in the big house on Ocean Drive and there were about twenty of us and everyone was talking into a cell phone and doing dope and I had just met Chloe earlier that week. She was lying on a chaise longue, burning under the sun, and her lips were puffy from collagen injections and my skull was on fire from a hangover caused by a dozen mango daiquiris and I was carefully eyeing the forty-carat diamond she was wearing, and the lemonade I was drinking stung my mouth and everyone was saying "So what?" and there had been a cockroach sighting earlier and people were basically becoming unglued. There were boys everywhere—slim, full-lipped, big-bulged, sucking in their cheeks—and there were also a couple of rock stars and a teenage gay guy from Palestine bragging about a really cool stone-throwing he'd attended in Hebron. All of this under a calm gumball-blue sky.

And Sinead O'Connor was singing "The Last Day of Our Acquaintance" and a girl lying across from me was positioned in such a way that I could see her anus and she would reach under her bikini bottom and scratch it, then bring her fingers to her face and lightly smell them. On a huge Bang & Olufsen TV that had been wheeled out, an episode of "The X-Files" was playing where someone's dog had been eaten by a sea serpent and for some reason everyone was reading a book called The Amityville Horror and tired from last night's premiere for a new movie called Autopsy 18-the guy hunched over the Ouija board, the girl just back from Madonna's baby shower, the kid playing with a cobra he'd bought with a stolen credit card. A big murder trial was going on that week in which the defense team convinced me that the victim—a seven-year-old girl fatally beaten by her drunken father—was actually guilty of her own death. Mermaids had been spotted during a swim before dawn.

"Could you kill somebody?" I heard a voice ask.

A moment passed before another voice answered, "Yeah, I guess so."

"Oh, so what?" someone else moaned.

Someone walked by with a panting wolf on a leash.

And Sinead O'Connor was singing "The Last Day of Our Acquaintance " and I had spent part of the morning trimming my pubic hair and everyone was checking various gossip columns to see if they had made it but they were basically one-shots and it was never going to happen for any of them and there was a Rauschenberg in the bathroom and a Picasso in the pantry and the guy I had slept with the night before—a boy who looked like Paul Newman at twenty-started talking about a friend who had been murdered in Maui last week and then everyone around the pool joined in and I couldn't follow the conversation. A tiny rift with a drug dealer? An irate exporter/importer? A run-in with a cannibal? Who knew? Was his death bad? He had been lowered into a barrel of hungry insects. A poll was taken. On a scale of 1 to 10- being lowered into a barrel of hungry insects? Opinions were offered. I thought I was going to faint. This conversation was the only indication that anyone here knew anybody else. I lit a cigarette I bummed from River Phoenix. I was just becoming famous and my whole relationship to the world was about to change.

And Sinead O'Connor was singing "The Last Day of Our Acquaintance " and someone tossed Pergola the keys to one of the Mercedes parked in the garage and it was just too hot out and a jet flew overhead and I jealously studied Bruce Rhinebeck's face smirking at me from the cover of a magazine and the guy I'd slept with the night before whispered to me "You're a piece of shit" and there was my "stunned disbelief" and me saying "So what?" and I was so tan my nipples had changed color and I looked down at my muscled body admiringly but a fly was dozing on my thigh and when I brushed it away it came back, hovering. A Brazilian boy asked me how I got my abs that cubed and I was so flattered I had to concentrate very seriously in order to answer him.

An injured bat had crawled out from beneath a chaise longue and it was chirping and flapping its wings uselessly and a few of the teenage boys stood around it silently. The bat rolled over, upended, and when one of the boys kicked it, the bat screamed. Someone struck it with a branch, and a puff of dust flew off its skin. Light was flickering across the water in the vast pool and I was watching everything through binoculars. A servant brought me a piece of birthday cake and a can of Hawaiian Punch as I had requested. The bat was wriggling on the ground next to a discarded cell phone. Its spine was broken and it tried to bite anyone who got near it. The boys continued torturing it. Someone brought out a fork.

There was no system to any of this. At that point Chloe Byrnes wasn’t a real person to me and on that afternoon in the House on Ocean Drive a few decisions had to be made, the priority being: I would never dream of leaving any of this. At first I was confused by what passed for love in this world: people were discarded because they were too old or too fat or too poor or they had too much hair or not enough, they were wrinkled, they had no muscles, no definition, no tone, they weren’t hip, they weren’t remotely famous. This was how you chose lovers. This was what decided friends. And I had to accept this if I wanted to get anywhere. When I looked over at Chloe, she shrugged. I observed the shrug. She mouthed the words Take . . . a . . . hike. . . . On the verge of tears-because I was dealing with the fact that we lived in a world where beauty was considered an accomplishment—I turned away and made a promise to myself: to be harder, to not care, to be cool. The future started mapping itself out and I focused on it. In that moment I felt as if I was disappearing from poolside in the villa on Ocean Drive and I was floating above the palm trees, growing smaller in the wide blank sky until I no longer existed and relief swept over me with such force I sighed.

One of the teenage boys was ready to pounce on me, and the boy splashing in the pool, I realized faintly, could have been drowning and no one would have noticed. I avoided thinking about that and concentrated on the patterns in a bathing suit that Marky Mark was wearing. I might not even remember this afternoon, I was thinking. I was thinking that a part of me might destroy it. A cold voice inside my head begged me to.

But I was being introduced to too many cool people and I was becoming famous and at that point I had no way of understanding one thing: if I didn’t erase this afternoon from my memory and just walk out that door and leave Chloe Byrnes behind, sections of this afternoon would come back to me in nightmares. This was what the cold voice assured me. This was what it promised. Someone was praying over the half-smashed bat but the gesture seemed far away and unimportant. People started dancing around the praying boy.

"You want to know how this all ends?" Chloe asked, eyes closed.

I nodded.

"Buy the rights," she whispered.

And as the final crashing verse of ‘The Last Day of Our Acquaintance’ boomed out, I faded away and my image overlapped and dissolved into an image of myself years later sitting in a hotel bar in Milan where I was staring at a mural.

15

I'm drinking a glass of water in the empty hotel bar at the Principe di Savoia and staring at the mural behind the bar and in the mural there is a giant mountain, a vast field spread out below it where villages are celebrating in a field of long grass that blankets the mountains dotted with tall white flowers, and in the sky above the mountain it’s morning and the sun is spreading itself across the mural’s frame, burning over the small cliffs and the low-hanging clouds that encircle the mountain’s peak, and a bridge strung across a pass through the mountains will take you to any point that you need to arrive at, because behind that mountain is a highway and along that highway are billboards with answers on them—who, what, where, when, why—and I’m falling forward but also moving up toward the mountain, my shadow looming against its jagged peaks, and I'm surging forward, ascending, sailing through dark clouds, rising up, a fiery wind propelling me, and soon it's it’s night and stars hang in the sky above the mountain, revolving as they burn.

The stars are real.

The future is that mountain.

The End