Free Zeroville by Steve Erickson

“I believed they were alike, Spain and Mexico,” Vikar says.
    “Spain is European,” Soledad says.
    “Did you make movies there?”
    Soledad absently takes her hair and wraps her fist in it. “Yes.” It would be rude, Vikar believes, to ask if Buñuel really is her father. “Art films,” she says. She glances at her daughter, then says to Vikar, “Lesbian vampires.”
    “What’s that,” says Zazi.
    “Do you want some of my other taco?” Soledad answers her.
    “Can I see your movies?” Zazi says.
    “No.”
    “Can I see them when I’m older?”
    “No.”
    “She can have more of my taco if she wants,” says Vikar.
    “Can I ever see your movies?” says Zazi.
    “No,” Soledad says. She says to Vikar: “I’m up for a part in a private-eye film. It doesn’t shoot until later this year.”
    Vikar nods.
    “I would play a gangster’s girlfriend.”
    “What’s a gangster?” says Zazi.
    “A bad man.” Soledad says to Vikar, “She gets a soda bottle smashed in her face. It is violent but a good scene.”
    “Can I see that movie?” says Zazi.
    “No. If I don’t get that part,” Soledad says to Vikar, “they would give me another part.”
    “I’ve worked on an Otto Preminger movie and a Vincente Minnelli movie,” Vikar says.
    “You build sets.”
    “Yes.”
    “Someone told me you studied architecture.”
    “Yes.”
    “You should work on grand buildings.”
    “I do work on grand buildings. I worked on an Otto Preminger movie and a Vincente Minnelli movie.”
    “I wonder if I know what you mean,” Soledad says softly, but Vikar wonders if she wonders. Gazing toward the beach, Soledad wraps her fist in her hair as though she’s binding herself, like she would if she were tying herself to something or someone. Across the highway, the barefooted woman in the hospital gown has stopped and stands staring at them; it’s not clear to Vikar if she’s considering crossing the road. Soledad stares back; it’s not clear to Vikar if she sees the woman or just watches the sea. “Are you a gangster?” Zazi asks Vikar.
    “Zazi,” says Soledad.
    “No,” Vikar says to Zazi.
    “Are you a serial killer?” Zazi says.
    “Zazi,” says Soledad.
    Zazi says, “I don’t even know what it is. Serial like corn flakes?”
    “I’m not a serial killer,” says Vikar.
    “Did the police take you away that time because you have a picture on your head?”
    “Do you remember that?”
    “Sort of. Mommy reminded me.”
    “I’m certain,” Vikar says, “the police wouldn’t arrest someone for that.”
    “Did you do something bad?”
    “Zazi,” Soledad says.
    “No. I believe the police thought I was someone else.” Two people ran off a hillside, he thinks, but I didn’t mean to.
    “I saw a movie about gangsters,” says Zazi.
    “Which one?” says Vikar.
    “The man and woman who rob banks and shoot people.”
    “You saw that movie?”
    “I didn’t know,” Soledad protests feebly.
    “The cartoon deer one was worse,” says Zazi.
    “What deer one?” says Vikar.
    “The little deer whose mom gets shot.”
    “There,” says Soledad to Vikar, “you see? That one was worse.”
    “Did you like the one about the gangsters?” Zazi says to Vikar.
    “The man and woman who rob banks?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t understand comedies,” says Vikar.
    “What’s a comedy?”
    “A funny movie.”
    “That movie was funny?” says Zazi. “I think maybe I don’t really like movies that much.” She looks at Vikar. “I want a picture on my head.”
86.
    In the car on the way into the city, Zazi sits in front again. She’s turned in her seat studying Vikar. “Zazi,” Soledad says, “turn around in the seat.” She drives irregularly.
    “She should be in the back,” Vikar finally says. Soledad looks at him in the rear-view mirror and Vikar can see her cool smile, like the way she smiled the first time he saw her. She says something so quietly he can’t understand her. “What?” he