He looked at her. “You girls are so complicated.”
“No, we’re not. You just have to understand us, that’s all.”
“And how do we do that?”
“You just have to listen to us.”
There was a crackle above them. In a rustle of wings and raucous shrieks, two male parrots were fighting pitilessly over a female. Other birds, witnessing this, flew from branch to trunk, commenting on the struggle. The branches shook with wild energy.
“Albane, would you sleep with me?”
“What?”
“Since we’re together, we could sleep together.”
“Are you crazy? I’m too young.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m fifteen.”
“And I turned sixteen ten days ago.”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t sleep with anyone until I’m sixteen and a half.”
“Why sixteen and a half?”
“It’s how old my cousin was when she did it for the first time.”
“Albane, I’m getting nowhere fast. You’re old enough to be with me, but too young to sleep with me. So what do you think ‘being together’ means?”
“It means we know it and other people know it.”
“Know what?”
“That we’re together.”
“In my opinion, ‘being together’ is more than that. It means to be in love all the way.”
“What do you mean, all the way?”
“All the way.”
In the trees, the fight was growing more intense, and the warriors’ cries of rage were becoming disturbingly cruel.
“Quentin, give me some time, please.”
“If I have to wait till you’re sixteen and a half . . . ”
“I’m prepared to wait for you. Because I love you.”
“OK”
Quentin stood up, made sure that his shirt was tucked into his jeans, ran his fingers through his curly hair to give it more body, then, like a phlegmatic globe-trotter, picked up his backpack.
“I’m going to catch my bus.”
Albane gave a start. “Already? And you’re just going to leave me all alone like this?”
“Who do you want me to leave you with?”
“Without saying anything else . . . ”
“If it’s in your power to change the public transit schedule, then I’ll stay. Go ahead, Mary Poppins!”
“You’re laughing, but I’m sad.”
“I never asked you to be sad.”
“I’m sad because I’m going to be without you.”
“I’ll see you at six o’clock this evening, OK?”
He walked quickly away, speeding up with every step.
She followed him with her eyes, hoping he would turn around, ready to blow him a kiss, but he vanished around the corner. She sighed.
Picking up her satchel, she noticed a yellow envelope on the bench. She immediately understood. The reason he’d run off so abruptly was because he’d scribbled her this message. Heart pounding, she unfolded the paper.
Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who.
She bounced up, stamped her feet, clapped her hands. Quentin had certainly fooled her: he’d acted indifferent, pretended he wasn’t in love.
Bursting with joy, she danced around the bench, overexcited, not noticing the surprised looks she was getting from the gardener. Then she threw herself back down on the bench and, legs flailing with happiness, pulled out her phone to tell her best friend. With the dexterity of a professional typist, she wrote:
Gwen, I’m happy. Will tell you.
Since she had ten more minutes before taking the streetcar, she decided to act out a little scene: she would fold the letter, put it back on the bench, pretend she hadn’t seen it, then pretend she had just discovered it. That way, she’d again experience the same ecstasy as the first time.
She put the object down by her side, crossed her legs, and indulged in the luxury of whistling as she watched the parrots flying through the spring air.
Just then, a hand came from behind and snatched away the paper.
“Phew! I thought I’d lost it.”
It was Quentin, out of breath, picking up the envelope.
Albane gave a start. “But Quentin . . . ”
He was already rushing away. “It’s nothing, I’d just forgotten something. I’m off to the bus station. See you at six, Albane, without fail!”
He was already around the corner.
Albane sat there with her mouth open, incapable of gathering her thoughts. If the note wasn’t meant for her, who was Quentin going to give it to?
After two minutes of terror, she sniffed, grabbed her telephone, and unhesitatingly tapped out another text:
Gwen, I think I’m going to kill myself.
9
Thank you for seeing us.”
“You’re most welcome. The honor is all mine. I’m always happy to open my door to true art lovers.”
Jovially, eyes sparkling with delight, Wim bowed to the Vandenborens, distinguished collectors from Antwerp.
“Of course, you know my assistant . . . ”
Meg stepped forward. “We met at the gallery.”
She held out her hand, but in Wim’s opinion, two seconds were quite sufficient for introducing an assistant, so he intervened and gallantly took Madame Vandenboren’s arm; Meg had no choice but to flatten herself against the wall to let them pass, bowing to Monsieur Vandenboren as he trotted behind his wife, eager to see the paintings.
The hallway was narrow because, in keeping with Wim’s instructions, the architect had created a setting intended to dazzle visitors. The loft, which was over 2,000 square feet, looked all the vaster when you came to it via a tight bottleneck.
The Vandenborens were suitably awestruck by its surface area, its breadth, its immaculate white walls, and its functional, minimalistic furnishings. Before they saw even a single one of the canvases, they marveled at the space that housed them.
Feigning indifference, Wim, whose pudgy face was reminiscent of a little trumpet-playing cherub, spoke with a mixture of elegance and forcefulness. “Paintings fade if people don’t look at them. Just like women, they need to be taken out, shown off, complimented, desired. They languish if they’re shut away. Solitude kills them. Do you think Matisse, Picasso, or Bacon produced their masterpieces for museum basements or the insides of safes? Whenever I’m fortunate enough to acquire a masterpiece, I hang it here, and every day I gaze at it, examine it, and speak to it. That’s what maintaining a heritage means first and foremost: a lot of attention. Works created with the heart must be looked at with the heart. Don’t you agree?”
The couple nodded. Meg admired Wim’s introduction: aware that the Vandenborens were very much in love, he addressed their taste for collecting in romantic language.
“This is how I divide up my activities: temporary exhibitions dedicated to an artist at the gallery, and my permanent collection over here. I keep the best pieces, the ones dearest to me, at home. Which, naturally, are also the dearest, period!”
He laughed, carrying the Vandenborens with him in his brief burst of hilarity.
Meg noted that Wim was applying a particular method of communication: relaxing his customers, making them feel comfortable. She was amazed at the ease with which Wim, who was such a snob, pulled the strings like a good merchant. Was it calculated or instinctive on his part?
“May I leave you for a few minutes? I must show a painter out. I’ve been seeing him downstairs. You know what artists are like: they’re easily offended.”
Principle number two: once harmony has been established, make yourself needed. Wim would leave the Vandenborens alone in this luxurious hangar, and they wouldn’t say a word, in awe of the place, the paintings, the silence, and would onl
y feel comfortable again when he returned.
Wim motioned to Meg to follow him. Together, they took the inner staircase, made of brown wood, and rejoined not a painter, as he had made out, but a couple of potential French customers who had been looking at paintings for an hour.
Wim turned solemn, austere, almost morose. “Coming back to our conversation, nowadays the only sound investment is art.”
“If you choose a good artist.”
“Naturally. If you have lousy taste, then you might as well stay at home.”
Once again, Meg applauded Wim’s performance: he was adopting a mocking tone with a touch of vulgarity in order to conform to Parisian taste.
“A painting,” he went on, “isn’t just a good financial deal that’s likely to increase substantially in value, it’s also a useful tax break.”
The French gave a painful sigh. No sooner did you utter the word “tax” to a Frenchman than you knew you had inflicted hurt but you had captured their attention.
“They don’t tax works of art in France,” Wim continued.
“Not yet!” the Frenchman cried skeptically.
“They never will.”
“Oh, you never know with them. It’s always best to expect the worst.”
Meg was amused by the “they” and “them.” Who did Wim and the French couple mean? Politicians? The Right? The Left? The tax authorities? The Ministry of Finance? This “they” contained a combination of irrational fears.
“Oh, no, they’ll never do that,” Wim insisted. “There have to be rich people so that the poor people can be provided for.”
“There’s no room for common sense in our country these days. It got swallowed up by ideology.”
Wim assumed a sympathetic expression. He knew it was pointless to debate this any longer. The atmosphere darkened. All four of them were united in the thought that the world was heading for the apocalypse.
Meg knew from experience that this was a crucial moment: the French needed a dose of pessimism before proceeding.
And indeed, the man resumed, “Anyway, you’d let me have the Louise Bourgeois sculpture for . . . ?”
“Four hundred thousand.”
“Is that negotiable?”
“It’s already been negotiated. I offered it to you earlier at four hundred and fifty thousand.”
“You could make a little effort.”
“Why should I? Tomorrow, I’ll be approached by a Dutchman, a Chinese, or a Russian who won’t argue about the price. Remember it’s a Louise Bourgeois, an undeniable asset to France.”
The man grumbled and his wife elbowed him more or less discreetly. Everything would be decided in the next three seconds.
“Louise Bourgeois was French. Her work will remain in France!”
Wim and Meg exchanged a complicit glance: the sale had been concluded, and Wim had been right to appeal to national pride. Even though the French are constantly running France down, they nevertheless still have the pride of being citizens of a great nation; if you mention “a Dutchman, a Chinese, or a Russian” to them, you evoke people they consider barbarians, and they immediately want to save world civilization by bringing French property back to France.
“Congratulations!” Wim exclaimed. “A wonderful purchase. I’m delighted that this work—so fundamental to the sculptor’s career—is going to your home in Paris, where Louise Bourgeois was born and where she studied. A genuine return to the roots.”
The French nodded. Even though they were making a private purchase, they claimed a legitimacy that no foreigner ever could have.
Wim shook their hands warmly. “Well done! Let’s go to my office and sort out the details. Meg, take a look downstairs, then at the mezzanine.”
Meg understood. She rejoined the Vandenborens, who were standing frozen at the entrance to the loft, and apologized for Wim with the customary phrase. “Wim has been detained downstairs. He’s sorry he left you alone with his darlings. But please do walk around and look at the works. He’ll be back as soon as he can.”
She walked a few yards with them, stimulated them with some brief comments, then left them to their contemplation and went to the mezzanine.
What they called “the mezzanine” was the truly private section of the place. Although Wim made it seem as if the triple loft was his apartment, it was actually a showroom, of which he inhabited only the third floor. The couches, the bar, and the kitchen had a degree of decoration, but the living space was again minimalistic.
Meg knocked at the bedroom door.
Twenty seconds later, the door was opened by a slim girl with a mass of blonde hair, wearing a T-shirt and leggings.
“Oh, hello, Meg.”
She lifted a strand of hair, which immediately fell back over her eye.
“Hello, Oxana, Wim has sent me to ask if there’s anything you’d like.”
“Anything . . . ?” Oxana said, fighting off the strand of hair, which was impairing her vision. “I don’t really know . . . ”
Meg figured that Oxana’s brain was like her hair: messy.“Yes, like breakfast, for instance?”
“Oh, no . . . That’s all right . . . I had a kiwi.”
This irritated Meg. How could a girl who was five foot ten be content with a kiwi when she, who was eight inches shorter, needed several slices of bread with butter and jam?
“Would you like me to order you a taxi?”
“A taxi?”
“Yes, for you appointment.”
Oxana became confused and hopped around the room, knocking into the furniture because her hair prevented her from seeing obstacles. “My diary! Where’s my diary?”
Meg watched in dismay as Oxana searched her bed, the armchair, the couch, holding her hair up on her head with her hand. Confronted with such distress, and trying her best to conceal her contempt, Meg suggested, “Perhaps it’s in your suitcase?”
Finding this a brilliant idea, Oxana rummaged in it and clicked her fingers in triumph. “Here we are! Today . . . Photo shoot at Studio 66.” She pushed back her hair and looked admiringly at Meg. “What a memory, Meg! I’m impressed.”
Meg nearly replied, “I heard you mention that appointment at least three or four times.”
Meg found Oxana quite annoying, but didn’t show it because Oxana held the key to the mystery of seduction . . .
As far as Meg was concerned, Oxana belonged to a different species. How could anyone have such an endless body without an ounce of fat? How could anyone have such long legs? Such a high, narrow pelvis? How could anyone digest food with such a concave belly? Surely, there wasn’t enough room in there for intestines! Oxana, Meg thought, didn’t look like a woman but a model—which was what she was. A model, in other words, a hybrid race midway between a child and a giraffe. At that moment, leaning against the door frame, Meg was looking at a zoological environment, a cage where a mane on legs, obsessed with her falling strands of hair, was flitting from handbag to suitcase.
If the first mystery resided in this absurd body, the second was linked to the attraction produced by this absurd body: men were crazy about Oxana. That someone like Wim—intelligent, educated, canny, loquacious—should install a big animal like Oxana in his bedroom was something of a riddle. Because Oxana was neither stupid nor intelligent, neither kind nor nasty, neither interested nor disinterested, neither calculating nor nonchalant. No, Oxana was none of those things. At best, she was like lukewarm water. How did Wim not get bored with her? How could such a big talker, who loved intellectual sparring, converse with this decal, this woman for the deaf and dumb?
“Too bad, I don’t have time to wash,” Oxana decided, tiring of her own excitement. “I’ll just put on a dress and go like this.”
There lay the third mystery: Oxana never seemed to have time to wash and yet she always smelled good. Meg was beginning to suspect that there was some kin
d of subterfuge behind this miracle: who was to say that Oxana didn’t get up much earlier, shower, wash her hair, pamper her skin, then grab an old T-shirt from the night before and go back to bed?
“I’ll order you a taxi,” Meg said. “In ten minutes. All right?”
Not waiting for a reply, which was likely to take at least a minute, Meg booked the cab and went back to the loft, where Wim was commenting passionately on his paintings to the Vandenborens.
Meg stood aside in a corner to watch them, aware that nobody was paying any attention to her anyway.
She stared at Wim. Why did some of her female friends find him ugly? One of them had nicknamed him Riquet with the Tuft . . . True, he didn’t have the body of a Prince Charming, he was short, with wide hips and narrow shoulders; but he was a good mover, his legs were flexible, he had a broad chest, he carried himself well, he would wave his hands elegantly as soon as he became impassioned about something, and he acted quickly and precisely, without hesitation. As for his features, they were round: round eyes, a round nose, a round mouth, round cheeks, a round chin, and a round skull with bare temples ending in a short crest that looked like a baby’s hair. Actually, Wim resembled a character in a cartoon. And Meg had always loved cartoons.
He noticed her from a distance and motioned to her to go open the mail. She obeyed immediately. What a brilliant man! She liked his hyperactivity: while developing a theory about the hidden tenderness of the painter Bacon for the benefit of the Vandenborens, he had found the time to see her and assign her her tasks.
She put the mail in order, organizing the bills, putting professional proposals into a file, and throwing advertising in the wastepaper basket. She was disconcerted by the last letter:
Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who.
She didn’t like this message. Who had written it? Not Oxana: she was Ukrainian, and didn’t speak French well enough. Who, then?
Whoever the schemer was, for a moment Meg admired her audacity: she certainly knew how to take the initiative.
Oxana appeared in the loft, perched on heels that made her six inches taller. That girl really does have a vocation to become a lamplighter, Meg thought. Oxana waddled over to Wim, who greeted her warmly, slid a hand over her back, and introduced her to the Vandenborens.
The Carousel of Desire Page 8