Authors: Anonymous
He’d become like a grandpa to me, Mr. Zglagovvcini. Always bringing me cookies that Mrs. Zglagovvcini had made, asking me how I was, showing me photographs of his sons, who now lived in Berlin. He’d be upset if I just didn’t show up: It would be an insult. I should have cancelled in advance, like I’d planned to. But I hadn’t.
There was no getting out of it.
Maison Chelsea
“LOOK, BORIS,” I BEGAN,
awkwardly, as I climbed off my bicycle, lost my balance, and clattered into the sidewalk with a startled ring from the handlebar bell. “There’s been a—uh,
oof,
dah, grrr—misunderstanding. This whole, y’know, this Internet
thing
—”
Boris reached out to grab my hand.
I motioned to him—as best I could, given that I was on the floor with my feet in the air and a bicycle on top of me—that I could manage on my own, thank you very much.
“As I was saying,” I resumed, now upright, dusting myself off. “This whole—”
“You speak English,” said Boris, with surprise.
“
What?
”
“Oh, nothing. Just from your e-mails. I thought… y’know, you write with an accent.” He laughed. Boris didn’t seem nervous. He was also… dammit, I didn’t even want to admit this…
not bad-looking
—by the standards of an Internet date, anyway. Or that’s what I assumed, having never been on an Internet date before. Hair longish and brown. A couple of days’ stubble. Hazel eyes.
Not short.
I mean, okay, the suit
was a bit odd—who the hell wears a suit in LA?—but it was at least in a tan color and went very nicely with the fitted white shirt underneath.
“Look, about those e-mails, Boris,” I said. “I didn’t actually—”
“You like Japanese?” he asked, suddenly.
“The food?”
“No, the trains.”
“Huh?”
Boris laughed again and play-punched me on the arm. “Messin’ with ya,” he said. “Yeah, the food.”
This Boris was quite a character. I liked him already. More to the point: I needed a drink, and I was hungry. Would it really be so bad if I had some company for once? I mean, Brock would understand. Or maybe I didn’t have to tell him.
“Ooh, how about some
balls,
” I blurted, excitedly.
“Excuse me?”
“Tempura rice balls,” I clarified. “At Soba Kitchen on Third and Melrose. Let’s go there. Oh, and yes, I like Japanese. Food, trains, people. Whatever.”
“Well, let’s do it.”
“Okay!”
Then an awkward pause as the issue of
how
exactly we’d get there arose. Boris spoke first: “I’d suggest we take your bicycle, but I’m not sure I could fit into that”—he pointed to the wicker basket—“besides, I was kinda planning on being alive later tonight. No offence or anything. I’m sure you don’t always fall off when you brake.”
“That was the first time, actually,” I protested.
“I totally believe that,” said Boris.
“So?”
Boris coughed. “Oh, right. My car. It’s over there. What were you saying about your e-mails?”
“Wasn’t important,” I shrugged, as we started to walk.
“It
sounded
important.”
“It wasn’t.”
Okay, so a word about Boris’s car. It had once been a fairly standard,
Asian-manufactured sedan. No longer. Take the airfoil on the trunk, for example. It wouldn’t have looked out of place on a commercial jet. And that was among the less radical modifications, which included inch-high suspension, plastic bucket seats (“carbon fiber,” Boris clarified), and a paint color I’d describe as radioactive carrot.
“Sorry about… y’know,” mumbled Boris, as I attached my three-way racing harness, after searching without success for a normal seat belt. “It’s kind of a hobby.”
Boris, I now suspected, was some kind of major geek, albeit one who dressed against stereotype. And my theory was confirmed beyond any doubt when we got to the restaurant, which was just as I remembered, aside from one detail: The menu was in Japanese—with no translation. Now, this wouldn’t have been so much of a problem, if any of the waiters had spoken English. But they didn’t. Soba Kitchen is authentic like that. The best you can do as a non-Japanese speaker is point vaguely at the menu and hope they don’t bring you their house specialty, the Fugu (“river pig”)—which, if served with even a minor error in preparation, will kill you with a dose of tetrodotoxin, to which there is no antidote. (I’d once recommended the dish enthusiastically to Len.) “I forgot about the language thing,” I told Boris, by way of an apology. “Last time I came here was with my friend Adam. He’s Japanese. And Jewish, actually. Not as uncommon as you might think. I fell in love with the place when I tasted his balls.”
Boris looked up from his menu.
“How many more testicle-based jokes are you gonna make this evening, Sasha?”
“Depends how the conversation goes.”
Suddenly, Boris reached over the table. “Hey—gimme your phone for a second,” he said.
I gave it to him. He tapped on the screen a few times—he seemed to be entering a password—waited a few seconds, then handed it back to me. “There,” he said. “It’s an app that a friend of mine from MIT has been working on. It’s coming out next month. You’re gonna love playing with this. Hit that icon—the red one.”
I did as he said, and my phone switched to camera mode.
“Now take a picture of the menu.”
Cha-chick.
Boris smiled. “Hold on,” he said. “Seriously, this is so cool.”
A moment later, the phone played a little jingle. “Language detected,” said an automated voice.
“Check out the picture.” Boris was grinning.
I did as he said. The image was just as I expected: the restaurant logo not quite in focus; too much glare from the flash; my finger in the bottom left corner of the frame.
“And?” I said.
Boris raised his eyebrows and nodded at my phone. I looked at the picture again.
What was so special about it?
It was just the
menu,
with the descriptions of each… oh… my God…
they were in English!
The app had recognized each Japanese character, translated it, and doctored the image accordingly.
“That’s incredible,” I said. “I mean… I say ‘that’s incredible’ a lot. But this is actually
incredible.
”
“I know,” said Boris, leaning over to take a look. “It can understand all the major languages, and they’re adding more all the time. Soon they’ll be moving on to the really obscure African and Middle Eastern… whoa—what the bejesus is ‘
river pig?
’”
Before I had a chance to explain, seven text messages arrived simultaneously, causing the phone to almost shake itself apart with excitement. This wasn’t unusual, of course—Brock often sent me dozens of texts at once—but these messages hadn’t come from Brock. They’d come from a number I’d used only once before. Mitch had given it to me, during the sanity checks.
I tapped the screen to read:
“GET YOUR GINGER MINGE OVER HERE, BUNGALOW BILL.”
“MITCH SAYS IT’S AN ORDER!”
“SO DO I.”
“OH—
HERE
IS CHELSEA HOUSE.”
“LAST SUPPER!!”
“BAD NEWS COMING.”
“DAH-DAH-DAHHH!!”
Boris was still looking over my shoulder. “Hey, I don’t mean to pry,” he said, raising his palms and moving back to his side of the table. “But is that…
the
Joey—”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “It’s him.”
“Wow.”
“Not really. Look, I’m sorry, Boris, but I’m gonna have to get my balls to go. It’s a work thing.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“That’s very sweet, thank you.”
“One condition, though.”
“What?”
“We try this again next week.”
I’d never been to Maison Chelsea before, but I knew what was it—a private club, owned by a mysterious Frenchman, located on the penthouse level of Fortune Plaza, one of the few high-rise buildings to cast a shadow over Hollywood Boulevard.
Pretty much every Big Name in town is a member of Maison Chelsea, and it’s not hard to understand why: Paparazzi can’t get anywhere near the place (the entrance is on the twenty-eighth floor); the commitment to privacy is such that all electronic devices are banned, and regardless of how famous you are, you can take a maximum of only three guests. The latter ensures that membership of Maison Chelsea is vital to anyone with even the vaguest of social aspirations. Marriages have failed because one partner’s application to the club was accepted while the other’s was declined. Similarly, lifelong friendships have been severed.
I asked Boris to drop me off outside, only to discover after fifteen minutes of wandering aimlessly between illuminated palms in the courtyard that the elevator to the penthouse level was located in the underground
garage. So down the steep driveway I went, ducking under the traffic barrier by the ticket machine, and ignoring the sign that read,
“THIS IS NOT—REPEAT, NOT!—A PEDESTRIAN WALKWAY.”
On the other side I encountered an amused-looking valet, who pointed me toward an unmarked glass doorway, barely visible between two black Maseratis. Beyond it was a small, dark lobby with two banks of elevators, an angular sofa—clearly designed for minimum comfort and maximum aesthetic value—and a reception desk. Downtempo electronica pulsed in the background.
“
Bonjour
and welcome to Maison Chelsea,” said one of the male receptionists. He was dressed like a Depression-era newsboy and didn’t sound the least bit French. He sounded British, in fact. (Just what I needed in my life:
another Brit.
)
“I’m meeting someone,” I offered. The way it came out sounded like an apology for my very presence. I was annoyed with myself for being so easily intimidated.
“And the member’s name?”
I had no idea if Mitch was the member, or Joey. Somehow, using Joey’s name seemed ridiculous.
“Mitch,” I said, my face now a boiling cauldron of shame.
“Last name?”
“McDonald.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Several legitimate club members were now in line behind me. I could feel their pity.
“… what do you mean,
no?
” I asked.
“There’s no ‘Mitch McDonald.’”
“Can you try under Joey?
Joey Lovecraft.
”
The receptionist’s concentration intensified. Skepticism had also made itself plainly visible on his brow. He moved the nib of his fountain pen quickly down a list in the leather-bound signature book in front of him while making a diligent-sounding clucking noise. “
Hmm,
”
he said to himself. “Well, I see that Mr. Lovecraft
is
expecting someone this evening. But I’m afraid…
hmm,
I’m only seeing a… Bill.”
“That’s me,” I said, relieved. “I’m Bill.”
“Oh, so
you’re
Bill?” said the receptionist, with only barely disguised sarcasm.
“Yes.”
“ID,
please.
”
The “please” was delivered with such contempt, “fuck you” might have sounded a bit friendlier.
I produced my wallet. Then I realized the problem.
“Well, my ID says, ‘Sasha,’” I began to explain. “But he calls me Bill.”
“Fascinating,” came the reply. “I’m sure there’s an absolutely hilarious backstory. You should tell me all about it another time. Take a seat. I’ll have someone look into this.”
“But—”
The receptionist gestured to the unwelcoming slab of foam in the corner.
Sighing, I sat down. Five minutes passed. My back started to hurt.
Another five minutes.
I stood up and walked around. At least a dozen other Maison Chelsea members came and went, each displaying or otherwise confirming their credentials with no effort whatsoever. They were from another world, these people: a taller, better-dressed, more beautiful world, in which everyone looks a bit like Wayne Shoreline. I sat down again. Okay, so this was getting miserable. I would have called Mitch and Joey, but all communication devices were banned. Then, at last—thank God—I overheard the receptionist discussing my case on the phone with an assistant manager upstairs. “If you get a moment,” he was saying, “could you ask Mr. Lovecraft to describe, ‘Bill’?
Thanks.
”
I’d been here—what?—forty minutes now.
The receptionist raised his eyebrows at me as he waited for the callback. “Yes?” he said, when the phone finally rang. “A redhead. Very pale, you say. No makeup? Oohhkay… it
is
a she, then. Jeans. Plain top. Plain
everything.
Right.”
Click.
“Please make your way upstairs,” he ordered. “Mr. Lovecraft is in The Blue Room. You can ask the hostess on the penthouse level for directions when you get lost.”
“
When?
”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d been here before.”
“I haven’t.”
“I didn’t think so.
Enjoy your night.
”
The Blue Room was indeed virtually impossible to find. Although Maison Chelsea is located atop Fortune Plaza for the views, the hallways that join the bar, restaurant, bathrooms, cinema, and private rooms are entirely windowless. I felt as though I were inside a tenth-century château, what with the narrow, wood-paneled walls, oppressive ceilings, and low-watt fixtures. It must have taken an interior design budget in the tens of millions to turn what had originally been a modern, open-plan office space into something so gloomy and unnavigable.
None of the doors were marked. Some were locked; others weren’t. As for the staff, they didn’t wear uniforms or make eye contact, so unless you caught them directly in the act of a service-oriented task, it was difficult to know who they were. Even then, they weren’t exactly very helpful. “Honestly,
madam,
the only way I could tell you how to get to The Blue Room would be to take you there myself,” as one waiter explained, as though he were describing a physical impossibility.
I found it by myself in the end, using a system of trial and error. The very instant I pushed open those gigantic double doors, there was no doubt I was in the right place. Aside from its size—I’ve walked through more intimate hotel atriums—it was… well, it was very blue. The ceiling was blue. The floor was blue. Even the view through the thirty-foot-high panoramic windows was blue, given that it was comprised mostly of early-evening California sky. The rest of the blueness, meanwhile, came from light reflected through water, which was possible because the room—and I appreciate how crazy this sounds—was
inside a swimming pool.
Or to put it another way: The ceiling was the glass-bottomed floor of the pool’s upper deck, while in several places throughout the room, the water deepened to fill transparent cylinders that served as kind of Roman columns, which were in turn linked to more water under the opaque floor.