"It's cold," she says, shivering.
"Yes," I'm saying. "You need to stay warm.
"I suppose so," she says abstractly. "I'm sorry about last night."
"Where's Bruce?" I ask. "What's the story, baby?"
"Oh Victor, please don't," Tammy sighs. "He went to Athens. I don't ever want him to come between us again. I'll tell him everything when he gets back. Everything. I promise."
"He already suspects," I say. "It doesn't matter."
"If I could only turn back time," she says, but not at all wistfully.
"Can I believe the magic in your sighs?" I lean in for a kiss.
"You know you can." This is said too indifferently.
The director calls "Cut." He walks over and kneels down next to Tammy again. "Baby?" he asks. "Are we all right?"
Tammy's unable to even nod, just keeps scratching a point on her back that she can't quite reach.
"It's all about a light touch, baby," he's saying, lowering his sunglasses.
Tammy sniffs, says "I know" but she doesn't and she's shivering too hard for the scene to continue, so the director takes her aside and as they walk away from the crew Tammy keeps shaking her head, trying to pull away. Freezing, I light a cigarette, squint at the Seine, the smell of shit everywhere, the Louvre sitting behind us long and boring, then I imagine a Saab with a poodle in the passenger seat driving by. My foot has fallen asleep.
Tammy keeps looking back at me, making sure I'm aware of the schedule, but I'm already checking the face of the watch I was given last night by a member of the French film crew.
In digital numbers it reads 9:57.
Someone from the French film crew Rollerblades by, then slows down, making sure I notice him before he nods and glides off.
I stand up, flicking the cigarette away, and walk over to the director's chair and pick up a black Prada backpack sitting beneath it.
"I have to use the rest room," I tell a PA.
"Cool." He shrugs, inspecting a tattoo, a staff of musical notes, emblazoned on his bicep. "It's your life."
I take the bag and wait at the museum's entrance until the watch hits 10:00 exactly.
As instructed, I place the headphones of a Walkman over my ears, adjusting the volume while securing it to a clip attached to the belt I'm wearing.
I press Play.
The beginning of Ravel's "Bolero" starts booming through the headphones.
I'm stepping onto an escalator. The black Prada backpack must be placed next to one of three pay phones in the carousel at the bottom of the Allee de Rivoli escalator.
From the opening strains of "Bolero" until its final crashing cymbals: 12 minutes and 38 seconds.
At 10:01 the bomb is officially activated.
I'm unfolding a map directing me where to go.
At the bottom of the escalator six of the French film crew, including its director, are waiting, grim-faced, all in black.
The director nods encouragingly from behind the Steadicam operator. The director wants this sequence done in one continuous shot. The director motions for me to remove the sunglasses that I forgot to take off while I was moving down the escalator.
Walking slowly through the Hall Napoleon, "Bolero" blaring, gathering momentum, I try not to walk sporadically, keeping a steady rhythm by counting the steps I'm taking, by focusing my eyes on the floor, by making a wish.
At 10:04 1 spot the phones.
At 10:05 1 place the Prada bag at my feet. I pretend to make a call at the phone that takes credit cards.
I check my watch at 10:06.
I move away from the phone bank, the film crew walking alongside me.
I'm supposed to stop and buy a Coke from a concession stand, which I do, taking a single sip before dumping it in a nearby trash bin.
I'm moving back into the hall, the film crew walking alongside me, the Steadicam operator moving in front of me. 10:08. "Bolero" grows more insistent, moving at a faster pitch.
But suddenly the crew is slowing down, causing me to slow down also.
Glancing up, I notice their stunned faces.
The Steadicam operator stops moving, lifts his head away from the viewfinder.
Someone touches my arm.
I rip the Walkman off my head and whirl around, panicked.
It's a PA from the American film crew.
A young girl who looks like Heather Graham. The concerned expression on her face melds oddly into relief She's panting, smiling uneasily now.
"You left this at the phone booth," she says.
