Gala did a good job of nurturing her relationship with Larry the movie producer. She said, “You’ve got to keep ’em keen!” He booked us for a week on the set of an action movie as International Party Goers, which is a role I was made to play. All we do is lounge around pantomiming because you can’t talk when the sound is “set.” Larry pays us in cash. He said he would put us down as “expenses.” We’re halfway through our shooting schedule, and it’s not entirely bad, but it’s not good either. We get nine dollars an hour, with an eight-hour minimum, so even if we work for less than that, we still get paid for the full eight. I think that’s been a rule since the beginning of Cinema in order for people to not get exploited. It’s a thankless job, and Gala didn’t want to do it because the rate was so low. I had to remind her, “We’ve done more for less.” Ultimately, we’re going to try and finagle speaking roles. Once we get a speaking role, we qualify for the union. That’s much better because you get nicer food on set and a higher hourly rate. In the meantime, Gala has found a way to sneak food from the union-catered table. The non-union table gets stuff like browning celery and dip.
Larry invited us to a party, saying, “You may be background on set, but you’re the highlight here!” The party was at Palazzo Chupi, a funny pink addition to a West Village building I had never noticed before—mostly because I rarely look up. Inside, everything was too lush, too opulent, too much. Gala and I felt right at home. It was filled with art and fabrics like velvet, silk, and linen; everywhere was a suitable place to sink into. It was all put together with very little concern for traditional modes of taste. Anyone who prefers minimalism probably had everything growing up. When you are never left wanting, you never want much. I love fur and everything else that was not meant for me, like caviar and champagne. Whenever I’m around Luxury, I want to be so overindulged I get sick because of it.
There were a few famous people around, mixed in with less-familiar faces. In New York, you can go from a dive bar to a penthouse and experience similar levels of hellishness. Larry assured me that everyone who wasn’t famous was the child of someone famous. He said, “There was a time when people took nepotism as a serious charge. That’s all gone out the window.”
Sage Hopkins clocked me in line for the bathroom and squeezed my shoulder. He kissed me on the cheek. “You’re still here! That’s reassuring—somehow life-afirming. Once New York drives someone like you out, I’ll know this place is done. I’m glad to see you. You crossed my mind recently. I wondered about all the places you might have snuck into. Have you had men fall in love with you only to be cast aside?” A server walked by, and I piled a smoked-salmon blini and an oyster in shell topped off with a generous scoop of Petrossian into my left palm. While Sage talked, I ate. He looked happy. His face was a little fuller than when I last saw him, or maybe it was because he was smiling. “People think everything I say is for publicity.” I asked him what he’d been saying. He said, “Well, you know, I told you. Like yourself, I do hope the world ends in my lifetime. I’d feel disappointed if it didn’t. The thought of it takes up more of my time than I’m willing to admit.” I feel bad for famous men. It takes a lot more for them to be seen as provocative. He continued, “Isn’t it wonderful how we were in love for a night? I’ll always cherish you for that.” My mouth was full, and I had to chew quickly in order to respond. “Were we?” I tried to think back to the night we met. Sage had confided in me that he was never interested in the physical, only the romantic and intellectual. “Intimacy, what a concept!” he had said. In this present moment, Sage touched my elbow, leaning in. “Don’t be shy, Isa. You can admit it. Didn’t you come looking for love?” I almost snorted. “How can you be an actor when you’re so full of whimsy?” Love and not eating for sixteen hours feel more or less the same. Sage looked skeptical. “Tell me your type.” I took a sip of champagne. “They have to be handsome or sly.” He asked, “What if they’re both?” I laughed because the answer was obvious. “No thanks, can’t be trusted. It should be one or the other.” He cleared his throat and leaned into me. “Wouldn’t you consider yourself both?” I smiled, placing my hand on his shoulder. “That’s how I know it’s trouble. You’re sweet.” Gala came over to us while still eyeing the crowd for someone better to talk to. I said, “Can you believe it? Sage thinks we came here looking for love.” Gala took an oyster from a passing server. “Love’s a good distraction, but all distractions are good!”
Sage kept close for most of the night because he said he didn’t have time to trust anyone else. I was getting bored of him trailing around, so I sent him to get me some sour cherries from a deli. Gala had been talking to, of all people, a fiction writer. I joined them on the adjacent pink divan, and Gala said, “Do you have any friends for Isa?” He asked me if I liked art, and I said, “I’m still learning how to look at it.” He smiled and said, “Perfect.”
That is how we ended up going on a double date last night. Beforehand, I warned Gala not to mention that all we eat is hot dogs, pizza, deli sandwiches, and tacos. “They’ll get the wrong idea and take us to something like a diner.” I told her that we had to set the right kind of precedent. Gala said, “I’m not new at this. Plus, I’m sure the way you were shovelling those oysters at Chupi gave them a sense of our values.” The fiction writer had us meet him at a French restaurant. I know a lot of people who’ve tried to make this particular bistro a party. People are always eager to call something a Scene when really it’s just an establishment filled with people. I can’t blame them for wanting a sense of community. Note that these same people tend to paint themselves as anti-provincial. In essence, what they really yearn for is somewhere that guarantees they’ll see someone they know and someone who’ll know them. After all, a place can only be familiar once you have memories there. Making a large city seem small takes work, and being a regular costs money. It’s good though because once someone wants to take Gala and me to a place where they can show how regular they are, they’ll probably be too ashamed to ask us to split the bill. That’s always a worry with fiction writers.
Gala and I arrived on time for once, which was a mistake. A man came in and was talking to the maître d’, gesturing towards us. The server nodded and the man headed our way. He introduced himself as Pico, the art writer. I guess my date. He apologized for Thomas the fiction writer’s tardiness. Pico asked how long we had known Thomas, and I told him only a couple of days. He leaned in as though he was telling us both a secret and said, “Don’t ask him about his parents.” He had an accent of some kind, maybe Italian or Portuguese. Gala asked why not, and he said, “They’re champagne socialists. Rich in vitamins.” I ordered a drink and then said, “What does that mean?” Gala looked over at me slyly. “Whatever it is, it sounds fun. Vitamins are expensive.” Pico looked between the two of us and smiled. He had a gold ring on his middle finger, and he was tattooed all near his knuckles. He ordered for the table. “Sometimes I wonder,” he began, “what the modern equivalent of a showgirl is.” I looked at Gala nonplussed. Pico leaned back into his chair and said, “There used to be more of that class of women before. I wonder where they all went.” I told him there were still burlesque shows, and I could point him in the direction of the good ones if he wished. His eyes were closed, and he waved me away. “No, no. I’m more interested in the lifestyle—upwardly mobile. I think the both of you would make a good pair of plucky showgirls, always in a jam and looking for patrons. Haven’t you ever seen Gold Diggers of 1933?” I laughed. “It sounds like it would make me a little self-conscious.” We can’t have that. I said, “Well, Gala was a dancer. She’s the most qualified if we’re talking about real showgirls.” Gala nudged me under the table, meaning to keep her out of it.
Pico was odd. He led conversation as though he were a conductor, introducing a topic and giving three to four points while only asking for one thought from you, and only if you agreed with him. He began to tire of his own attempt at argument and said, “I feel neither of you values my input.” I said, “What a shame!” And continued dipping pieces of baguette in the garlic butter that had arrived with the escargots. I hoped Thomas would get there soon to balance out the situation. He seemed quite even-tempered upon our first meeting, and I hoped he could rein in Pico.
Pico cleared his throat. “Has either of you read my work?” I asked where it could be found, and he said dryly, “Art publications.” Was that what they were called? I asked what qualified him to write about art, and all he said was “People trust me.” I don’t know much about art, but people have said I have an eye for things. I once asked Gala if I had taste, and she said, “Of course you do. Don’t ever second-guess yourself like that.” I was interested to know whether a review could still be a review with all the temptations around. Pico needed me to elaborate, and I told him that people are scared to be really critical. They only ever sink their teeth into something when they know they’re safe from repercussions. “No one ever wants to lose a favour.” It’s just the type of climate we’re in. There have been many times I’ve flipped through the types of magazines he talks about. The only occasion I read those things is when I’m waiting for something else to do. They’re all ad space and press releases. Even I could pull that off. Pico yawned and spread his arms over the empty chair beside him. “Well, what do you know anyway?”
It is naïve for people to think that I wouldn’t dare. I am in a state of holding back, suspended, waiting for an opportunity worth my time and energy. It’s like I am stopping myself from yelling out, “Don’t you know how easy it is to be cruel!” Criticizing a vulnerable target isn’t impressive to me. Snark requires zero grace or generosity. I smiled to placate him. “You’re right. What do I know?”
Thomas finally got to the restaurant shortly after we finished the starters. He was deeply apologetic, saying that he’d bumped into some friends at a nearby bar and was “forced” into having a drink with them. Gala didn’t seem upset or at all interested in his arrival. She has a hard rule that if you didn’t care enough to be on time at the beginning (when nothing has yet been ruined), why should she care at all. Her attention had shifted to Pico, who was outlining an expedition he had made in Patagonia. He spoke of hot springs, treacherous peaks, glaciers, and flamingos. Gala’s eyes were wide. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Go out into the world, have a real adventure instead of just hanging around.” My eyes narrowed. I perceived that to be a jab at my influence on her. As though I were what was holding her back from doing all those things. I let it slide. I couldn’t keep collecting these kinds of moments until it aroused another hostile outburst three weeks from now. Thomas was smart enough to notice Gala and Pico’s growing chemistry and took up conversation with me. He even got up and asked Pico if they should switch seats. Thomas was really amicable for understanding Gala’s motivations. From what I could tell, Pico was rash and paid no heed to things like safety—Gala’s favourite type of person.
I asked Thomas what he wrote about. He blushed and told me I probably wouldn’t be interested, and I wasn’t particularly, but I was still polite. I pressed him to talk about it. He cleared his throat and folded his hands together. “I write about the banality of the day-to-day, shame, sexual repression, and how you can never raise a child without in some manner harming the way they live their life.” I drank some water and doled a large scoop of steak tartare onto a piece of crostini. A lot of restaurants in America put too much Dijon in tartare. I don’t even know if you’re supposed to mix it in as opposed to leaving it on the side. It usually ruins the accompanying tastes of the meat and capers. I like it with a little bit of horseradish. I told Thomas that unfortunately it didn’t sound like something I would read. “I don’t know if I can relate to any of those things.” Thomas said he admired clarity, sparseness, and truth in writing. Right now, he was focusing on Small Town America. I prepared another bite and held it to my mouth, trying to figure out the neatest way to consume it. I asked him how could he be focusing on it if he wasn’t in a small town, and didn’t that require research? He laughed at me like I was silly. “I meant that as a concept, it exists in a lot of books.” I don’t know how he thinks he can write anything anyone would like to read if he’s not saying anything new about his subject. I shrugged, deciding not to care very much.
He asked me what I read, and I told him that these days, I only ever have time to write in my diary. Upon my mentioning it, he asked, “Would you ever publish it?” I smiled and said, “Everyone in New York asks that. Why do you think that is?” He began to speak but then stopped himself. There was no explanation off the top of his head. He really had to think. “… I suppose because everyone acts like they’re sitting on something worthwhile when really it’s all a bluff. Most of the time it turns into convincing people about the bluff when really you’re empty handed. It’s all about what one can do.” I appreciated the allusion to poker because it seemed masculine. It was nice he thought he could include me in such a thing. “Do you think I’m sitting on something worthwhile?” Thomas shrugged with one hand out and the other with drink. “Does it matter? You have something.” My cheeks were warming. “Well, I’ll admit I always write it like it would be read. But shh, that can be a secret between me and you.” Thomas said that maybe it should be. “People will laugh at you starving, and it’ll be the funniest thing you’ve ever done!” I took a sip of the French 75 I’d ordered. I swirled my glass. I hadn’t had one in several weeks. The lemon peel fell in, giving off a soft fizzing sound. I decided to be honest. “It’s my only constant. It’s the one place where I have control and I can be sure I’m free.”
Thomas said he admired my speech for being ornamental but hoped my diary was not the same. I said why, and he said less is more, and I said, what’s the point of words, because I would like to be extravagant in any way I can. He wasn’t the worst person to be stuck in conversation with, but I could tell without reading his books that he wasn’t a good writer. He was someone well connected enough that people let him express himself.
Thomas asked what I did for work and added, “Gala mentioned you used to live in London. What did you do there?” A small smile escaped while I thought about it. “A little this, a little that. A bit of everything.” “Precariats,” he said. He seemed far more drunk than I had initially considered. He asked me whether I thought about going to school, and I said, “Would you like to offer me a scholarship? I might not have much money, but at least I’m not forever in the red.” A light came on in his eyes. “I have an idea, actually. The friends I had drinks with earlier are looking for a sort of house-sitter.” I straightened myself in my seat, feeling my spine softly crackle. “In New York? That’d be perfect timing. Gala and I have been sleeping in the same bed as our bachelor friend, and he’s starting to get sick of us.” Thomas took a sip of bourbon and made a sound as though it had refreshed him entirely. “Oh no, no, no. They have this amazing château near Toulouse, sixteenth or seventeenth century. They spend most of their time in London but need someone to take care of the estate. They don’t trust the French people from the villages. You’ll have to do some housekeeping, some gardening too. There’s a small stipend of course. It would be best for a couple, but hey, you’re here right now, and it came to mind.” Once the proposition hung in the air, I began rearranging my whole life with a particular shrewdness. He offered, “Why not spend a year in the South of France tending to the dogs and airing the place out a little? What else are you doing?”
My heart rate went up. All kinds of logistics popped into my mind in the effort of making it work and Pulling It Off. I’ve often learned that in order to acquire even the illusion of control, one has to be rash. I have made most life-changing decisions during manic episodes. It is never very dramatic, a subtle pulse that starts drumming tighter and faster together. If I moved to France, I would first have to learn to drive. But maybe I could get a bicycle. That Schengen visa could be a little tricky to get around; it’s not fair it’s only ninety days, when in America I get six months. And whom would I talk to for a year? Perhaps this was the time I could finally become fluent in French. I would probably get nice and round from eating baguettes and cheese night and day. Maybe I only liked the idea of it. Could I ever live in solitude? I asked him if he was serious, and he said, “I can give them a call now. We could go over to meet them together. They’re staying just down the street. Only if you’re dead serious though. I wouldn’t want to let down a Professional Contact.” I told him I’d give him my answer by dessert. I’ve always been able to change the way my future looks with a mere suggestion. It’s one of my greatest traits. My future can accommodate anything.
Pico and Gala were giggling and talking closely. Pico looked at me and said, “You should be careful which stories she tells about you, Isa.” I gave Gala a look. “What has she been saying?” Pico didn’t answer. Gala held her glass of wine loosely. “I used to think I knew everything about her. Isa’s always keeping me on my toes.” I shrugged. “How can you really ever know someone? People change and are in a constant state of revealing themselves. To think you know everything about someone is to leave yourself vulnerable to surprise.” I leaned in the direction of Pico, as to feign amicability, and said, “Let me know if you ever want to hear stories about Gala. I’m never sure about anything with her, and that’s why I’m never surprised. She has her own charm, as I’m sure you’ve gathered.”
Gala got up from the table and bent down to whisper in my ear, “Bring your purse. Come with me to the bathroom right now.” She looked at the men. “Sorry for whispering.” I followed her to the back of the restaurant and into the washroom. Usually I wait to excuse myself till the end of the meal. I’ve developed a small phobia of sitting in front of someone when they pay the cheque. There’s a moment when they look up at you and expect you to be beholden. It’s awkward. Some men really do feel like they’re owed something whenever they’re generous. Well, unfortunately that’s not how generosity works. So I excuse myself to the washroom when the bill hits the table, and when I come back I always say, “Ready?” And we leave. Sometimes I’m not sure whether or not they’ve even paid.
Gala took out that raggedy brush she always carries with her and ran it swiftly through her blond hair. “We should get out of here.” I told her I was taken aback. “You looked like you were getting along fine.” She said that for now that was the case, but she would not suffer fools gladly. “Pico isn’t someone I’d want to be around later.” And what she really meant was she could feel a hint of violence in him. Two more drinks and she was likely to throw one in his face. “He’s one of those proud rooster type of guys, all puffed up and looking for a fight. Can’t ruffle his feathers without putting yourself at risk.” My head started to ache from having my hair in a ponytail all day. I took it out and redid it. I looked at our reflection in the mirror. I was wearing a sleeveless dark-blue lurex top with a high neck. My skirt was tight and to the knee, with a slit on the side that made sitting down a challenge for Modesty. Gala wore my black shirt that was backless except for two strings that held it together. It was the kind of shirt that required a second party to help you put on. I applied some powder to the shiny parts of my face. “Do you think we’ll ever be as poreless as when we were sixteen?” Gala reapplied eyeliner and said, “Speak for yourself. Are we going dancing or what?” I started to complain, “But if we ditch them, I may never get to house-sit a château.” Gala slid her finger across both her eyebrows to make sure they were neat. “You were never going to house-sit a château. I don’t think he was serious. You wouldn’t even be able to do it.” I looked at her reflection in the mirror when I spoke. “He was offering. He’s definitely the kind of person who feels the need to offer someone something just for talking to him. How can you be so sure I wouldn’t be able to do it?” Gala turned to face me. “You’ve never dug a hole in your life.” I thought about it for a while, wondering if I had. “If it was absolutely necessary, I could.” Gala laughed. “You mean if you had to bury a body or something?” She is always jumping to the most morbid conclusions. We left through the back door.
As we paused in front of the restaurant so Gala could ask a woman outside for a match, I glimpsed Pico and Thomas sitting at the table. They were sitting there, drumming their fingers. Pico lifted his eyes and spotted us. He got out of his chair and made his way to the restaurant’s door. Gala was still trying to get her cigarette lit. I hit at Gala’s arm to notify her.
I hitched my skirt a little higher to give some allowance and grabbed Gala’s arm. “On your mark!” We broke into a run down the street. Pico ran out after us. “Cheap little sluts!” While in the midst of our sprint, I looked at Gala with my mouth open. “Unbelievable! How disgusting!”
We only slowed down once we were a couple blocks away from the restaurant. Gala started laughing and said the only time I ever run is when I’ve had too much to drink. “It’s the one guarantee.” She says whenever I am drunk, I like to create a sense of escape. We stopped in an alleyway between two bars and took out small plastic envelopes we got from a Japanese place that serves five-dollar bowls of ramen. Gala recovered her breath. “What did I tell you about that guy? What a fuse!” She had taken a stack of the envelopes from a basket near the restaurant’s cashier. They only work once, and then you’re meant to throw them away. But I don’t. I keep the used ones in my wallet and write down what each of us got and the date. Just as a record, of course. Each envelope was the same. They were red and white with a drawing of a fish with its head out of water and the words FORTUNE TELLER MIRACLE FISH. We have been using them as oracles to guide us through our nights. The instructions read:
PLACE FISH IN PALM OF THE HAND AND ITS MOVEMENTS
WILL INDICATE:
MOVING HEAD …. JEALOUSY
MOVING TAIL …. INDIFFERENCE
MOVING HEAD AND TAIL …. IN LOVE
CURLING SIDES …. FICKLE
TURNS OVER …. FALSE
MOTIONLESS …. DEAD ONE
CURLS UP ENTIRELY …. PASSIONATE
I got FICKLE and Gala got DEAD ONE. Lucian called and said to come to the Ritz in Hell’s Kitchen. We took a cab there, and when we arrived, let me tell you, it was definitely not the Ritz. The bar was narrow, and in the backroom, boys danced on tiny podiums in their underwear with dollar bills folded into the creases. They had a variety of disco lights on, and the walls were mirrored to make the room look more spacious than it really was. Everyone looks beautiful under lights. I am unsurprised that many people, being showered under those bright little specks, fall in love at nightclubs. The music was loud enough that we could only gesture to each other to communicate. Lucian handed us two vodka cranberries and shouted into our ears, “Go dance, and forget everything you know!”