During the closing scene, Brad leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You look like him, a little. You guys have the same nose.”
In my dreams that night, and for many nights after, I saw Johnny Moon’s bloodied face and cold, still, fishlike eyes, his bluish body buoyant in the water, surrounded by jagged floating chunks of ice. I woke up with my hands shaking, sweat gathering of the base of my neck.
The extravagance made my teeth hurt.
Fractures of light bounced off diamonds set into tiaras and other baubles that were as impractical as the silk frocks and dress jackets swimming about the room. Champagne flutes and vodka shots flew by on trays lofted high by servants dressed in simple black bodysuits, casting the partygoers into even more ridiculous relief. This wasn’t an imperial ballroom in a great royal palace in Sweden – it was just modeled to look like one. The aim was to forget where we were and why. Everyone accomplished that beautifully.