"I thought perhaps you two were together," Stephen adds, smiling. "Well, who knows," I laugh, striking a pose, breaking it up by shifting my weight impatiently from one leg to the other and back again.

"She seems like a lovely girl," Lorrie says approvingly.

"She's a model," I point out, nodding.

"Of course," Stephen says. "And from what I hear so are you."

"And so I am," I say awkwardly. "I've gotta split."

"You know, Victor," Lorric begins, "this is terrible but we did see you about three months ago in London at the opening of the Hempel Hotel but you were besieged by so many people that it made contact, well, a little difficult," she says apologetically.

"Well, that's just great, Lorrie," I say. "But I wasn't in London three months ago."

The two of them glance at each other again and though personally I think the look they exchange is a little overdone, the director, surprisingly, does not and the scene continues uninterrupted.

"Are you sure?" Stephen asks. "We're fairly certain it was you."

"Nope, not me," I say. "But it happens all the time. Listen-"

"We read that interview with you in-oh, what's the name of that magazine?" Stephen looks to Lorrie again.

"YouthQuake?" Lorrie guesses.

"Yes, yes, YouthQuake," Stephen says. "You were on the cover."

"Yeah?" I ask, brightening a little. "What did you think of it?"

"Oh, it was excellent," Stephen says. "Excellent."

"Yes," Lorrie adds. "We thoroughly enjoyed it."

"Yeah, I thought it turned out pretty good too," I say. "Dad wasn't too happy about it, though."

"Oh, but you've got to be yourself," Stephen says. "I'm sure your father understands that."

"Not really."

"Victor," Lorrie says, "we would love it if you joined us for dinner tonight."

"Yes, I think your father would be furious if he knew we were sailing together and we didn't have dinner at least one night," Stephen says.

"Or anytime you're in London," Lorrie adds.

"Yeah, yeah," I say. "But I don't think I'm going to London. I think I'm going to Paris first. I mean, Cherbourg, then Paris."

When I say this, Lorrie glances at Stephen again as if I've just made some kind of observation that displeases her.

"I've gotta split," I say again.

"Please join us tonight, Victor," the man reiterates, as if this really wasn't an invitation but a kind of friendly demand.

"Listen, I don't mean to like seini-blow you guys off but I'm really really tired," I say. They seem so worried by this excuse that I have to add, "I'll try, I really will, but I've given up on socializing and I'm really quite out of it."

"Please," Stephen says. "We're in the Princess Grill and our reservation's at eight."

"We insist, Victor," Lorrie says. "You must join us."

"I feel wanted, guys," I'm saying, walking away hurriedly. "That's great. I'll try. Nice to meet you, cheerio and all that."

I slip away and race around trying to find Marina, concentrating on all the practical places she might be. Nixing the Computer Learning Center, I hit various art galleries, the library, the bookshop, the Royal Shopping Promenade, elevators, the labyrinth of corridors, even the children's playroom. With a map in hand, I find then scope out the gym on deck 7: lines for the Lifecycles, the rowing machines, the treadmills, the aerobic room, jammed with elderly Japanese flopping around to lousy British synth-pop, with a male instructor with hideous teeth who waves me over to join in and I neatly barf. Drowsy, I go back to my cabin and lie down, vacantly noticing new pages of the script, faxed from somewhere, lying on a pillow along with the ship's daily paper, immigration formalities, invitations to parties. During this the entire sky is a low white cloud and the ship sails beneath it indifferently.

11

F. Fred Palakon calls after I've finished the room service dinner I ordered and Schindler's List is playing on the small television set situated above the bed, a movie I had no interest in seeing when it came out but now, since Friday, have watched three times since it takes up an enormous amount of hours. My notes thus far? One, the Germans were not very cool; two, Ralph Fiennes is so fat; and three, I need more pot. The connection when Palakon calls seems unusually crisp and clear, as if he's calling from somewhere on the ship, but since no one else has called I can't be sure.