“Are you feeling better than you were this morning?” the practical secretary asks. She is at least twenty years older than the famous American actress, and it’s somewhat disconcerting to see her catering to someone so much younger than herself.
“Still exhausted.” The actress looks at you and offers an explanation. “That fucking boyfriend.”
The practical secretary shoots the actress an admonishing look.
“What?” the famous American actress says. “I already told her all about it.”
The practical secretary’s face tightens.
“I trust her,” the famous American actress says.
“Thanks,” you say, because it does seem like a compliment.
“You’re welcome,” says the actress, and laughs her strange laugh.
You smile because you’re afraid if you don’t your face will express your alarm at her terrible laugh. In return, she smiles her big, notorious smile and you feel like you’re in one of her movies. Whenever she smiles like that on-screen, the person she is smiling at is instantly charmed.
The pale practical secretary clears her throat. “Did either of you want to talk to her?” the practical secretary asks, looking at the bodyguards.
You had almost forgotten about them. Now you understand how the famous American actress can act as though they don’t exist.
The bodyguards lock eyes with each other and appear unsure, but then the one with the red hair says: “Yes.”
The pale practical secretary and the famous actress move to one side of the couch and the secretary pulls out a schedule she wants to run by the actress.
For a moment you’re alone. But then the bodyguard with the red hair comes over and sits across from you. He’s not a large man; he wears a puffy brown leather jacket and you’re sure he wears it to give him more heft. The other bodyguard keeps watch on the elevator doors, on the bartender, on you.
The red-haired bodyguard stares at your naked left hand and asks if you’re married.
You tell him you’re getting divorced.
He asks about the man who you’re divorcing and you tell him that he’s still in Florida, that you’re the one who moved out.
“No pets?” he says, revealing he’s heard the conversation about kids; why else would he jump to the topic of pets?
“I used to have a turtle,” you tell him. “But I had to feed it a salad every day for lunch. It was a lot of food preparation.”
He nods. “I’m studying turtles right now. Galápagos and Darwin and evolution.”
“You’re a Darwin fan,” you say.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, as though you really have pushed a boundary. “People assume Darwin was right about evolution being gradual, but I’m intrigued by radical speciation.” He looks away but has you in the corners of his eyes.
“What’s that?” you say, not because you’re necessarily interested, but because you want to do well at this interview and you believe that this entails having a conversation that makes this man feel intriguing.
“It’s also known as punctuated equilibrium,” he says. “Does that sound familiar?”
It doesn’t. “Maybe,” you say. “Can you remind me?”
He sits up straighter on the couch, like he’s being interviewed for a documentary. “There are these periods in evolution when species are in stasis because there’s no need for change. But then, usually because of a change in their environment, they have to adapt rapidly. That’s how new species come about.”
“What kind of environmental change?” you ask. As a twin, you’ve always been interested in nature versus nurture. Also, if you keep him talking about this he won’t ask about you.
“I’m glad you asked. I’ll give you an example,” he says, and then pauses, as though deciding which one to give. “Say there’s a species of birds — there are these beautiful ones I’m interested in right now. They’re tropical-looking in color, their wings have orange, white, and blue in them. Anyway, they existed for thousands of years, and took shelter in a particular kind of tree. I can’t remember the name of the tree right now,” he says, and his hand makes a fist.
“That’s okay,” you say. “Go on.”
“So the tree where they build their nests and lay their eggs gets suddenly infected by this bacteria. And the trees start to die. So what do the birds do then?”
You realize he’s posing this question to you.
“Find another tree?” you offer.
He points at you, as though he’s been lecturing a class and you’re the pupil who called out the right answer.
“But what if these new trees are taller and the birds need to be able to fly higher up to lay their eggs. Then what happens?” he says.
You open your mouth but realize that this time he doesn’t want you to answer.
“They have to adapt,” he continues. “They have to have greater wing strength. The birds that don’t have it die off, and the others adapt and the species selects to have greater wingspans so they can reach this tree and lay their eggs and have their babies.” He looks out the window of the Regency’s tenth-floor lounge, as though he might see one of these orange-blue birds flying by.
You follow his gaze, and look out at the smoggy, birdless sky.
“Extreme circumstances require radical change. If you want to survive at least.”
“Fascinating,” you say.
The bodyguard stands up.
“Did I fail the interview?” you ask.
“Not at all,” he says. “I know people. I can tell you’re a forthright person, Reeves.” You don’t know if you want to laugh or cry at this statement, but given that this appears to be the end of the interview, you simply nod.
“Well,” says the practical secretary, never one to admire silence for long, “I have a room key.”
“Oh, good,” you say, as casually as you can muster.
“She’s taking over Ivy’s room,” she explains to the actress. She hands you the key card and tells you your room number at the Grand. You place the key card in the front pocket of your jeans, and push it in deep. You want to make sure there’s no chance it could fall out. “Can one of you walk her over?” the pale practical secretary says to the security guards. To you she says: “Maybe you want half an hour to pack your things?”
Your suitcase is already packed and stashed under the massage table in the poolside dressing room.
“That should be enough time,” you say.
You take the elevator back to the pool area, and you retrieve your suitcase from under the massage table. You’re relieved it’s still there. You sit dressed by the pool for twenty-five minutes, and then meet the redheaded bodyguard in the tenth-floor lounge. He takes the handle of the suitcase; it has wheels but he chooses to carry it. You don’t check out of the Regency. Instead you just leave. If the hotel ever receives any inquiries about the charge on Sabine Alyse’s card, they might remember you as a woman who disapproved of the film crew’s attire and was sent champagne.
You walk across the street and into the lobby of the Grand, the bodyguard carrying your suitcase all the while. He leads you up to your room, and opens the door for you.
“Thank you,” you say. You want to make sure he leaves. You don’t want to talk about evolution anymore.
The room is standard, without the luxuries of the Regency. Outside the window you have a better view of the band shell you could see from your last hotel room. You realize the band shell is part of the Jazzablanca Festival. A jazz trio is playing something experimental, and the stage is surrounded by a small crowd of men in leather jackets and girlfriends holding their arms. Everyone seems unsure of whether they should be dancing, so they slightly sway this way and that. You turn your attention back to the hotel room. Housekeeping has come, so there’s no sign of Ivy. You wish you knew something about her. The wastebasket, of course, has been emptied.