The Other Story

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  Just before Christmas 1993, a red-eyed Brisabois came to visit them. He spent an hour crying into Emma’s shoulder. How could such a wonderful man have disappeared? How could life be so cruel? Emma said nothing, patting his quivering round shoulders. Nicolas looked away, embarrassed. But the scene became even more embarrassing when Brisabois asked his mother for money, claiming that Théodore Duhamel owed him a rather large amount. Without a word, Emma got up to fetch her checkbook. This scene took place again the following year. Then, no one heard from Brisabois again.

  Gradually, Nicolas learned to deal with other people’s questions. He learned to say that, yes, his father had drowned, and that, no, his body had not been found. He pronounced the words with detachment. This did not mean he did not care. The distance he put between the words and himself was the only way to protect himself. Four years later, in 1997, after Princess Diana was killed in a car accident in Paris at the end of August, Nicolas watched the funeral on TV as her two sons walked behind their mother’s coffin during the procession. Prince William was his age—fifteen. As the entire world sobbed for the dead princess, Nicolas felt the smoldering heat of resentment. Prince William knew his mother was dead. Perhaps he had seen her dead body. Prince William was perfectly aware his mother was in that coffin being carried through the streets of London, with white roses placed upon it, and a card where his brother, Harry, inconsolable, had written “Mummy” in a childish hand. William and Harry were going to be able to mourn her. Nicolas had not been able to mourn his father. Emma and he were still waiting for Théodore Duhamel to walk through the door at rue Rollin or for the phone to ring with news of a body found along the coast near Hendaye that could be his.

  The years slipped by and the wait continued. The wait became their prison. Emma could not bring herself to empty her husband’s cupboards. For five or six years, Théodore Duhamel’s clothes remained in the apartment. From time to time, Nicolas would open the cupboard and look at them. They smelled of stale cigar smoke. And finally, they no longer smelled of anything except dust. What did his mother do with the clothes? He never knew and he did not ask. He was handed the Montblanc pen, which he cherished. But what he would have wanted above all was the orange Doxa Sub watch.

  June 12 was his father’s birthday. Each year, Nicolas knew his mother would be thinking of him, too, and how old he would be if he were still alive. And his grandmother would, as well, until her death. Each year on August 7, the day his father was last seen, Nicolas awoke with a feeling of dread. He saw himself as a frightened little boy, standing on the balcony, staring out to sea. The questions loomed as large as they had that fateful day: What had happened to his father? Why was he never found?

  In 2001, a couple of years before the Italian trip and before he met Delphine, he had a short, intense love affair with a bossy, intelligent older girl, Aurélie. She was studying to become a doctor. The affair had not lasted because of her grueling workload; at least that was the reason she had given him when she decided to move on without him. One evening in early September, as they were at her place, near République, having dinner, she asked him about his father. Her queries were innocent enough at first, but they gradually became more pointed, and Nicolas guardedly asked her what she was driving at. She said she was surprised he and his mother had not asked more questions themselves. “Like what?” Nicolas had spluttered. (He often thought about that scene, recalling the beamed ceiling and picturesque view over Paris rooftops, and Aurélie wearing a cherry-colored chemise that clung to her full breasts. The scene had later woven itself into The Envelope, but in a different form: Margaux having lunch with an ex-boyfriend, and the ex-boyfriend bringing up all the unmentionable questions about Luc Zech’s disappearance and the avalanche.) Aurélie had poured them another glass of Chablis and said, “I mean, haven’t you ever wondered why your father’s body has never been found? Do you really think he drowned? You tell me he was an entrepreneur. What if someone had wanted him dead? What if there was hush money involved?” And this: “Was your father truly happy? Was everything okay in his life? Do you think he could have committed suicide?”

  Nicolas had sneered at all this sourly at first. He had never envisaged those possibilities. But then he remembered Théodore Duhamel’s shockingly white face that afternoon on the Champs-Elysées, and his strange telephone conversation with Brisabois at Fouquet’s. “Brisabois. It’s me. I saw him on the Champs-Elysée … What the fuck are you going to do about it? Have you thought about the consequences? Have you really?” his father had said. Later, Nicolas thought of those evenings when his father appeared worried, and so did Emma, when money was short, when there was only soup for dinner, and then all of a sudden a “contract” was signed, and money flowed—Brisabois turned up with Ruinart champagne, and his father went to buy caviar at Petrossian to celebrate—until the next difficult “soup period.”

  That September night in 2001, Aurélie instilled the first doubt in his mind, the first inkling that perhaps his father’s death had not been an accident.

  “HEY,” SAYS A YOUNG feminine voice.

  Nicolas looks up from his notebook (in which he has written nothing, as usual) to one of the models for the photo shoot. She has her dark hair done up in a fancy twisted bun, but her face is free of makeup. She is extraordinarily pretty. Nineteen, or twenty. Malvina is asleep in the shade, a little farther off.

  The heat is unbearable. It is the hottest moment of the afternoon, and the quietest.

  “Hey,” he replies, smiling.

  “Got a cigarette?”

  She has an American accent.

  “Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

  She shrugs. “Having fun?” she asks.

  She is wearing a blue bikini. Her skin is tawny perfection.

  “And you?”

  She shrugs again. “Just another boring job. That Carper woman’s a Nazi.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York City, sir. You a police officer, or somethin’?”

  He laughs. She looks at him sideways, impishly.

  “You’re the writer, aren’t you?”

  “That’s me.”

  “The Envelope.”

  She lifts her eyebrows and smiles, baring small white teeth.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Savannah.” She rolls her eyes. “No comment.” She jerks her chin toward the napping Malvina. “That your girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s always asleep.”

  “Have you been spying on us?”

  Savannah looks away. “Kind of.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Gone tomorrow, when this thing is over. We’re flying to Paris for another shoot.”

  “How long have you been modeling?”

  “Started when I was thirteen. Got spotted in Central Park by a scout. Boring story. Boring job.”

  “Why do you do it, if you find it so boring?”

  “My dad died when I was a kid and my mother’s alone, fighting cancer. What I bring in puts her in the best hospital, with the best care.”

  “Is she getting better?”

  “Nope. She’s forty and she’s going to die. Don’t stare at me like that, Mr. Writer. You going to put me in a novel, or what?”

  Nicolas chuckles. She is rather irresistible.

  “Are you writing a new book?”

  He hesitates. Usually, he would have answered, with a serious expression, that, yes, indeed he was. Instead, he says, “I’m pretending to.”

  Savannah moves closer. She smells of sea salt and cinnamon.

  “How come?”

  Her voice is soft, friendly. She plays with a tendril of hair escaping from her chignon.

  “Everyone thinks I’m writing a book, and I’m not. I’m procrastinating.”

  “You have writer’s block? You’re not inspired?”

  “No. It’s just that I’m lazy. I’ve become terribly lazy.”

  “So what are you going to do?”
<
br />   “When I get back to Paris, I have to tell my publisher the truth. Tell her that this book is one big lie. She’s going to be furious.”

  He thinks of Alice Dor, who has already left two messages. She wanted to know how he was bearing up after reading the Taillefer article. He still hasn’t phoned her back. Alice Dor trusts him. She is waiting for the novel, patiently, kindly. For how long?

  A waitress appears. Nicolas orders aqua gassata with lemon. Savannah is now dangerously close, her shoulder only inches from his own. The terrace is deserted, apart from the sleeping Malvina, hidden from view by a large, bright-cushioned sofa and parasols. Most of the guests have retired to their air-conditioned rooms for a nap, or ventured down to the sea for a swim. It is so hot that Nicolas feels beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. How easy it would be to lean forward and kiss that full mouth. She shares the same thought; he sees it flitting past in her green eyes: the promise of a kiss. Reluctantly, he draws away ever so slightly.

  The water is brought to them. Nicolas pours out a glass for her, then one for himself. She says, “My favorite author, apart from you, is Salinger, you know.”

  “I’m honored.”

  She comes closer again.

  “Salinger hated interviews, newspapers, radio, TV. He was a recluse. He lived in a remote house miles away from the city and grew his own vegetables and wrote for himself.”

  Nicolas smiles wryly. “Maybe I should try that. But I enjoy company. I’m no hermit. I like keeping a finger on the pulse of the world. I like meeting new people. If I lived in a cave, what would I write about? If I kept to myself, how would I discover what’s going on around me?”

  “Good point,” she says.

  Her finger, long and slim, traces the length of the glass. Nicolas tears his eyes away from it. He is fully aware that any minute now, Malvina might stir, open her eyes, and behold him with an astoundingly beautiful girl. He remembers the barman’s warning.

  He draws away again.

  “Relax,” she scoffs. “I know you have a jealous girlfriend. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

  “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I have three,” she replies seriously, studying her nails. “Anyway, you prefer ‘mature’ women. It’s in every interview I’ve ever read about you. Older women and watches. Yawn.” Another roll of the eyes.

  A man calls her name from the upper terrace. “Coming!” she calls back, sighing. “Fun’s up. Got to go have my face painted back on for Kapo Carper. Nice talking to you, Mr. Writer. Catch you later.”

  He watches her leave, admiring the nonchalant swing of her slim hips.

  “Another one of your fans?” comes Malvina’s weary voice from behind him.

  He turns to look at her, bracing himself for the usual battle. She is so pale, he gasps.

  “Malve, are you okay?”

  “No,” she whimpers. “I feel sick again.”

  He walks her slowly back to the room. She can barely stand. He places her carefully down on the bed, draws the curtain, gives her some bottled water.

  “I’m going to call a doctor,” he says firmly. “This can’t go on. You’ve been unwell since we got here.”

  “Just something I ate,” she murmurs. “Or the heat.”

  He calls the reception desk. He is told a doctor will come by in the late afternoon.

  “Now you rest,” he says, stroking her hair gently. Her forehead feels cool. “Just close your eyes, breathe slowly. The doctor will come and give you some medicine, and you’ll be just fine.”

  “Stay with me,” she begs. “Don’t leave me. Please.” He lies down next to her. She seems more fragile than ever, like a palpitating fledgeling with soft, tender wings. “Tell me you love me. Tell me you love only me.”

  “You’re the only one,” he says gently. He cannot bring himself to use the word love. The only woman he ever loved was Delphine.

  “Tell me you’ll never leave me.”

  He caresses her hair soothingly.

  “I’m right here, Malve. Right here by your side.”

  “Promise me you’ll never treat me like Justin did.”

  “I’ll never do that; you know that, Malve.”

  Justin was Malvina’s previous boyfriend, a stuck-up, arrogant guy who quoted Yeats and sounded like Hugh Grant. They had been together for three years. He unceremoniously dumped her after he found out she had started a simple friendship with a classmate of his. He refused to speak to her ever again and e-mailed her photos of him burning her unopened letters. Then he plastered his own Facebook page with photos of him and a new girlfriend. He never bothered to find out how Malvina was after the breakup. It was as if Malvina had never existed. When Nicolas met Malvina, nine months ago, she was still getting over Justin.

  “That girl, what did she want?”

  He knows she means Savannah, but still, he asks, “Which girl?”

  “The one you were talking to when I woke up.”

  “Just a girl who said hello.”

  “One of those models…”

  “So?”

  “Tell me I’m prettier than she is. Tell me.”

  He kisses her cheek.

  “You are the loveliest. Now please rest.”

  She falls asleep within minutes. If it hadn’t been for Malvina’s feeling sick, he would have been outside, having a swim, working on his tan. He adores the splendid hour when the light evolves into a mellow gold and the heat recedes. Just his luck to be closed up in a room with his ailing girlfriend. And to think their last day is tomorrow. Malvina’s breathing is regular, but he knows it is too risky to look at his BlackBerry. Earlier on, while she was resting by the pool, and before Savannah spoke to him, he had made the most of the quiet lull to catch up on e-mail and social networks.

  There had not been a new BBM from Sabina, and he could not help feeling disappointed. Was the fun over? Had she grown tired of their digital exchanges? The Taillefer article had made his fans furious. How soothing it had been to discover the comforting messages posted on his Facebook wall. He scrolled through them, enraptured, feeling as if the stinging wound had been miraculously healed. But when he saw another photograph of himself by Alex Brunel, his wrath and exasperation were rekindled. There he was during the photo shoot, staring at the models with a rapacious smile. It had been taken from quite close, he noticed, so Alex Brunel must have been sitting near, and that thought made him even angrier. His fans loved the photo; it had been “liked” hundreds of times. He decided not to make any comment. On his Twitter feed, there were also references to Taillefer’s article, but he skimmed through the Tweets, not wanting to read them in depth. Nor did he Tweet anything. In fact, he had not Tweeted since getting here. Many followers found that very surprising.

  He glanced at his fan mail. There was an e-mail from an “S. Kurz” with an attached file. Subject: “VERY VERY PERSONAL.” He clicked on it. It was from Sabina. “My BlackBerry is kaput,” she wrote. “So I found your e-mail on your Web site and I’m writing to you this way, from my computer. And you know I can’t stop writing to you, Nicolas. I need to know you are reading my words and that they excite you. Just thinking about you waiting for my words is erotic. So … Today I am wearing a dress that buttons up the front. I’m sending you a photo of the dress. It’s pretty, don’t you think? It can be opened very quickly by tearing the buttons open. Underneath, I am wearing nothing, as you will see in the second photo. Now tell me, Nicolas Kolt, what you will do to me once you have opened that dress. I want to know exactly.”

  The first photograph showed her standing in front of a full-length mirror, wearing a demure orange dress that was closed from her cleavage to her knees. Behind her, he could make out a double bed with a pale blue cover, and two black bedside lamps. He could not see her face, only the ash-blond shoulder-length hair and her neck. His heart started to beat faster. Perhaps it would be safer to go into the men’s toilet. He checked Malvina and went, his breath short, his sweaty palm wrapped arou
nd the BlackBerry.

  There was no one in the men’s room. He clicked on the second photo. The orange dress was wide open, her hands firmly holding the lapels apart, baring her entire body. This time, he could see her face. She had the same expression—the one that aroused him so—as the day they’d met. The small smile. The intense gaze. The uplifted chin. The white breasts jutted out toward him, as if they craved his touch. She stood with her legs slightly apart, so that he could easily see her naked thighs, belly, and crotch. He e-mailed back from his personal e-mail account, not the fan one, typing as fast as he could: “What I would do to you, beautiful Sabina? I would kneel in front of you, and I would kiss your ankles and then your calves, very slowly, then your thighs, with a very hot, very wet mouth, working my way up to your—” He was interrupted by someone coming into the men’s room. His fingers froze. He waited for a couple of endless minutes. The person finally left. He went back to his e-mail, typing feverishly. “With my tongue, I will take my time to make you come. I want to do that very badly, Sabina. I can almost taste you in my mouth, I am writing this to you hidden in the men’s bathroom of the Gallo Nero, and imagining my tongue in you is unbearably exciting.” She e-mailed back within seconds: “Send me a photo of you in the men’s room; show me how hard you are.” This time, he was able to photograph his marmoreal erection with no difficulty. He e-mailed it to her; then he swiftly made himself come. It was a matter of seconds.

  As he left the men’s room, heart still thumping, he hastily read her last e-mail: “Danke. So gorgeous, so appetizing. One day I want to meet you again in real life, Nicolas Kolt, and I want to make you come in such a way that you will never forget me. Maybe in Paris, or if you come back to Berlin. Tomorrow, I will send you another photo.”

  As he lies on the bed next to Malvina, Nicolas closes his eyes and imagines meeting Sabina in Berlin. He imagines the hotel room, her knock. He thinks of her smell and the feel of her skin. Before he knows it, tiredness takes over, no doubt due to his short night and lack of sleep.