Cleopatra and Frankenstein(104)

“Oh wow?” she said.

“Oh wow,” he said.

“What do you say we blow this ice cream stand,” she said. “I saw a place down the street we can get a drink.”



Zoe woke up in another hotel room, this one a glass orb streaked with light. She patted down her body. Her jacket, dress, and tights were all still on. She was alone in the bed. She sat up and scanned the spacious suite. Factory windows overlooking the Hudson River, a sleek writing desk and bar, a coffee table adorned with flowers, and a stack of glossy magazines. Everything bright and airy and modern. Jiro was sitting some distance away on a plush gray coach, still in his suit, reading the newspaper. A blanket and pillow were neatly folded beside him. He looked up and smiled at her.

“Good morning, Zoe,” he said.

“Hey,” she croaked.

A glass bottle of water had been placed next to her on the nightstand. She cracked the cap and took a long gulp.

“You had a little too much to drink last night. I hope your head does not feel it too badly today.”

Zoe ran her hands through her hair. A thicket of tangles.

“I still managed to beat you at pool,” she said.

“That is shamefully true.” Jiro laughed. “And you danced me—what is the saying?—under the table too.”

Zoe let out a gurgle of laughter. “You had some moves. I saw you working that robot.”

Jiro improvised a mini version of this dance move from the couch.

“You’re just being kind,” he said in a robot voice.

Zoe sat up in bed, still giggling. “Did you sleep on the couch?”

“It was quite comfortable,” said Jiro. “I am used to small beds, as you know.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Really.”

“I’m afraid I could not quite decipher your address.”

“Seriously, you could have just put me in a cab.” Zoe sighed. “I’m good at getting home alone.”

Jiro frowned at her. “I would not allow that,” he said. “And nor should you.”

Zoe rolled her eyes and fell back against the pile of pillows behind her. “All right, Dad.”

“I will give you my car account number, just in case,” Jiro said. “You can use it to get home from now on.”

Zoe blinked sleepily at Jiro. “All right, Daddy,” she said more slowly.

Jiro laughed and looked away. “So, what is your schedule like today?”

She sat back up in bed. Her hair was standing on end around her sleep-creased face in a way she hoped looked tousled and beautiful and not simply electrified. She put her finger to her cheek, pretending to think, then smiled.

“Nada,” she said.

“I have no appointments until the afternoon. Shall we take breakfast together?”

“You work on a Sunday?”

“I work every day.”

“Is this the hotel you usually stay in?”

Jiro nodded.

“What do you think?”

“Very nice,” said Zoe, clasping her hands behind her head. “But I always judge a hotel by its bathtub.”

“Would you like to take a bath before going to breakfast?”

“We’re in a hotel, Jiro,” Zoe exclaimed, clambering out of bed. “We’re ordering room service.”

And so began what was for Zoe a perfect morning. She emptied a full bottle of bubble bath into the black marble tub and soaked herself until she heard the clatter of room service arrive. Jiro took a shower, and she was free to eat pancakes and bacon in bed with her fingers while watching reality TV. She drank a whole pot of coffee with two jugs of cream. When she complained about the state of her hair, Jiro called the front desk and asked them to procure a hairbrush for her, which was brought up with a flourish on a silver tray. Later, she and Jiro lay side by side on top of the bedspread, each bundled in a white terry-cloth robe, scrolling through the movies.

“Garbage, garbage, garbage,” said Zoe. “Let’s go to the classics.”

“You are very sure of your opinions,” said Jiro.

“I’ve seen everything,” said Zoe. “You might know hedge funds, Jiro, but I know movies.”

“I saw on your profile that Marlon Brando is your religion.” Jiro shook his head and laughed. “What is it you like about him so much?”

“His mannerisms, his emotion, the way he breathes.” Zoe kicked her legs in the air for emphasis. “I’ve had his poster above my bed since I was ten.”

“And you have always wanted to be an actress?”

“Sure have, Jiro.”

“Why?”

Zoe shrugged. “I just love it.”

“But why?”

“I guess … well, when you’re an actor you can kind of be both seen and not seen at the same time. You’re speaking, but not your own words. You express feelings, but not your own feelings, or at least not usually. You can play a character without being judged by your own character. It’s freeing, you know? Freedom from being yourself.”

“You don’t want to be yourself?”

Jiro looked at her, and suddenly his features contorted into the same exaggerated expression of surprise she’d seen when they first met. It was like watching a crack of lightning zigzag down the center of his face. Zoe looked down, playing with the cord of her robe.