Glamorama
"Hi, I'm Victor Ward, I'm in first class, cabin 101," I start.
"Yes?" The clerk tilts his head, tries to smile, almost succeeds.
"And I'm looking for a Marina Gibson-"
"Looking for?" he interrupts.
"Yes, I'm looking for a Marina Gibson, who's in cabin 402."
"Have you looked in cabin 402?" he interrupts.
"Yes, and she wasn't in cabin 402, and neither, it seems"-l take a deep breath and then, all in a rush-"was anyone else and I need to find her so I guess what I'm saying is that I'd like her, um, paged."
There's a pause that isn't in the script.
"Why do you need to page her, sir?" the clerk asks.
"Well," I say, stuck, "I... think she's lost." Suddenly I start shaking and have to grip the sides of the desk the actor's sitting at in order to control it. "I think she's lost," I say again.
"What I mean"-I breathe in-"is that I think maybe she moved to another cabin maybe."
"That's highly doubtful, sir," the clerk says, shaking his head.
"Well, I mean, she's supposed to have met me for lunch and she never showed up." My eyes are closed and I'm trying not to panic. "And I'd like her paged-"
"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't page people because they've missed a meal, sir," I hear the actor say.
"Could you please just confirm for me that she's in that room? Okay? Could you please just do that?" I ask, teeth clenched.
"I can confirm that, sir, but I cannot give out a passenger's room number."
"I'm not asking you to give out a room number," I say impatiently. "I'm not asking for a passenger's room number. I know her goddamn room number. just confirm she's in room 402."
"Marina...?"
"Marina Gibson," I stress. "Like Mel. Like Mel Gibson. Only the first name is Marina."
The clerk has pulled open one of the spiral notebooks, which supposedly contains a computerized listing of all the passengers on this particular crossing. Then he wheels over to the monitor, taps a few keys, pretends to appear authoritative, consults one graph and then another, lapses into a series of sighs.
"What room did you say, sir?"
"Cabin 402," I say, bracing myself.
The clerk makes a face, cross-checks something in the spiral notebook, then looks vacantly back up at me.
"That room isn't inhabited on this crossing," he says simply.
A long pause before I'm able to ask, "What do you mean? What do you mean, 'not inhabited'? I called that room last night. Someone answered. I talked to someone in that room. What do you mean, 'not inhabited'?"
"What I mean, sir, is that this particular room is not inhabited," the clerk says. "What I'm saying, sir, is that nobody is staying in that room."
"But..." I start shaking my head. "No, no, that's not right."
"Mr. Ward?" the clerk begins. "I'm sure she'll show up. "
"How do you know?" I ask, blanching. "Where in the hell could she be?"
"Maybe she's in the women's spa," the clerk suggests, shrugging.
"I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this, Mr. Ward-"
"Hey, wait, don't say things like that," I say, shuddering, holding my hands up.
"Whenever somebody says something like that, something is definitely f**ked up."
"Mr. Ward, please-"
"I think she's in trouble," I say, leaning in. "Did you hear me? I said I think she's in trouble."
"But Mr. Ward, I don't even have a Marina Gibson on the passenger list," the clerk says. "There's no Marina Gibson registered for this crossing."
The clerk looks up at me as if he can't possibly comprehend the expression on my face.
I wait in the hall in a small chair, watching everyone who enters and exits the women's spa until it closes.
2
F. Fred Palakon calls at 7:00. I've been in my room since the women's spa closed at 5, mulling over the prospect of roaming the entire ship to look for whoever it was who called herself Marina Gibson, ultimately discarding that prospect because the photo from last night's dinner was slid under my door in a manila envelope stamped with the QE2 imprimatur. The photo didn't come out too well, the main reason being that the Wallaces aren't in it.