Chapter Twenty-One
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.
