shocked. “Of course not.”
“I would have,” I said, realizing even as I said it that I probably wasn’t a prime example of a well-adjusted adult.
“We used to come here once every couple of weeks.” He looked around. “Haven’t been here since. I thought I’d feel bad, but I don’t.”
• • •
The Hanoi Hilton was a real clusterfuck when we got there around eleven-thirty. When Sammy the bouncer saw us standing at the top of the stairs with twenty or more people ahead of us he barked at the crowd to make way for a VIP, and for a second I thought the scene might turn ugly, but the whispers and pointing amongst those awaiting entry were excited rather than angry; the chance to rub shoulders with celebrities apparently trumped the unfairness of it. Sammy nodded at me as we passed and jerked his thumb toward the bar, where the assembled crowd parted like the Red Sea making way for Moses, people touching me on the shoulders and arms as though I could cure whatever it was that made them want to come to a place like this and pay double for watery drinks and damage their hearing to the tune of twenty-year-old disco riffs, probably not even getting laid in the bargain. The bartender handed us our comped drinks and gestured with a sideways nod toward the VIP salon, pressing a button as he did so. The door to the salon opened, and Sammy’scousin, wearing shades and an earpiece, gestured us inside as the crowd at the bar gawked.
To my surprise Marie-Laure was already there, along with the production assistant—Clarice? Félice?—I’d promised Fred he could sleep with. Marie-Laure’s skirt just about came up to the crack of her ass, and the way she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs made me wonder whether she was wearing underwear or not. Esmée strode toward me and gave me the bise —four—and Mathieu shook my hand.
“We’ve been discussing your project,” Esmée said. “It’s fascinating. How ever did you get the idea?”
“Standing in front of the old girl and trying to picture what the arms would have looked like.”
“Did you get the basket?”
“I did. I have to admit I haven’t cracked open the champagne yet.”
A simultaneous and brief look of anticipation crossed the faces of Marie-Laure and Esmée and, I was interested to note, that of the production assistant as well, a look that I hoped had escaped poor Fred’s notice. This was unlikely, because he was staring at the poor girl with the intensity a baby gives its mother when it’s sure she’s about to leave the room.
“How do you find the hotel?” Esmée asked.
“Delightful,” I said.
“But it must be terribly expensive.”
“True enough. I really ought to look into renting something.”
Esmée pressed her hand flat to her sternum. “You know, I just had a thought,” she said in a way that made me certain she’d had the thought well before I arrived. “I have an apartment in the sixth, not far from here at all. It’s furnished and unoccupied; the tenant left last month.”
Knowing full well she was going to let me stay there for free, I played along. “That sounds ideal. What do you think per month?”
“I wouldn’t dream of letting you pay. You’re such a delight for even considering me for the role.”
I looked over at Marie-Laure, whose face was the very picture of equanimity and indifference, and I knew she was seething. She loathed Esmée, and it didn’t look like there was going to be any way to avoid the two of them working together.
As we discussed the specifics of the arrangement I glanced at Fred, who was still staring at the assistant (I really was going to have to learn her name once and for all), while she studiously ignored him. I sidled over to him as Esmée, Marie-Laure, and the object of Fred’s affections huddled to discuss whether or not they should get out onto the disco floor and boogie down. Mathieu was leaning against a wall painting of Christopher Walken’s
“I would have,” I said, realizing even as I said it that I probably wasn’t a prime example of a well-adjusted adult.
“We used to come here once every couple of weeks.” He looked around. “Haven’t been here since. I thought I’d feel bad, but I don’t.”
• • •
The Hanoi Hilton was a real clusterfuck when we got there around eleven-thirty. When Sammy the bouncer saw us standing at the top of the stairs with twenty or more people ahead of us he barked at the crowd to make way for a VIP, and for a second I thought the scene might turn ugly, but the whispers and pointing amongst those awaiting entry were excited rather than angry; the chance to rub shoulders with celebrities apparently trumped the unfairness of it. Sammy nodded at me as we passed and jerked his thumb toward the bar, where the assembled crowd parted like the Red Sea making way for Moses, people touching me on the shoulders and arms as though I could cure whatever it was that made them want to come to a place like this and pay double for watery drinks and damage their hearing to the tune of twenty-year-old disco riffs, probably not even getting laid in the bargain. The bartender handed us our comped drinks and gestured with a sideways nod toward the VIP salon, pressing a button as he did so. The door to the salon opened, and Sammy’scousin, wearing shades and an earpiece, gestured us inside as the crowd at the bar gawked.
To my surprise Marie-Laure was already there, along with the production assistant—Clarice? Félice?—I’d promised Fred he could sleep with. Marie-Laure’s skirt just about came up to the crack of her ass, and the way she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs made me wonder whether she was wearing underwear or not. Esmée strode toward me and gave me the bise —four—and Mathieu shook my hand.
“We’ve been discussing your project,” Esmée said. “It’s fascinating. How ever did you get the idea?”
“Standing in front of the old girl and trying to picture what the arms would have looked like.”
“Did you get the basket?”
“I did. I have to admit I haven’t cracked open the champagne yet.”
A simultaneous and brief look of anticipation crossed the faces of Marie-Laure and Esmée and, I was interested to note, that of the production assistant as well, a look that I hoped had escaped poor Fred’s notice. This was unlikely, because he was staring at the poor girl with the intensity a baby gives its mother when it’s sure she’s about to leave the room.
“How do you find the hotel?” Esmée asked.
“Delightful,” I said.
“But it must be terribly expensive.”
“True enough. I really ought to look into renting something.”
Esmée pressed her hand flat to her sternum. “You know, I just had a thought,” she said in a way that made me certain she’d had the thought well before I arrived. “I have an apartment in the sixth, not far from here at all. It’s furnished and unoccupied; the tenant left last month.”
Knowing full well she was going to let me stay there for free, I played along. “That sounds ideal. What do you think per month?”
“I wouldn’t dream of letting you pay. You’re such a delight for even considering me for the role.”
I looked over at Marie-Laure, whose face was the very picture of equanimity and indifference, and I knew she was seething. She loathed Esmée, and it didn’t look like there was going to be any way to avoid the two of them working together.
As we discussed the specifics of the arrangement I glanced at Fred, who was still staring at the assistant (I really was going to have to learn her name once and for all), while she studiously ignored him. I sidled over to him as Esmée, Marie-Laure, and the object of Fred’s affections huddled to discuss whether or not they should get out onto the disco floor and boogie down. Mathieu was leaning against a wall painting of Christopher Walken’s
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