local she’d snagged at the airport and offered a hundred U.S. dollars to if he’d translate for her for the day) that Zymar had left the day before to visit Denpasar. So she and Thuan loaded into Thuan’s Volkswagen Bug (he demanded that he drive his car as part of his services) and headed inland. Three hours later, Lydia’s legs were cramped after slogging through brown sludge. She watched her interpreter try to communicate with the toothless old woman.
“She say go on up. But leave her five first.”
“Five?” Lydia asked. Then she realized—of course, the universal translator—cash. Lydia smiled at the woman and handed her a five-dollar bill. The old woman cackled and said something to Thuan.
“She say room six and thank you. She also say if you are wife to knock first.”
“Tell her not to worry—not his wife. Not anybody’s wife,” Lydia said, and moved toward the front entrance of the hotel. There, between Lydia and the door, sat a giant baboon defecating on the step. The baboon finished and scampered up a palm tree beside the hotel. Lydia stepped over the steaming pile of shit, realizing what, in part, made up the brown sludge she’d waded through.
The lobby was filled with orange vinyl chairs that looked as if they came straight from a Denny’s in Sherman Oaks. Once past the lobby, there were, of course, no lights to illuminate the creaky wooden staircase. Room six was on the top floor. She felt as if she was in a scene from Apocalypse Now as they ascended. She might as well get a gunboat and go upriver. She hoped Zymar didn’t have a machete. Lydia reached for the doorknob and Thuan cleared his throat.
“Lady, maybe I go first. You might get a surprise.”
“I promise it’s nothing I haven’t seen. I’m from L.A.”
And it wasn’t. Weston may have liked Asian twins, but Zymar preferred Balinese triplets. Lucky for Lydia, all four were taking a breather. One was in the bathroom and two were passed out on the bed, where Zymar lay smoking a Thai stick with his eyelids half closed.
“Bollocks, this must be good stuff,” Zymar said as he exhaled. “I see Lydia Albright.”
She’d never determined exactly where Zymar’s accent was from. It sounded to her like British-Australian with a hint of New Zealand thrown in. Pacific Eurotrash. Damn, she’d always been a sucker for accents. Weston’s was New York Jew. It didn’t matter the type of accent, she just loved how it sounded on a man.
“Not such good stuff, Zymar. It’s actually me,” Lydia said.
“Eh. She even talks. Sounds like Lydia Albright, too.” A wicked gleam lit up Zymar’s eyes as he took another toke on his Thai stick.
Lydia looked around the room. She needed Zymar’s clothes and—she hoped for his sake—his shoes. She couldn’t imagine what kind of parasite you could pick up slogging barefoot through baboon shit.
“Girls. Looky here. It’s Lydia Albright from ‘Ollywood.” Zymar laughed and nudged one of the sleeping triplets. The third one emerged nude from the bathroom and curled up on a divan in the corner.
Lydia grabbed Zymar’s jeans and Paul Frank T-shirt off the floor and dumped them on the bed next to her director.
“Work with me here, big guy. I’ve only got the plane for twenty-six more hours. We need to get going.”
“Going? Lyd, look around you. Do you think a man like me would leave this lot?”
Lydia spotted Zymar’s flip-flop sandals (covered in brown goo) in the corner. Careful not to touch the soles, she walked them to the edge of the bed.
“No, but I do think you have a pay-or-play contract to do my film, which means that either you come back with me to do my movie, or forget about your ten-million-dollar fee and pay the studio back the two million they already paid you. Plus go to movie jail for the next five to ten years because I will make it my personal mission in life to make sure you don’t work in film— any kind of film—for at least that long.”
Zymar’s lips
“She say go on up. But leave her five first.”
“Five?” Lydia asked. Then she realized—of course, the universal translator—cash. Lydia smiled at the woman and handed her a five-dollar bill. The old woman cackled and said something to Thuan.
“She say room six and thank you. She also say if you are wife to knock first.”
“Tell her not to worry—not his wife. Not anybody’s wife,” Lydia said, and moved toward the front entrance of the hotel. There, between Lydia and the door, sat a giant baboon defecating on the step. The baboon finished and scampered up a palm tree beside the hotel. Lydia stepped over the steaming pile of shit, realizing what, in part, made up the brown sludge she’d waded through.
The lobby was filled with orange vinyl chairs that looked as if they came straight from a Denny’s in Sherman Oaks. Once past the lobby, there were, of course, no lights to illuminate the creaky wooden staircase. Room six was on the top floor. She felt as if she was in a scene from Apocalypse Now as they ascended. She might as well get a gunboat and go upriver. She hoped Zymar didn’t have a machete. Lydia reached for the doorknob and Thuan cleared his throat.
“Lady, maybe I go first. You might get a surprise.”
“I promise it’s nothing I haven’t seen. I’m from L.A.”
And it wasn’t. Weston may have liked Asian twins, but Zymar preferred Balinese triplets. Lucky for Lydia, all four were taking a breather. One was in the bathroom and two were passed out on the bed, where Zymar lay smoking a Thai stick with his eyelids half closed.
“Bollocks, this must be good stuff,” Zymar said as he exhaled. “I see Lydia Albright.”
She’d never determined exactly where Zymar’s accent was from. It sounded to her like British-Australian with a hint of New Zealand thrown in. Pacific Eurotrash. Damn, she’d always been a sucker for accents. Weston’s was New York Jew. It didn’t matter the type of accent, she just loved how it sounded on a man.
“Not such good stuff, Zymar. It’s actually me,” Lydia said.
“Eh. She even talks. Sounds like Lydia Albright, too.” A wicked gleam lit up Zymar’s eyes as he took another toke on his Thai stick.
Lydia looked around the room. She needed Zymar’s clothes and—she hoped for his sake—his shoes. She couldn’t imagine what kind of parasite you could pick up slogging barefoot through baboon shit.
“Girls. Looky here. It’s Lydia Albright from ‘Ollywood.” Zymar laughed and nudged one of the sleeping triplets. The third one emerged nude from the bathroom and curled up on a divan in the corner.
Lydia grabbed Zymar’s jeans and Paul Frank T-shirt off the floor and dumped them on the bed next to her director.
“Work with me here, big guy. I’ve only got the plane for twenty-six more hours. We need to get going.”
“Going? Lyd, look around you. Do you think a man like me would leave this lot?”
Lydia spotted Zymar’s flip-flop sandals (covered in brown goo) in the corner. Careful not to touch the soles, she walked them to the edge of the bed.
“No, but I do think you have a pay-or-play contract to do my film, which means that either you come back with me to do my movie, or forget about your ten-million-dollar fee and pay the studio back the two million they already paid you. Plus go to movie jail for the next five to ten years because I will make it my personal mission in life to make sure you don’t work in film— any kind of film—for at least that long.”
Zymar’s lips
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