"Palakon's not in the script, Victor," Felix says carefully.
Pause. "Whoa-wait a minute, wait a minute." I hold up a hand. "Hello? You are driving blind, baby."
"No, no, I don't think so," Felix says. "And please don't call me 'baby,'Victor."
"Hold on, Felix," I say. "I'm talking about the guy I met at Fashion Cafe. That kind-of-euro twit who got me on this floating nursing home in the first place. Palakon?"
This doesn't register with Felix. I stare, dumbfounded.
"I met him after I was chased," I try to explain. "I met him at Fashion Cafe after I was chased by the black Jeep? F. Fred Palakon?"
Felix turns to me, looking more worried than bemused, and finally says, "We didn't shoot a chase scene, Victor." A long pause. "We didn't shoot anything in Fashion Cafe."
While staring back at the photo, I feel something in me collapse.
"There's no Palakon in the shooting script," Felix murmurs, also staring at the photo. "I've never heard of him."
While I'm breathing erratically, another drink is placed in front of me, but my stomach sours up and I push the drink toward Felix.
"I think this is the logical cutting-off point," Felix says, slipping away.
0
On deck the air felt damp, the sky got unusually dark, almost black, clouds were bulging, distorted, a monster behind them, then thunderclaps, which merited some attention and made everyone feel vaguely apprehensive, and past that darkness, below that sky, land was waiting. On deck I lit a cigarette, the camcra circling me, newly supplied Xanax eliminating nausea and distracting tics, and I kept my Walkman on, the Dave Matthews Band's "Crash into Me" buzzing in my ears through the headphones, spilling over onto the sound track. I sat on a bench, sunglasses on, blinking frantically, gripping a new magazine Gail Love started called A New Magazine until I couldn't sit still anymore. Images of Marina plunging into the black water, sinking leagues to the calm, sandy bottom, swallowed up without a trace, jumped playfully around the back of my mind, teasing me, or maybe she was leaping off the ship because there were worse things waiting. The hat Lauren Hynde gave me in New York and that Palakon told me to bring was missing, was confirmed "disappeared" after I tore my cabin apart looking for it, and though this shouldn't be a problem, I somehow knew that it was. I was told by the director that what I didn't know was what mattered most.
On deck I was aware of my feet moving listlessly past a cotton-candy kiosk opened for "the kids." On deck the Wallaces drifted by, intent on not dealing with me, and I was unable to interpret the signals their false smiles gave off and my heart continued pounding uneasily but really I was drawn out and apathetic and even that feeling seemed forced and I didn't fight it and there was nothing I could do. For courage I just kept telling myself that I was a model, that CAA represented me, that I'm really good in bed, that I had good genes, that Victor ruled; but on deck I started to semi-seriously doubt this. On deck the g*y German youth passed by, ignoring me, but he never really fit into the story and my scenes with him were discarded and it didn't f**k up continuity. On deck members of the film crew were dismantling fog machines, placing them in crates.
Europe moved toward me, the ocean flowing darkly around us, clouds were dispersing, specks of light in the sky were growing wider until daylight reappeared. On deck I was gripping the railing, adding up the hours I had lost, depth and perspective blurring then getting sharper and someone was whistling "The Sunny Side of the Street" as he passed behind me but when I turned around, predictably, no one was there. Looking down at my feet, staring blankly, I noticed, next to my shoe, a stray piece of confetti, then I noticed another.
3
14
A street in Notting Hill. In a row: a new Gap, a Starbucks, a McDonald's. A couple walks out of the Crunch fitness center, carrying Prada gym bags, appearing vaguely energized, Pulp's "Disco 2000" blaring out of the gym behind them as they pass a line of BMWs parked tightly along the curb on this street in Notting Hill.
A group of teenagers, thin-hipped, floppy-haired, wearing T-shirts with ironic slogans on them, hang out in front of the Gap comparing purchases, someone's holding an Irvine Welsh paperback, they pass around a cigarette and in the overall void comment unfavorably about a motorbike roaring down the street and the motorbike slows down for a stoplight, then brakes.
Someone who looks like Bono walks a black Lab, snapping back its leash as the dog lunges for a piece of stray garbage it wants to devour-an Arch Deluxe wrapper.
