“No?”
“No.”
Reassured, François-Maxime ran to her and clasped her to him. “I love you, Séverine. You have no idea how much I love you.”
The vehemence with which he said this owed as much to his relief as to his sincerity. For a moment, he had been afraid of losing everything he held dear: his wife, his family, his success, and his secrets. Lyrical and intoxicated, he kept saying over and over that he loved her, dancing joyously on the edge of the abyss he had just avoided.
Séverine burst into tears.
He comforted her, then, gently, as if she were as fragile as a porcelain vase, he led her to their bedroom and laid her down on the bed.
It was incredible . . . Always that curious effect . . . Whenever his wife cried, he desired her. Was it an underlying sadism that he couldn’t control? Or did he, like a true old-fashioned male, think that only his caresses could give her peace?
Sensing he would have to be patient, he held her tight, caressing her and whispering a thousand sweet nothings to her. As soon as she smiled, he playfully rubbed noses with her. Tamed by his gentleness, she purred and laid her head and arm on his chest.
When he was sure that if they made love he would be able to see it through to the end, he tried to look into her eyes: she had dozed off with exhaustion.
He held her in his arms until she was fast asleep then, certain that she wouldn’t be awakened by a movement of his, he slipped out of bed and went back to the living room.
Without switching on the lights, he climbed on a stool and grabbed an art book from the top shelf of the bookcase, closed all the curtains and doors in the room, turned on a single standard lamp, and sat down beneath it.
It was a book of pictures by the great New York photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, showing the usual tortured Herculean bodies, swollen black penises, convoluted patterns of bonds and straps in which esthetic perfection was blended with erotic fantasy. François-Maxime thanked the creator for allowing him to bring home these stimulants in the form of art, and proceeded to appease the tension that was stopping him from sleeping.
5
Were you out last night?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mademoiselle Beauvert raised her head, the better to hear the question asked by Marcelle, who, armed with a cloth, was searching for an object to attack in the living room.
“Well, I picked up your laundry from the dry cleaner’s and came by here to drop it off. I rang the bell several times. Same thing the previous evening, when I tried to return the magazines you’d lent me.”
Marcelle loved magazines devoted to the lives of kings and princesses, and would spend many wonderful hours in her lodge, admiring dresses, trains, diadems, palaces decorated with gold leaf, all the things she only had access to through pictures.
“To be honest, you’re out a lot!” she concluded.
Mademoiselle Beauvert turned red.
“What’s it all about, Mr. Hook-Nose?” the parrot started shrieking. “What’s it all about?”
Mademoiselle Beauvert glared at him. This gave the parrot leave to scream, “Help! Help, Sergio! Help!”
Taken aback, Marcelle stared at the bird. “Your Copernicus is a bit touched,” she said, adding, to herself, I prefer my Afghan.
Mademoiselle Beauvert stood up, turned around, and, twisting her fingers nervously, walked up to Marcelle. “There’s something I must tell you.”
“Oh, yes?” Marcelle replied, her curiosity aroused.
“I’ve met someone.”
Marcelle opened her eyes wide and slowly nodded.
Mademoiselle Beauvert expressed her delight with a short, sharp laugh. “He’s a world-famous musician. A pianist. American.”
“Is he black?”
“No, white. But he’s very close to Obama.”
Marcelle waved her hands in admiration. “How long have you been seeing him?”
“A year.”
“Does he live here?”
“No, in Boston,” Mademoiselle Beauvert said, lowering her head modestly, as if the name Boston described one of her boyfriend’s more disturbing characteristics.
Marcelle was surprised. “How do you manage? With him in Boston and you here?”
“He’s in Brussels right now. The rest of the time, we talk on the phone.”
“Well, I must say, Mademoiselle, you’ve bowled me over.”
Marcelle was astounded. She found it hard to fathom how anyone could have a love affair over the phone. How would she manage with her Afghan, seeing that he didn’t speak a word of French and she didn’t speak a word of Pashtun?
“What language do you speak in?”
“English . . . ”
“Well done!”
“ . . . although he speaks French very well. He attended a master class in Paris for two years. Anyway, French has become the language of love for him.”
She blushed again, as though she had just confessed to a very intimate detail.
Marcelle nodded, then said, by way of conclusion, “I’m going to get my vacuum cleaner.”
Mademoiselle Beauvert also nodded, judging that Marcelle had taken the correct initiative.
While Marcelle was struggling in the cupboard, trying to unjam the thing, Mademoiselle Beauvert returned to her desk and grabbed a piece of paper. On it she wrote a few words in pencil:
Pianist. American. Studied in Paris. We’ve known each other for a year.
Just then, Marcelle reappeared. “Very close to Obama, you say?”
“Yes, Marcelle, very close.”
“And he’s not black?”
“No, Marcelle.”
Marcelle plugged in the vacuum cleaner. “Mind you, I’ve never been with a black man. I’d have liked to. Just out of curiosity.”
“Curiosity about what?”
Marcelle looked at Mademoiselle Beauvert and hesitated to answer, realizing she might shock her. She shrugged and switched on the noisy vacuum.
“Anyway, he’s not black, so . . . ”
She started energetically going over the large rugs.
Mademoiselle Beauvert added the note: Very close to Obama but not black. Before slipping the strange yellow piece of paper into her secret drawer, she checked again what it had on the back: Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who.
It’s odd. I’m still waiting for the follow-up. They’ve been good at stimulating curiosity, but now they shouldn’t delay or people are going to forget.
Relieved, she assumed that Marcelle would now stop trying to find out where she went in the evening. On the other hand, it meant she would regularly ask after her lover—what else could she call him?
The noise of the vacuum cleaner stopped. With the lead in her hand and her foot on the machine, like a hunter posing with her prey, Marcelle looked at Mademoiselle Beauvert. “My son’s getting married in three months.”
“That’s wonderful. Who to?”
“Christèle Peperdick.”
Mademoiselle Beauvert wondered if her brain was falling to pieces. “Christèle Peperdick?”
“Yes.”
“The Christèle Peperdick?”
“Why, are there two of them?”
Mademoiselle Beauvert stood up, displeased. “Marcelle, don’t pretend you don’t know. I’m talking about Christèle Peperdick of the Peperdick champagne family.”
Marcelle scratched her head. “Yes, that’s the one I’m talking about as well.”
“Are you trying to tell me your son, your son, is marrying the heiress to the Peperdick fortune?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re saying it just like that?”
“How else should I say it?”
“Come on, now! The whole world would love to meet the Peperdicks. And Christèle Pe
perdick’s the most eligible girl in Brussels. How did your son pull it off?”
“Like everybody else: he flirted with her.”
“Where did he meet her? How? Why? You don’t seem to realize just how . . . ” she wanted to say “unexpected,” but changed her mind at the last moment, “ . . . wonderful this marriage is.”
Marcelle raised her eyes to heaven. “You never know,” she grunted. “Marriage is all fire and passion at the beginning, then everything turns to ashes. Let’s see how long the little darlings stick it out.”
“Marcelle, your son’s going to be a rich man!”
“Good, because he owes me two hundred and forty-two euros. Did I tell you? I gave him two hundred and forty-two euros up front so he could make me a night table. Well, I don’t have my bedside table, and I don’t have my two hundred and forty-two euros, dammit!”
Grumpily, she took out her anger on a chair that was in her way, kicking it twice and shoving it up against a wall.
Mademoiselle Beauvert was holding her head in her hands. Here was a mother harping on about her two hundred and forty-two euros and her night table, when her son was about to make the match of the century!
Faced with the utter absurdity of it, she started having doubts. “Marcelle,” she said, “where do your future daughter-in-law’s parents live?”
“At the end of Avenue Louise, on Square du Bois.”
Mademoiselle Beauvert quivered. Square du Bois was a private street protected by black and gold railings, housing patrician residences of between 7,500 and 10,000 square feet, and was a kind of elite village where money—old and new—lived. It had been known as Billionaires’ Row in the days of the Belgian franc, and Millionaires’ Row since the switch to euros.
“Have you met this young lady? Or her parents?”
“Not yet.”
“Hasn’t your son suggested you should?”
“He made an insinuation I didn’t like, so I threw him out. And if he sets foot here again, my Afghan is instructed to kick him out.”
“Marcelle, what happened?”
“He wanted to check on the way I dressed and what I was going to say.”
There was no doubt about it, then! Everything Marcelle had said so far was the truth.
“That’s right, Mademoiselle,” Marcelle said. “Like he’s ashamed of his own mother!”
She let go of the vacuum cleaner, punched herself in the forehead, and burst into tears. Mademoiselle Beauvert rushed to put her arm around her and murmur a few words of comfort. Deep inside, though, she really felt sorry for the young man, who, having struck gold, was justifiably afraid that his mother might sabotage his rise.
A wave of kindness swept over her. She sat Marcelle down in an armchair, placed a stool in front of her and, holding her hands, said slowly, “Marcelle, your son loves his mother and wants to make sure his in-laws will like her too. He wants to be certain you’ll be able to establish a good relationship with that family. There’s nothing bad about his request.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it. I can help you, if you like.”
“To do what?”
“Prepare for your first meeting.”
Marcelle stiffened. “Come on, Mademoiselle, it’s just a girl and her parents who make booze. It’s not like he’s introducing me to the Queen of England!”
“I’m afraid you may be underestimating the Peperdicks, Marcelle. Next to the Queen of England, they’re listed among the fifty wealthiest people in Europe.”
Marcelle turned pale. “No!”
“Yes. Usually, a girl like Christèle Peperdick—and I say this with the greatest affection and respect—would marry a rich heir or a prince. Not your son.”
“Oh, God, what kind of mess has he gotten himself mixed up in now?”
“Help him.”
“All right. What do I have to do?”
Mademoiselle Beauvert stood up and examined the concierge’s tubby figure. “Maybe a little dieting to start with?”
“Why?”
“The rich are skinny. They may have more money for food, but they half-starve themselves. Once people reach a certain level of income, all their efforts go not into buying food but into refusing to eat it.”
“My poor boy eats enough for four.”
“He’s young, so he doesn’t retain fat. Whereas we, at our age . . . ”
Marcelle looked at her thighs, belly and arms, and for the first time seemed to grow aware of her bulk.
“Once you’ve slimmed down, Marcelle, we’ll buy you some new clothes.”
“With what money?”
“Maybe your son will return your two hundred and thirty—”
“Two hundred and forty-two euros! He’d better. Oh, shit, it’s time for me to drop by Madame Martel’s. I must go, I’ll finish tomorrow.”
She left her cleaning unfinished and headed for the door. Mademoiselle Beauvert automatically followed her.
“Mind you, even if he does give me my two hundred and forty-two euros back, I’ll still have the problem of the night table.”
“Then ask your Afghan to build you one.”
“My Afghan? He can’t touch a dish without breaking it. Butterfingers. He’s an intellectual, a doctor of linguistics!”
“Linguistics!” Mademoiselle exclaimed, surprised that Marcelle should know the word.
Once the door was shut, Mademoiselle Beauvert sank into deep despair. Chance was a fickle thing. This was so unfair! She wished she was twenty again, making different choices. She identified with the two characters in Marcelle’s story: the rich young girl wary of men, and the poor young man who builds his life on making a good match. Mademoiselle Beauvert herself had never overcome her fear of insincere boyfriends and hadn’t made marriage the foundation of her life. The conclusion being . . . ?
There was no conclusion.
If this carries on, I’m going to go back there!
A shriek tore through the gloom. “Sergio! Sergio!”
“Shut up, Copernicus!”
The parrot laughed. It was a sour, vicious laugh. Out of revenge, she spread a blanket over the cage. “Time to sleep.”
Then she threw herself into an armchair, feeling a strong sense of unease. The day wasn’t going as expected. She had planned to read and watch television, and, instead, she’d had to justify herself, invent a new suitor, and listen to the concierge telling her about her son’s unbelievable marriage.
This is too much. I’m going to have to go back there.
Although she had so little experience of life, she was disillusioned. Withdrawn in her arid, charmless apartment, she felt nothing but emptiness, both inside and out. What was the use of continuing this aimless, pointless existence? This void didn’t soothe her. A secret restlessness ate away at the boredom, a nagging sense of anxiety, which might be the only trace of life that remained in her.
What if I went now?
Her alter ego answered, No. You’ve already been there several times this week. You must control your urges.
All right.
For several hours, she struggled, like a beast pacing up and down its cage. The remote in her hand, she channel-hopped, hoping that some image might grab her attention. She began reorganizing her wardrobe. She checked the expiration dates of the food in the kitchen—once, twice, three times. She tried reading The Woman by the Water, a novel by her neighbor, the writer Baptiste Monier, but she judged the first chapter to be below par, finding it hard to memorize the names of the characters.
Finally, at nightfall, she could resist no longer. Why not? Who’d know, except me?
In a conspiratorial voice, she ordered a taxi.
When she sank into the cab and gave the driver the address, he responded with a knowing smile. Bristling with dignity, Mademoiselle Beauvert lifted her chin and looke
d so surprised, so taken aback, that the driver was sure he had made a mistake.
He dropped Mademoiselle Beauvert outside the casino.
She felt herself come back to life as she climbed the steps. Full of joy and enthusiasm, and quivering with desire, she walked into the main room, where every member of staff welcomed her by name.
Why did I try to stop myself? I feel better already.
Still, she was determined to punish herself for exceeding her usual dose—she had played several nights in a row this week. As penance, she decided to avoid the more expensive games and limit herself to the slot machines.
She sat in front of a brand-new chrome model, decorated with drawings of fruit, slid in a coin, and pulled on the lever. There was a frenetic succession of lemons, melons, strawberries, kiwis, and pineapples. For a fraction of a second, Mademoiselle Beauvert glimpsed three dollars side by side, saw one vanish, then another, and felt a surge of anger. Chaos resumed at a furious pace, until finally the images settled: two dollars and a pear.
I’m almost there. I just need one more.
She set the machine in motion again. This time, she closed her eyes, as if saying to it, Don’t make fun of me by giving me false hopes. You have to obey me, not the other way around.
As soon as the buzzer went, signaling that the meter had fixed the symbols, she opened her eyes. Three dollars. Bingo!
The money fell out noisily in a metallic, liquid stream. Too many coins for the holder she was carrying.
She went eagerly to the cash desk, clutching her new wealth.
With luck like this, I’m hardly going to stick to slot machines. That’d be an insult to luck!
Nothing seemed more sensible to her than the thought she had just had. If luck was on her side, then she had to respect it. Resolutely, she walked to the green table, around which people crowded reverently. Spotting an empty seat, she elegantly slipped into it, greeted her partners, and gave the croupier a wink.
The sight of the baize, the chips, and the roulette wheel made her skull tingle pleasantly. Confidently, unhesitatingly, she pushed her stack onto three red.
The Carousel of Desire Page 17