The Man of Their Lives

by Françoise Bourdin

  Immediately, Marianne became obsessed with the renovation. Back then, Louis was becoming famous and making quite a bit of money. Marianne had pretty much abandoned her career as a fashion designer to take care of Frédéric and she eagerly took on the responsibility of overseeing the project. She kept a close eye on the workers, studying every little detail of their work. Marianne knew that her husband didn’t want to change the general atmosphere of the house that he loved. As a child he’d spent almost all his vacations there. A wide veranda topped by a slate awning lined the southern façade of the U-shaped building. Their child Frédéric now hid behind the veranda’s windows to spy on people, not realizing that his father and his aunts had played the same game long before he did.

  Marianne had the bathrooms remodeled and knocked down some of the walls. She installed thick carpeting in the long hallways, put up double windows in the bedrooms. All day long, Louis locked himself in his music room so as not to be disturbed by the workers. When night came, he climbed over the rubble, lowered his head under the scaffoldings, and tripped over the tarps while offering his opinion on the progress of the renovations. In the end her changes were discreet, the style of the house was respected, but the heating system had been replaced and Louis could no longer hear the clanging of the old plumbing.

  Having kept the best for last, Marianne was mulling over different plans for the kitchen when she suddenly vanished. It was on a Saturday night, and she was coming back from London where she’d gone to a fashion show for her friend’s first collection. Louis had left the house to pick her up at the airport without the slightest premonition. He felt lighthearted, whistling a tune that was stuck in his head.

  A nightmare of a night, one that he tried not to think about. The Roissy Airport, the bumbling of the authorities, that horrible room where the victims’ families had been stuck. And then there never had been a burial. The plane had been lost at sea. Lost: a strange word, the meaning of which had eventually caused hysterical outbursts in spite of the “psychological support” offered by the airline. Marianne Neuville’s presence on the plane had been confirmed by the passenger list. In a state of shock, Louis had called Alix. That’s what they’d always done, both of them. During the worst moments of their lives, they turned to their twin and held on for dear life.

  Leaving behind her boyfriend at the time, Louis’s sister had arrived very quickly. After that, the memories became murkier. The trip back to Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer took an eternity. Alix had driven with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on Louis’s shoulder, all the while talking to him. Words now forgotten, uttered in a soft voice flowed like water on burnt flesh.

  Grégoire was babysitting his grandson, who was waiting for the return of Mommy and Daddy. Thankfully, Frédéric had finally fallen asleep around midnight. Grégoire was dozing in the living room when Louis and Alix arrived. The news of the crash had nailed him to the armchair. He was also a widower and the similarity to his own experience was unbearable. Louis downed a few shots of brandy before Alix forced them to go to his bedroom. Once the door was closed, Louis broke down and cried shamelessly. What he’d spared his father, he inflicted on his twin. For hours, he tried in vain to cope with the suffocating pain and the terrible feeling of injustice. Alix had listened to it all—anger, distress, bitterness—without breaking down. She stayed with her brother, even as he vomited in the toilet. She paced the room with him, cursing and crying. A night of horror. At daybreak, they both came out of the room. Louis was out of tears and staggering with exhaustion. While Alix was still talking. They walked along the trail behind the house, wondering how they would break the news to Frédéric. What could you tell an eight-year-old child? Too young for the truth, and too old to be lied to.

  Louis had loved Marianne. Never with a violent passion, but deeply all the same. He was grateful for the son she’d given him, for their shared loved of music, for her enthusiasm in fixing Neuville House, and for the happy future they’d imagined together. All that was destroyed in an instant. Louis was a widower. Frédéric no longer had a mother.

  When Alix and Louis returned to the house from their walk, Alix’s arm still clutching her brother, Grégoire was waiting for them on the door. He’d respected their privacy because he knew how they needed each other—always had in times of sorrow. Frédéric was up now and his poor grandfather did not want to witness what was going to happen next.

  Louis never would’ve been able to face that moment without his sister. He sat Frédéric on his knees, opened his mouth, but he had no more saliva. No more tears either.

  After a few days, life at Neuville House had reorganized itself. Laura had postponed her wedding with Hugues for a few months in order to take care of her nephew and proved to be extremely useful. Alix, stayed in her old room for five weeks, going back and forth each day between Paris and Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer. She went home for good only when her brother began to play the piano again. The family’s weekend ritual began after that. Louis and Frédéric were never going to be abandoned, not even for one Sunday. The family wrapped itself tightly around Louis and Frédéric, without thinking of asking first.

  Every Saturday morning, they showed up on time—Grégoire first, then Laura with her husband and kids, and finally Alix, who hated to get up early and lived the farthest.

  Even though she was not on duty that day, the housekeeper often came over with a litany of complaints for Laura. She said that Louis never listened to her, that he looked right through her when she asked for cleaning products. Crabby by nature, she had a hard time working in this house of men. Of course, she would’ve been scandalized by the presence of a strange woman but Louis almost never brought women home. When he did, he got up in the middle of the night to take the lady back to her home. He acted out of respect for his son, or the memory of Marianne, or because he simply didn’t feel like waking up with someone else in his bed. Sometimes, when he traveled he had encounters that rarely lasted past breakfast. He wouldn’t admit to himself that he was looking for was love—the real thing—and he hadn’t found it yet. He felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of being father and was afraid he wasn’t up to the task. And then he had a career to pursue. In his the few moments alone, he secretly started writing on an opera. It was a drama in four acts, and so far he’d only written the overture and a duet. It was his pet project, though such a gigantic undertaking had no chance of winding up on stage. Not everybody can be Verdi, as all his professors at the conservatory had repeated ad nauseam.

  * * *

  Unable to end the jabbering coming from the person on the other end of the line, Alix had put the phone on speaker and set the telephone on her desk. She opened her agenda and jotted down a few quick notes. Then she looked at Tom, who was pacing in the office.

  “No,” she finally managed to say. “I don’t have a contact with anyone in that production...”

  She wanted end to this conversation, so she told her young client to be patient and promised to call him back tomorrow. All actors had monstrous egos, and directors were worse. Her least annoying clients remained the musicians--you could send them away on tour. As long as the money was right, they went too. The screenwriters? They were obsessed with money and royalties. If Alix hadn’t been a pretty good lawyer, she would’ve had to hire an attorney full-time just for that! As for the few composers in her agency, they were up in their musical ivory tower, Louis included.

  “Are we going to go out for dinner or not?” Tom asked with a tired voice.

  He stopped pacing and stood in front of the desk glaring at Alix.

  “You promised,” he said.

  She had, so Alix forced herself to turn off her computer. She was a slave to her work, the secret of her success, and she wasn’t about to change her habits.

  Still, she stood up and said, “I’m all yours.”

  That was the kind of absurd expression that made them both laugh. Alix would never belong to anyone, which Tom knew perfectly well. With his customary gentlema
nly manners, he helped her with her raincoat and then pressed his body against hers.

  “Is that a new perfume you’re wearing?” he asked, before letting her get away.

  Ever since they started dating years ago, he’d always noticed the smallest details about her. She gave Tom a distracted smile, stuffed her agenda in her purse, and headed for the exit. The other two offices were dark. Large promotional photos of famous actors hung on the entrance hall walls. Alix had deliberately decorated the agency ultramodern, with bright colors, stylish furniture, and movie posters that were constantly replaced. She knew every facet of her industry and had a well-established reputation, which she stopped at nothing to enhance further. A fancy Italian coffee maker, cold bottled water, elaborate fruit baskets, and trade magazines on low tables gave the lobby a convivial atmosphere. Every client had to feel welcome and comfortable. Their agent looked after them, defended their interests, negotiated on their behalf. “Just be talented and I’ll take care of the rest,” Alix would tell them with a laugh. And, talent or no talent, she did the most with her clients.

  Tom had made a reservation at their favorite restaurant. In the car there, Alix told him about the previous day’s recording session.

  “Of course,” she said, “he wasn’t pleased. You know how he is. For him, it’s easy music, but it’s going to make even the most blasé person in the audience cry. And he composed the themes in less than two weekends! I’m telling you, he’s got amazing talent…”

  Tom noticed that Alix had a different tone in her voice every time she talked about Louis. A few years ago, he’d found the enormous love she had for her twin brother endearing. When he first met Louis he’d liked him a lot. But slowly, with time, he’d felt irritated and then vague uneasy about the man. Louis was at the top of his game, nobody denied that, especially Tom who knew nothing about music. And even if Louis was tremendously successful, he wasn’t satisfied, which Tom liked. Though Louis was kind, friendly, and funny, Alix’s feeling for her brother were downright excessive. At first, Tom had thought that she was like that because he’d lost his wife. And it was rather sad to see this man trying to raise a little boy all by himself. He imagined him walking around at night in that huge, empty, half-renovated house of his, knowing that all his professional success would never make him forget that he hadn’t been able to bury his wife. Alix and Laura remained very close to him, each playing a different role. Laura mothered him, while Alix took care of his affairs. Tom understood the situation very well and gladly went along with the traditional family gatherings on Sundays at the house. He couldn’t get away from the nightclub on Saturday nights, but he went for Sunday breakfast every time Alix invited him. Eight years after the plane crash, he saw that the dynamics remained. Though Louis had overcome his sadness, Alix kept the exclusive attitude she’d always had. Louis this, Louis that, Louis is always right, poor and marvelous Louis. Tom wondered if Louis was the man in her life, not him. He’d been dumb enough to ask her that question once, which resulted in a violent fight and a three-month break-up. Tom suffered in silence before giving in. He was smart enough to grasp that it was a take it or leave it deal—he’d chosen to take it.

  “Most orchestra conductors only manage to record eight good minutes of music every session. Eight minutes, max! But in Louis’s case, producers know that they’re not wasting any money so they always give him what he wants. Yesterday was a perfect example: rehearsal, recording with literally no wrong notes, and, bingo, in the can!”

  She was laughing as she sat at the restaurant. Tom noticed others were looking. At forty, she was sexy and beautiful in spite of some signs of age. Her strong personality made her attractive to Tom and continued to captivate him. He was around too many starlets who wilted after a few short years to remain attracted to that type. Alix was his ideal woman. Cool and classy, beautiful and smart, she could stand up to anyone in the business, even blow them out of the water if necessary. She ran her business masterfully, expecting no handouts or favors. Except with Louis, of course. When it came to her brother, she turned into a pussycat.

  She set a photo next to Tom’s plate. “Tell me what you think.”

  It was a strikingly handsome young man flashing a phony smile on glossy paper.

  “Typical movie-hunk nitwit… Didn’t I see him in a coffee commercial or something?”

  “Yes, and he had a part in a mediocre movie that I watched an hour ago. But he might be the next big-screen heartthrob. He’s actually a pretty decent actor. You really think he looks that idiotic? The photo is no good at all; I need to send him to my guy. If he shows up at your club, let him in, okay? I told him to go out a lot, to show himself…”

  Tom owned a private club that was the place to be in Paris if you were part of the “in” crowd.

  “Are you coming to the house on Sunday?” Alix asked.

  Tom had promised himself that he’d turn down the offer but he said yes nonetheless because she’d asked in a particularly soft tone of voice. Whenever she hinted that she might need him in any way, he was ready to drop everything to oblige her. Without regret, he forgot about his original plan of spending half the day in bed. And he had to admit to himself that he really did like Neuville House’s atmosphere and Laura’s cooking.

  A muffled ring tone made Alix sigh. She fished her cell phone out of her purse while Tom ordered the food. Folks in show business thought it was perfectly normal to call their agent at any time of day. Tom waited for Alix to finish her call and then he said, “Turn that damned thing off, now.”

  His exasperated outbursts were rare. Alix hesitated only a second before shutting off her cell.

  “Thank you,” Tom said.

  He knew that she’d listen to her messages on the highway after supper. She’d decided to head out to Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer that night to wake up to the sound of the singing birds. Leaving early would give her the chance to have breakfast with Louis and talk to him about the next contract she wanted for him. And she could borrow that new car of his, all before Laura and the rest of the family arrived. She spent almost all her weekends up there, unless some pressing business kept her in town. Early on, Tom had found it reassuring that he knew where she was. After all, he was never free on Friday and Saturday night when he personally oversaw the club. He got there at eleven and never left before dawn. He was always exhausted from talking too much, drinking with his best clients, checking out the newest members of the glitterati, breaking up fights, all the while being assailed by apocalyptic music and hallucinatory lights. Once in a while Alix would drink in the quieter VIP room on the second floor with a few actors after a premiere. If she stayed on, which was rare, she even danced.

  “You look worried, Tom…”

  “No. I’m happy to be with you. Let’s have a pleasant evening together, okay?”

  Alix was scrutinizing him still. She could pick up on his weariness. They were approaching the infamous Seven Year Itch, a delicate time for couples. They’d gotten older, and were both keenly aware of that fact. It was almost too late for big pronouncements.

  “To us,” Tom said almost solemnly.

  * * *

  Sitting sideways on the piano bench, Louis let his fingers run across the keys of the Steinway. It was a marvelous and hulking instrument that occupied the far wall of the music room. Nothing could be set on it except music scores—that was the rule.

  He sighed and lifted his hand. He had no inspiration whatsoever and he was tired of poking around. He’d spent so much time and energy composing junk on command that now he couldn’t come up with the epic dimension required for an opera. He raised his eyes to the picture of Puccini on the wall. He had a straw hat, cigarette holder, and that 19th century-style high collar.

  “Without melody, fresh and poignant, there can be no music,’” Louis cited from memory in a low voice .

  He would never be able to compose that opera and even if he did, what was he going to do with it? What had possessed him to tackle such a task? Why this inane
need he had to prove himself as a serious composer? At least he kept it private. Nobody would seriously consider an opera composed by Louis Neuville! It wasn’t just him. Opera was passé anyway. Dead. The few contemporary composers who’d tried had produced very modern and elaborate music that was also an assault on the audience’s ears.

  Louis could have—should have—abandoned this inept project. He was a good enough musician to devise four acts “in the manner of” but that wasn’t his intention. He desperately wanted to compose three hours of original lyrical music in the purest tradition of the Italian masters. And he really doubted that he had what it took to accomplish that. In two years, he’d made little progress beyond the nine-minute overture. All the themes were there, but at this pace he’d be dead before he could to develop them into a full-scale opera. Especially since he was working blindly, with a decent idea of what he wanted to do, but no libretto. He’d tackled the duet without any real purpose, only the pleasure of using the dark tonality of B minor.

  The headlights of a car pulling into the driveway yanked him out of his melancholy thoughts of Puccini. Neither his father nor Laura had ever shown up at the house unannounced at midnight. It had to be Alix, who came and went as she pleased. Louis waited for her to join him, listening for the familiar noise of the heavy front door opening and closing, and heels clacking on the lobby’s hardwood floor.

  “You’re still working? I thought you and Frédéric would be sleeping!”

  In her typical energetic steps, she crossed the large music room and kissed her brother. He wrapped an arm around her waist, while putting away the sheets of paper on which he’d jotted down a few bars, even though Alix couldn’t read music.

  “What were you dreaming about?” she said tenderly.

  As always, she was interested in what he was doing. She waited in vain for an answer. Louis wasn’t ready to open up about this project. The one time he’d talked about the possibility of composing something more serious than a movie score, to tackle an oeuvre, she’d laughed in his face. He was making too good a living—and so was she, as his agent—to shoot himself in the foot with quixotic endeavors. His fame was too great and his music too popular for him to take on anything that would screw up the success she’d helped him attain. She was the one who’d paved the way for him, the one who’d negotiated his first gigs and had introduced him to a bunch of directors who, today, swore by him. If his heart was really set on doing something different, why not write a musical like The Phantom of the Opera or Notre-Dame-de-Paris? Something wildly commercial. Then she’d be on board and make things happen for him in Paris. He’d had to get really angry at Alix to make her forget about this idea, and he’d never brought up his dreams again.