They changed the subject, and the merry tone of the evening returned.
The party broke up at around eleven. To avoid having to hug the eight “boys,” who had been waiting just for that, Dany waved goodbye to them and took refuge in the bedroom, claiming that he had an urgent phone call to make.
Faustina escorted her guests to the door, and they congratulated her on her choice. Hips wiggling, eyes sparkling, she received their compliments as if she had created Dany’s beauty, then, with a few excessive sighs, she confirmed that what they hadn’t seen was definitely worth seeing.
“You bitch,” Nathan said. “My one consolation is that you at least can satisfy him. When I see these women who cling to stunning men and then just frustrate them, I feel like murdering them.”
“Calm down, Nathan,” Tom said. “Let’s leave Vaginitis to our friend Faustina.”
“Oh, I love the nickname,” Nathan chuckled.
“Shut up,” Faustina muttered, trying to stop herself laughing.
“When you called him that, Faustina, I laughed all day. And now that’s what I call him in my head. Several times tonight I nearly said, ‘A bit more wine, Vaginitis?’ or, ‘Would you like more sausage, Vaginitis?’”
They laughed. Faustina frowned and put her index finger on her lips. “Come on, boys, go home and don’t be good.”
“Have a good night with Vaginitis, darling.”
As she closed the door, she heard them going into hysterics on the stairs. That was why she loved Tom and Nathan: they shared her fierce, dirty sense of humor.
She returned to the living room, where Dany, grim-faced, was collecting his things.
“What’s wrong?” Faustina asked anxiously.
“I heard everything.”
“What?”
“‘Vaginitis.’”
She shuddered. “Come on,” she stammered. “It’s rather flattering. It suggests your . . . your skills . . . You know, it matters to them . . . ”
Dany walked past her without so much as a glance, threw his key into the bowl in the hallway, and left. “Goodbye. You have no respect for me.”
6
Does your G-spot work OK?”
Holding to her chest a dish she was torturing with a linen cloth on the pretext of drying it, Marcelle came out of the kitchen to talk to Mademoiselle Beauvert about what was preoccupying her.
“I ask because I had a G-spot before it was even discovered. I was a pioneer. I was seventeen when I found it, and that was at a time before anyone was talking about it. Incredible, isn’t it?”
Refusing to encourage the confidence, Mademoiselle Beauvert didn’t reply.
Rubbing the dish with renewed energy, Marcelle went on, “I guess I can’t really take credit: I was just made that way. As soon as you get inside me, I’m off.” She nodded her head several times, to make sure, amid her memories, that she was telling the truth. “Every time, bam! Hold on to your hat!” Pleased with herself, she nodded again, looked up, and was surprised by her employer’s silence. “What about your G-spot, Mademoiselle?”
“Marcelle, this kind of conversation—”
“All right, I get it. The G-spot isn’t your thing. There are women like you. Plenty. Apparently, the majority. Poor things . . . We’re not all the same in that department. Still, you have certain advantages I don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Money, education, class.”
“Thank you, Marcelle.”
“Yes, frankly, you’ve been spoiled. Because, actually, apart from being attractive to men and having a G-spot, I haven’t been dealt a good hand.”
Mademoiselle Beauvert looked at Marcelle with a mixture of irritation and commiseration: how could this squat, surly creature with all the grace of a boar attract men? She clearly appealed to them, there was no doubt about it, because lovers came and went with the regularity of a metronome, and she hardly ever spent more than a month on her own. But Mademoiselle Beauvert idealized love, and the kind of union she admired was between a handsome male and a beautiful female. Any other bond seemed weird, intolerable, possibly even obscene. If every male toad could find his female toad, then we weren’t humans anymore, just animals.
Nature had probably invented different kinds of attraction to ensure that couples should form and perpetuate the human race. Yes, there must be invisible factors, smells, enzymes, molecules—chemical phenomena, in other words—floating in the air to induce a reasonable-looking man to leap on a mole like Marcelle. It was this invisible aura that Mademoiselle Beauvert lacked. So much the better! Ever since she had been aware of existing, she hadn’t seen herself as a wife or a mother, but rather as a “daughter of,” an appendage of her beloved parents. The premonition she had had when she was young that she would avoid affairs of the flesh had been confirmed.
She had been spared the brutishness of it all. As far as she was concerned, this indifference to carnal torments meant that she lived in a healthy atmosphere uninfected by lust. Her body too was pure, and her soul wonderfully free. She didn’t experience stupid heartbreaks or constant frustration, she dressed as she pleased, and she was the only person to touch her skin, except for hairdressers, physical therapists, manicurists—professionals who were there to make you feel good. Better still, unlike other women of her age, she wasn’t aware of getting old, and the cessation of her periods had meant nothing more than the end of unnecessary pain. As for her wrinkles and slightly pasty complexion, nobody had commented on them—not even she.
Every now and again, she was convinced that her good cheer and her energy were linked to the preservation of her virginity. She had noticed the same innocent joy in some nuns. It wasn’t true that sex made women feel fulfilled. As for motherhood, it just exhausted them, nothing else.
“How was your weekend in Geneva?”
Mademoiselle Beauvert smiled. “Wonderful . . . ”
“Is it fun in Geneva?”
“John came with me.”
“John?”
“John.”
“Oh, you mean your boyfriend, the one who’s very close to Obama?”
“He’s the only one I have, Marcelle.”
“I wish I was in your shoes. All these weekends all over the place, in big cities . . . I’ve always dreamed of going to Rome, Moscow, Istanbul.”
“It’ll happen, Marcelle.”
“With what money, Mademoiselle? With what money? How much did your ticket to Geneva cost, for instance?”
A cruel idea crossed Mademoiselle Beauvert’s mind, one that she couldn’t resist. “Two hundred and forty-two euros.”
“Two hundred and forty-two euros? Really? That’s incredible. It’s exactly the amount I gave my son to make me a night table! The way things are going, I’m not going to see Geneva, or my bedside table, or my two hundred and forty-two euros!”
“When’s your boy getting married?”
“They’re getting engaged first, Mademoiselle. The Peperdicks insist. Those people are old-school.”
They’re stalling, Mademoiselle Beauvert thought. They clearly don’t like it that their daughter is marrying a concierge’s son.
Marcelle chuckled. “Funny, really, that I’ll be married before him.”
“Excuse me?”
“My Afghan’s asked me to marry him.” With an unexpectedly girlish gesture, she raised her hands to her flushed cheeks.
Mademoiselle Beauvert froze. No, she wasn’t going to allow such a mistake to be made! She owed it to herself to intervene. At first, she tried to circumvent the obstacle. “At least wait for your son to be married.”
“No way. I think it’ll be much nicer to go to my son’s wedding on the arm of my Afghan. I’ll look less like a poor, lonely woman . . . ” It struck Marcelle that she might have wounded her employer. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Beauvert, I don’t mean you, nobody think
s you’re alone, you have such class, and besides you could go to the wedding with Obama’s buddy, your black boyfriend who plays the saxophone.”
“He’s not black and he plays the piano.” Mademoiselle Beauvert made an imperious gesture to stop her replying. “I hope you haven’t said yes to his proposal.”
“Why would I say no?”
“You didn’t marry the other ones.”
“None of them asked me, but my Afghan can’t wait.”
“And haven’t you wondered why?”
Disconcerted, Marcelle felt silent.
Mademoiselle Beauvert rose to her full height, filled with the importance of what she was about to say. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that your Afghan might be after something?”
“After what? I don’t have anything.”
“You have one thing he values.”
“A roof over my head?”
“A nationality. He’ll get it by marrying you, and then he’ll have the right to remain here.”
“Of course, why not?”
“My dear Marcelle, you’re so naïve. Aren’t you worried he’s marrying you to escape his country of origin, to stop being illegal, to put an end to his uncertain status, to obtain a residence permit?”
“I don’t like what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying it because I’m fond of you, Marcelle. But I can assure you that I won’t be the only one coming to the same conclusion: as soon as your banns are published, Social Services will come here to Place d’Arezzo and start investigating.”
“What?”
“In every town hall in Brussels, there are civil servants looking out for sham marriages.”
“A sham marriage? You’re joking! My Afghan and I haven’t waited to get married before—”
“A sham marriage doesn’t mean an unconsummated marriage, but a marriage contracted just to obtain papers. The investigators will want to know if your Afghan has paid you to marry him.”
“Paid me? No, I’m the one paying for everything, he doesn’t have a cent.”
“They’ll wonder about his motives. Remember he’s twenty years younger than you. That doesn’t exactly suggest he’s genuine.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m telling you what other people will think, not what I think, because I know you attract lots of men. Let me give you a hint of your immediate future: Social Services are going to pour dirt on your relationship, depict your partner as a crook and you as a fool.”
“My God!”
“It’ll be painful, Marcelle. You’re strong. But he has nobody apart from you.”
“My Afghan—”
The doorbell rang.
The two women froze, unable to switch their attention immediately.
The doorbell rang again.
Marcelle grimaced. “All right, I’ll get the door. It’s time for me to go to Madame Martel’s, anyway.” She handed Mademoiselle Beauvert the earthenware dish. “Here. I’ll carry on tomorrow.”
As usual, she was abandoning the apartment halfway through her chores.
A few moments later, she admitted Ève to the living room. “Here’s your visitor, Mademoiselle.”
“Thank you, Marcelle, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Marcelle looked Ève up and down, noting the perfect tan, the slender waist, the impressive cleavage. Nostrils flared, senses on the alert, ready for a fight, she was weighing up a rival. Then she saw the six-inch heels, gave them a look of contempt, shrugged, and left the room.
“What a nice apartment!” Ève exclaimed.
“Before you look around, let me explain my situation.” Mademoiselle Beauvert hesitated before continuing. There was an emotion stirring inside her, making her feel vulnerable. She walked over to Copernicus and took him out of his cage. The parrot gratefully rubbed himself against her. His tenderness restored her courage. “I’ve met a man and we’ve fallen in love.”
“That’s wonderful!” Ève said, meaning it.
“Only, he lives in Boston, so I have to part with all I have here. The furniture, the apartment . . . It’s a pity, but I’m prepared to take the risk!”
“You’re quite right.”
The parrot started squawking, “Sergio! Sergio!”
Mademoiselle Beauvert leaned toward him and whispered, “No, darling, not Sergio.” She raised her head. “How much do you think I would get?” she asked anxiously.
“For what?”
“My apartment. You’re a realtor, right?”
“You live in the golden triangle of Brussels, where the price per square foot is at its highest. Plus, you overlook Place d’Arezzo.”
“How much?” Mademoiselle Beauvert insisted.
“Let me look around and I’ll tell you.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”
Mademoiselle Beauvert’s heart wasn’t in it; good as she was at pretending, she could no longer summon up the energy. This past weekend, which she claimed she had spent abroad like all the others, she had gone to the casino in Liège, sixty miles away, and lost an astronomical sum. Her inheritance had been swallowed by her gambling debts, and she didn’t have a cent left, no securities portfolio, no life insurance, no cash savings, no gold in a safe—nothing! As for her jewels, she had pledged them long ago. Now her banker was refusing a loan. All she had left was this apartment and its contents. If she didn’t do something quickly, the bailiffs would come in, seize her furniture, and auction it all off.
While Ève was valuing the property, Mademoiselle Beauvert, the parrot on her shoulder, returned to her writing desk and took the form from the Ministry of the Interior she had filled in that morning and now only had to sign in order to be banned from all the casinos in the country.
I don’t care, I’ll go to Lille, a voice inside her whispered.
The thought frightened her. Would she never stop? Would a demon drive her to lose more in an attempt to win?
She signed quickly, as if her life depended on it, slipped the letter into an envelope, and sealed it. She would mail it on the way out. This decision relaxed her temporarily, like the way you feel when you have an infection and have just swallowed your first antibiotic pill.
The parrot leaped onto her desk and came toward her, dancing from leg to leg, then suddenly lowered his wings and regurgitated his seeds into the palm of her hand.
“No, Copernicus, no. You mustn’t give me your meal. Even if I have nothing left, my darling . . . ”
She rubbed the bird’s belly with her index finger, and he, eyes aflame, offered himself to her, emitting sharp trills.
Ève came back and announced that, in her opinion, the property could sell for a million euros.
Mademoiselle Beauvert froze: one million euros was the sum she owed. What would she live on?
“Banco!” she cried.
It was the word she always used when she was very scared.
7
Ludo was aware of the ambush as soon as he walked into the room: four young women with heady perfumes and arched backs, sitting on the edge of the couch, drinking tea, and talking with the slowness imparted by a clear, sunny afternoon.
“Ludo, my dear!”
Claudine feigned astonishment—even though she had urged him to arrive at 5:15 sharp. With a brief gesture, she motioned him to come in and turned back to her guests, eager that they should take advantage of this surprise. “This is my son, Ludovic.”
The women stood up, awkwardly. Introductions were made, and they smiled and pecked each other on the cheek—except for Ludo and his mother—to show that they were young and relaxed. When Ludo accepted the cup of Darjeeling, the redhead cried, “Ah, at last, a man who drinks tea!”
“With my mother, it’s impossible to escape the ritual.”
This amused the women, although Claudine gave her son a dirty look, knowing f
ull well what he was alluding to: for years now, she had been joining all kinds of clubs and associations with the sole aim of meeting young women she could then introduce to her son at a supposedly impromptu tea party. How many activities had she already tried out, even though she had no talent for handicraft? Cross-stitching, painting on silk, crocheting, pottery, mosaics, marquetry, origami, and flower arranging had been followed by sportier practices, such as yoga, bodybuilding, African dance, Pilates, and aqua gym, not forgetting language courses—she only ever chose languages with a future, Chinese, Russian, Portuguese, Korean, thinking they would provide her with more dynamic characters. Having noticed her son’s chronic solitude, she had seen it as her duty to find the perfect woman for him and introduce them. At first, she had chosen carefully, subjecting her recruits to a thorough investigation. Over time, her energy sapped by a series of failures, she had become less selective and would just round up all the pleasant single women she could find.
“How did you all meet?” Ludovic asked.
“Guess,” one of them said.
“Are you a rock band?”
The women laughed.
“A troupe of acrobats?”
They laughed again.
“A church choir?”
They all made reproachful faces.
“We attend the same bum and tum classes,” Claudine explained.
Ludovic nodded respectfully, refraining from commenting on the effect of those classes on the behinds displayed around him. Thinking he knew one of them, a splendid peroxide blonde, he leaned toward her and asked if they had met before. When Ève told him she lived on Place d’Arezzo, Ludo realized who she was and decided to take revenge on his mother.
Within a second, he had changed completely. As if rooted to the spot, he focused his eyes and conversation on this one woman, paying no further attention to the others. Although the guests were at first amused by Ludo’s interest in Ève, they soon felt humiliated by his attitude, Ludo having become deaf and blind to their presence.
Claudine, though, was overjoyed: after so many years, she had finally succeeded! Ludo was falling in love. Her maternal heart throbbed with so much emotion that she stopped talking to her three other guests, who, feeling as if they were merely window dressing, cleared their throats and exchanged weary looks.
The Carousel of Desire Page 31