Glamorama

Glamorama Page 103

"Well, finally," I mutter.

"How have you been, Victor?" he asks. "I hope you're well taken care of."

"I just finished dining sumptuously in my cabin."

Pause. "What did you have?"

Pause. "An... acceptable turbot."

Pause. "It sounds... delicious," Palakon says uncertainly.

"Hey, Palakon-why am I not in a penthouse?" I'm asking, suddenly sitting up. "Why do I not have a butler? Where's my Jacuzzi, man?"

"Gentlemen do not talk about money," Palakon says. "Especially when they're not paying."

"Whoa," I say, and then, "Who's a gentleman?"

"I'm trying to imagine that you are, dear Victor."

"What are you, Palakon? You talk like some kind of pampered weenie."

"Is that a cheap attempt to play upon my emotions, Mr. Ward?"

"This traveling-by-sea business is bor-ing," I say. "There's no one famous or young on this damn boat. There are sixteen hundred people on this damn boat and they're all ancient. Everyone has Alzheimer's, everyone's blind, everyone's hobbling around on crutches."

"Surely you're exaggerating."

"I'm really really tired of old people, Palakon," I say. "I'm just so tired."

"I'll call Cunard and tell them to set up a piercing parlor, a tattoo emporium, a cyberspace roller rink," Palakon says wearily. "Something that has that kind of grungy honesty you young people respond to so well."

"I'll still be so tired, Palakon."

"Then get some sleep," Palakon says hollowly. "Isn't that what people do who are tired?"

"I'm tired of muttering'Where am I'whenever I find myself in the wrong corridor or some wrong deck that's like miles away from the deck I wanted to be on." I pause, then add, "Surrounded by old people!"

"I'm sure there is no shortage of you-are-here maps to help you out, Victor," he says, losing patience. "Ask one of the old people for directions."

"But the old people are blind!"

"Blind people often have an excellent sense of direction," Palakon practically shouts. "They'll tell you where you are."

"Yeah, but where am I, Palakon?"

"By my estimate somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean," Palakon sighs, giving up. "My god, must everything be explained to you?"

Mortified, I suddenly blurt out, "Yeah!"

"Mr. Ward, I'm just checking in," Palakon says, seemingly disinterested in my problems. "I'll call you once more before you arrive in Southampton."

"Hey, Palakon, about that," I start.

"Yes, Mr. Ward?"

"How about if I take a little side trip to France before going to London?" I ask.

A long pause before Palakon asks, "Why?"

"I met a girl," I say.

Another pause. "And so?"

"I-met-a-girl," I repeat.

"Yes, but I am not understanding you."

"Like, I'm gonna go with this girl to Paris, duh," I say loudly. "Why else do you think I'd be going there? To take part in a fromage-eating contest? Christ, Palakon, get your shit together."

"Victor," Palakon starts, "that's not a particularly good idea. Turning back-which is essentially what you'd be doing-is unthinkable at this point."

"Hello?" I say, sitting up. "Could you please repeat that? Hello?"

"Just go on about your business," Palakon sighs. "Just follow the script."

"Palakon, I want to go to Paris with this girl," I warn.

"That would be a grim alternative," Palakon warns back, gravely. "That would be self-destructive."

"But I think that's in my nature," I explain. "I think that's what my character's all about."

"Maybe this trip will change your character." "I'm not so sure."

"I'll call you before you reach Southampton, Victor."

"Palakon, wait-"

He clicks off.

10

Around 12 I dress casually and rouse myself from the cabin, heading ostensibly to the midnight buffct being served in the Mauretania Room but really to any bar where I can very quickly down four vodkaand-cranberries and find Marina. Prowling along the upper starboard deck as if on a catwalk-it's cold out and dark-I'm spying into windows at all the joyless mingling taking place at the midnight buffet. I spot the g*y German holding a plate piled high with smoked salmon and even though he's heading toward a table just a foot or two away from where I'm standing, I doubt he can see beyond his own reflection in the window, but then he begins to squint past his image and his face lights up so I whirl around and run straight into the Wallaces strolling along the deck. She's wearing what looks like a strapless Armani gown, Stephen's tuxedo jacket draped over her shoulders, protection from the midnight chill.