On this much Xanax it's remarkably easy to concentrate solely on the making of a Cosmopolitan. You think of nothing else while pouring cranberry juice, Cointreau and lemon citron into a shaker filled with ice that you yourself attacked with an ice pick and then you're rolling a lime and slicing it open, squeezing the juice into the shaker, and then you're pouring the cocktail through a strainer into a giant martini glass, and back in the living room Makeup fixes my hair and I can't help but keep imagining what Jamie and Bobby are doing in their bedroom and I'm glancing up at the ceiling and while sipping the Cosmopolitan I zone out on the Paul McCartney and Wings sticker on the front of the notebook Bobby made for me.
"Didn't we hang in Serifos?" the hairdresser asks me.
"We didn't hang out in Serifos," I say, and then, "Oh yeah."
I attempt to read an interview in Le Figaro that Jamie gave on Wednesday but I'm unable to follow it, realizing midway through that I'm unable to speak or read French. I barely notice the hand grenade leaning against an automatic rifle on the table my drink is sitting on. Why this Paul McCartney and Wings sticker is on my notebook is a question easier to concentrate on. Crew members debate whether the latest U2 record really cuts it, until the director calls out for silence.
Bobby glides in. I look up solemnly from whatever it is I'm doing. "You look nice," he says.
I soften, smile weakly.
"What are you drinking?" he asks.
I have to look at the color of the drink before answering, "A Cosmopolitan."
"Can I have a sip?"
"Sure." I hand him the martini glass.
Bobby takes a sip, brightens up and smiles. "Great Cosmo, dude."
A very long pause while I wait for him to hand the drink back. "I... appreciate the compliment."
"Listen, Victor," Bobby starts, kneeling down in front of me.
I tense up, cross my legs, the copy of Le Figaro slipping to the terrazzo floor.
"I appreciate you watching Jamie and-"
"Hey man, I-"
"-I just wanted to let you know that-"
"Hey man, I-"
"Hey, shhh, chill out." He breathes in, stares intently up at me. "Listen, if I chastise you at times, if I seem to"-he pauses effectively-"warn you a little too harshly about where your place is in all of this, it's just to keep you on your feet." He pauses again, holding direct eye contact. "I really trust you, Victor." Another pause. "Really."
A long pause, this one on my part. "What's going to happen, Bobby?" I ask.
"You'll be prepped," Bobby says. "You'll be told what you need to know. You'll be given just the right amount of infor-"
Upstairs someone slams a door and Tammy cries out and then it's silent. Someone stomps down a hallway, cursing. From inside Tammy's room Prodigy starts blasting out. Bobby flinches, then sighs. "That, however, is getting out of hand."
"What's the story?" I ask slowly.
"Tammy's conducting an affair that is important to us but shouldn't mean anything to Bruce." Bobby sighs, still on his haunches in front of me. "But it does. And that is proving to be a problem. Bruce needs to get over it. Quickly."
"What is"-I start, breathe in-"the problem?"
"The problem..." Bobby stares at me sternly. Finally a smile. "The problem really doesn't concern you. The problem will be resolved soon enough."
"Uh-huh, uh-huh," I'm saying, trying to sip the drink.
"Are you okay, Victor?" Bobby asks.
"As well as... can be"-I gulp-"expected."
"I actually think you're better than that," Bobby says, standing up.
"Meaning what?" I ask, genuinely interested.
"Meaning that I think you've adapted well."
A long pause before I'm able to whisper, "Thank you."
Bruce walks down the circular staircase wearing a black Prada suit and a bright-orange turtleneck, holding a guitar and a bottle of Volvic water. Ignoring both of us, he flops down in a corner of the room and starts strumming chords before settling again on the Bread song "It Don't Matter to Me," and the entire crew is silent, waiting. Bobby studies Bruce for a long time before turning back to me.
"Look," Bobby says. "I understand where you're coming from, Victor. We plant bombs. The government disappears suspects."
"Uh-huh."
"The CIA has more blood soaked into its hands than the PLO and the IRA combined." Bobby walks over to a window, peels back a dark, lacy curtain and stares out at the other crew milling about on the street, just silhouettes whispering into walkie-talkies, movement in the mist, more waiting. "The government is an enemy." Bobby turns to face me. "My god, you of all people should know that, Victor."