Glamorama

Glamorama Page 197

Bobby sits at the computer wearing Helmut Lang jeans and a Helmut Lang moleskin jacket, a rusted-green Comme des Garcons sweater underneath. On the computer screen are the words BRINK OF DESTRUCTION and automatically I'm thinking, Who's Brink? and I've never heard of that band, and Bobby, in one of his "barely tolerant" moods, asks me, "Where are you going?"

"To see Chloe," I say, stiffly walking past him to the kitchen. I force myself to peer into the refrigerator, struggling to be casual, a very hard moment. Outside, lightning flickers and then, on cue, thunder sounds.

Bobby's considering what I just said.

"Are you trying to rescue her?" he muses. "Or are you trying to rescue yourself?" He pauses. "That's not really a solution," he says, and then, less sweetly, "Is it?"

"I'm just going to make sure everything's okay with her."

"I think that's another movie," Bobby says. "And I think you're confused."

"So you have a problem?" I ask, walking back into the living room.

"No," he says. "I just don't think that's all you're going to do." He shrugs. "It's just a... quandary."

"Do I really need to make arrangements with you in order to visit my ex-girlfriend?" I ask. "It's pretty f**king simple-"

"Hey, don't talk that way to me." He scowls.

"-to grasp, Bobby. I'm going to see Chloe. Bye-bye."

Bobby's expression subtly changes, becoming bored, almost trusting.

"Don't act so wounded," he finally says, flashing a warning look. "You're not very good at it."

It seems impossible that I will ever get out of this house. Under my breath I'm telling myself, It's just another scene, it's just another phase, like it's a lyric from a song that means something.

"Do you think I'm lying?" I ask.

"No, no," Bobby says. "I just think there's a hole in your truth."

"Well, what do you want to hear?" I ask, daring him.

He ponders this, then simply turns back to the computer screen. "I think I've decided to listen to something else."

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"You want it translated?" he mutters. "Sober up. Learn your ABCs."

"I'm just trying to have a so-called normal conversation," I say.

"I don't think you're being particularly successful," he says.

"I'm not going to be put off by your negativity," I'm saying, teeth clenched. "Later, dude."

The director glances up at me and nods, once.

"Okay, we need some spontaneous sound bites," the interviewer from "House of Style" says.

I'm walking by Bentley as he shows off a stack of 1960s movie magazines, a book of photographs featuring dismembered dolls, a new tattoo in the shape of a demon laced across his bicep.

"We'll miss you," Bentley says, batting his eyes at me.

Outside, it's raining lightly. A bearded man worriedly walks a dog. A girl glides by holding a dozen sunflowers. I break down again, tears spilling out of my eyes. I hail a cab. Inside the cab, I'm trying not to shriek. A moment of doubt rises, but I blame it on the rain and then I tell the driver, "The American embassy."

11

I'm sufficiently calm to minimize crying, to curb the hyperventilating. But I'm also on so much Xanax that the following is merely a dark blur and the only thing keeping this scene from being totally black is the mid-level panic that still beats through me, acting as a dull light.

I'm just assuming we're on Avenue Gabriel as the taxi stops in front of what I'm just assuming is the American embassy. I give the driver whatever bills I have left in my wallet-250, maybe 300 francs. I don't care, I tell myself as I stumble from the cab.

I'm vaguely aware of walking up steps past a sentry box into the building. I'm glancing sideways at members of the Police Urbaine, at a machine gun, at a security camera, at a guard who responds only slightly with bland suspicion when I move by, serenely smiling.

In the lobby I'm allowed to walk through a metal detector without incident. I'm allowed to step up to a plexiglass window.

I tell the woman sitting behind the plexiglass window that I need to speak to an official. "Un officiale...?"

In English, she asks if I have an appointment with anyone.

"No," I say.

She asks me my name.

I tell her, "Victor Johnson."

She asks me what this concerns.