As he sat enjoying his meal at the Villa Stella, Nicolas tried to analyze the reasons why he couldn’t summon the energy to write. Was it only because he had been lured into the gluey and inextricable trap of the Internet and social networks? Hadn’t he been eviscerated by three years of a nonstop book tour? Perhaps his fame had in truth transformed him into the vain and uninteresting person Roxane and François were now convinced he was. Or was it because he was no writer, just a product, as the Taillefer article had so harshly pointed out? The taste of limoncello was sweet and lemony on his tongue. He wished this starry night under the fig tree could last forever. One of the Italian families was celebrating a birthday, and he watched it all, the cake, the candles, the faces gathered around their loved one, the singing, the cheering, the kisses, the embraces, the opening of presents. He could describe this so easily, the grandparents, regal and benign, the storm of boisterous children, the salt-and-pepper father, the mother beaming with pride, the young boy who was fifteen today, not yet a man, but full to the brim with the promise of swagger and style. He watched the father reach over and ruffle his son’s hair, and once again he felt the ache for his own father. He thought of everything he owed to Fiodor Koltchine. If he had never seen his father’s real name on the birth certificate, he would never have written The Envelope. He took a while to think this over. If he had never written that book, would he still be living with Delphine and Gaïa over the post office, on the rue Pernety? Would he still be a private tutor? It seemed impossible to go back to that old life, however charming some elements of it had been. Hurricane Margaux had spoiled him. He was now used to luxury, to flying in business class, to the best hotels. He’d had no idea about the strange and unexpected path he was about to take when the book was published, about how a book could change a life.
He really was extraordinarily shiftless, he thought, uncomfortably, as he watched the Italian family leave the restaurant. This could not go on. He must force himself, exert discipline, stop being so idle. It was all there, at his fingertips. If only he had the stamina to do it! He could write about a luxury seaside hotel and its elegant guests; he could write about a famous publisher and her unexpected appearance and what would ensue; he could write about an uninspired author; he could write about his ex, her hips in the shower, her perfect timing, and how he still loved her; he could write about an absolute cretin being trapped by a pregnant girlfriend; he could write about a sultry housewife from Berlin; he could write about his mother’s mysterious love life. He could write about anything; he could write about everything. He had done it once. He could do it again, if he got his act together. Instead of thinking about it, he had to do it—physically do it. Write it. Rascar Capac’s blue haze was out there somewhere. He had only to track it down and get to work.
When Nicolas called Davide to go back to the Gallo Nero, it was late. They sailed through the darkness, gliding over the black sea. This time, Nicolas sat in the back and observed the cloudless sky, the stars. When they arrived, he thanked Davide, clapping him on the back. He had nothing to tip him with, as he had left a large tip for the young blushing waitress, but Davide did not seem to mind. He said that if ever Nicolas wanted another ride, he should just call him. Nicolas walked up to the bar. The Brazilian party was over, but the bar was still full. He noticed new faces he had not seen before. Sophisticated Spaniards, one woman, pretty, and three men. Her husband, brother, and father, he guessed. A French family, the image of refined elegance; the mother small, lithe, and tanned, with black hair touched with silver, the balding but dashing father wearing a pink shirt and beige trousers, and two sleek children in their early twenties. The beautiful Natalie Portman sisters were back, each with an eager suitor on her arm. Saturday night was a busy night at the Gallo Nero. Or was it Sunday now? Nicolas checked his watch. It was. He had no intention of going back to the room and confronting Malvina. He ordered sparkling water from Giancarlo, who intuitively understood his mood was awry tonight. The blond American ladies were sitting not far off, heavily made up, their necks cluttered with jewelry, martinis in hand. He could not help listening to their conversation. Their voices were so loud that everyone was listening to them, or was forced to. Were they really talking about a beauty parlor where they’d had their pubic hair dyed? He had to make sure. They were. When they saw him turn around, they shrieked with laughter and sent air kisses to him. The next thing he knew, Giancarlo was handing him a martini.
“This is from the American ladies,” Giancarlo murmured. “I think they like you.”
Nicolas turned around again and smiled at the ladies. Then he took his drink and went to join them. They welcomed him warmly. Their names were Sherry and Mimi. Sherry was from Palm Springs, and Mimi was from Houston. They were friends and widows. They punctuated each sentence with a giggle and a double flounce of their hair, like headbangers from a hard-rock band. Nicolas was confused by this at first. Then he understood that they did it in order to convey emotion, as their skin was so tightly stretched over their cheekbones and their eyelids practically stitched open, like Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange, giving them the glassy, fixed expressions of dried-out mummies.
“Of course we know who you are,” gushed Sherry, baring her impeccable white teeth, “and we love, love, love and totally adore you, but we are not going to bother you with that.”
“You already have far too many fans here,” Mimi went on, waving her crimson-nailed fingers, “all those people who have read your book.”
“And all those people who saw your movie!” gushed Sherry.
“It’s not my movie,” corrected Nicolas, as he always did; “it’s Toby Bramfield’s movie. He’s the director.”
“Oh my God, you were so cute in that movie,” rhapsodized Mimi, clutching her ringed hands to her inflated bosom. “In that scene where Robin Wright sees her father’s real name for the first time, you’re right behind her, aren’t you?”
Nicolas nodded, patiently. How many times had he heard that sentence? Impossible to count.
“Mimi, honey, give the poor sweetie a break, okay?” hissed Sherry, poking her friend’s shoulder. “He’s here on vacation, remember? Time to relax!”
“Relax?” echoed Nicolas ironically. “I wish.”
They both did a bit of heavy head bashing so he could understand they were upset.
“Why?” they asked in lugubrious sisterly chorus. “What happened?”
“Forget it,” he said, taking a gulp of the martini. “I want to hear about you. When did you arrive? Do you like it here?”
It was like pressing a button. He sat back and listened. They loved it here. How could they not love it here? They loved the spa, the bar, the rooms, the view, the food, the service; they loved the whole thing. As they babbled on, Nicolas was reminded of his first book tour to the United States, in 2009, when The Envelope hit the New York Times list. He had never been to America. The first stop was New York City, then Washington, Atlanta, Miami, L.A., and San Francisco. Alice Dor had gone with him, accompanying him during the full two weeks of the tour. He had just broken up with Delphine, or rather, she had just left him, and he boarded the plane in a red-eyed stupor. He had an affair in every city, discreetly, of course, as Alice was never far and he didn’t want her to think he was a heartless womanizer. Alice, being close to Delphine, knew about the separation and was aware it had been Delphine’s decision. Nicolas’s favorite U.S. affair was with Norma, in New York. They met at a party given by his American publisher, Carla Marsh, on the rooftop terrace of the brand-new Standard Hotel, in the Meatpacking District. He met his translator for the first time and the team who had designed the cover, as well as the entire marketing staff. Norma was a photographer, covering the event for a magazine. A couple of years older than he, she was a willowy brunette with a purposeful stride. She had taken pictures of him all evening, until he had begged for mercy. They spent the rest of the evening walking downtown, wandering through the Village, stopping in bars for a drink, getting steadily tipsier,
and when they at last reached her place in Brooklyn Heights, very late, by taxi, he was too jet-lagged and too drunk to manage to kiss her or even to take her in his arms, although he very much wanted to. When he woke up the next morning, he was confronted with the most stupendous view of New York City he could ever have imagined. Norma’s family had lived here for forty years. But none of them—her grandparents, her parents, her brother and sister—could ever have expected what they would witness on September 11, 2001. “It was like being a helpless spectator sitting in the best seat at the most horrifying, fascinating, and evil performance in the world,” Norma said as Nicolas sat up in the bed, rubbing his eyes, wordlessly staring at the city glistening in its silver splendor. “I felt at first I could not photograph what I was seeing. It was horrendous. We saw it all, from the first plane striking at eight-forty-six A.M. to the second tower crashing down. We stood here, all of us, thunderstruck, then screaming like crazy. I can still smell what the wind was sending our way—burning ashes, smoke, huge clouds of gray dust. Then my hand reached out for my camera. I took the photos. I had to. I cried as I took them, but I had to. My mother yelled at me, appalled. She said, ‘How can you do this, Norma? People are dying.’ And my father said, ‘Let her take them. That’s what she knows how to do; that’s what she does: She takes photos. Let her do that.’” Norma showed the photographs to him. They were in a large black album. They were beautiful, and horrible. Looking at them made her cry softly. Nicolas took her hand and stroked it as she cried. After a while, Norma said, smiling through her tears, “You’re so cute, you Frenchie.” She kissed him on the mouth, lingeringly. “Now please do what you’ve come here to do.” America loved him. The Frenchie. The tall, dark Parisian with the delightful accent. They loved him, his book, his looks, him. His six-city tour was a roaring success. Readers stood in line for hours to get their book signed, handed him letters, pictures, cards, flowers. But from that first triumphant voyage to America, what he remembered most vividly, what he enjoyed thinking about the most, was Norma, the long-legged photographer from Brooklyn Heights. Her tears, her sensitivity. But above all, the combined grandiose vision of the great city and Norma’s sinuous back, her rounded hips as he took her from behind in front of the view.
Mimi and Sherry were indefatigable. They ordered more martinis, which he did not touch, and chattered the night away. He listened, or appeared to listen, but his mind wandered to the room where Malvina slept. Pregnant Malvina. A loathsome sensation of dread invaded him. The bar slowly emptied; the American ladies left at last, kissing him affectionately and patting him on the cheek, as if he were their grandson. Only the Spaniards remained, smoking into the night. The Spanish woman was very beautiful—glistening hair, perfect tanned features, glowing eyes. Nicolas gazed at her through the smoke, incapable of going back to the room. She finally left with her three men. Giancarlo closed up the bar and came to say good night.
Nicolas wandered aimlessly around the terrace. It was getting on toward three o’clock. Everyone at the Gallo Nero was asleep. There were no boats out at sea tonight. Too late. He went to stand by the stone steps that led to the beach area. A cool, perfumed breeze blew at his hair. The water called out to him, beckoning. Hastily, he removed his shoes, T-shirt, shorts, and, on an impulse, his bathing suit—there was no one around, after all—and left them in a little bundle. The water on his naked body was a satiny delight. When was the last time he’d done that? Midnight dips in the nude? He couldn’t even remember. Probably with Delphine. He swam for a while, then hauled himself out of the water and dried himself with his T-shirt. He shivered. He welcomed the cool sensation. He pulled on his bathing suit and shorts. When his hands were completely dry, he checked his BlackBerry. A text message from his mother: “Hello! Give me a call. Love.” He thought of her and Ed. He imagined the boat, the sea, the port, the throng, the drinks in the evening, his mother in those long linen dresses she wore in the summer. He wondered how old Ed was. Why did this bother him so much, when he himself preferred older women? Would he feel less uncomfortable if his mother was dating a man of her own age, or older? An e-mail from Alice Dor: “Nicolas, you haven’t been returning my calls. Please let me know that everything is all right. I am worried. That Taillefer woman is notorious for that kind of article. It must not get to you or discourage you in any way. Please call so we can discuss it. Are you enjoying the Gallo Nero? How is the book doing? I’d love now for us to talk about it. I do feel I’ve given you enough time to find your way into it. Please get back to me. All best, Alice.” He sighed as he read this. He was expecting this reaction, but the fact that he had seen it coming did not make the situation any easier. Nicolas knew he could not put off his conversation with Alice any longer. This was the first time she’d mentioned the book directly. There could be no more stalling. He had to come out with it. He had to tell her the truth. The idea of it made him want to curl up and wither away. What was Alice Dor going to make of his lying? He loathed disappointing her. He could not face letting her down. But he had been doing just that, letting her down, behind her back. Letting her think there was a book. Letting her pay him that enormous sum for nothing. He toyed with idea of replying to her e-mail. No, he’d do it tomorrow. So many things to do tomorrow. Confront Malvina. Confront Alice Dor. Bloody Sunday, he thought, grimacing in the dark.
A recent e-mail from Lara: “Hey, man, how are you? Just saw on Facebook that you’re living it up in some gorgeous hideaway. How’s the book? When are you back? I’m stuck in Paris and going crazy. All people talk about in this shitty magazine is what DSK did to that maid in the hotel. I mean, so what! Call me or text me. Miss you. L.” Alarmed by the Facebook reference, Nicolas went straight to his Facebook page. He was horrified to see that two new photos had been posted by Alex Brunel. One was of him and Davide roaring off in the motorboat. It had already reaped hundreds of “likes.” The other, posted not even an hour ago, was of him at the bar just after Mimi and Sherry had left, staring wistfully toward the beautiful Spanish woman. Why hadn’t he been able to spot Alex Brunel? He mentally went over the events of the night. But the bar had been full, and he hadn’t taken everyone in, and why should he have, after all? He had only noticed the new people. The French family. The Spaniards. Who else had been there? He thought hard. Maybe the German couple. Maybe Alessandra and her mother. He couldn’t remember. There were more reactions on Twitter to the Taillefer article, which he did not have the courage or the curiosity to read. Then the little red light flashed, indicating he had a new e-mail. His personal account. It was from Sabina. Before he opened it, he made absolutely sure he was alone. He walked up and down the beach area quickly, using the BlackBerry to guide his way like a torch. It was pitch-black. Nobody was there. Alex Brunel was not spying on him. He was completely alone. He was safe.
Nicolas went to sit on the far edge of the concrete slab, close to the cliff. From there, he could not be seen, even from above. He smiled in the dark. The BlackBerry glowed in his hand like a strange jewel. He opened Sabina’s e-mail tremulously. It was a photograph of her on a large double bed—the same bed as in the previous photograph of her in the orange dress. Sabina was naked, her hair tousled, her back arched, on all fours on the bed. He did not know who had taken the photo (her husband? a lover?), if it was an old one, a new one. He did not care. The effect of the photo was instantaneous. He wrote back, pleadingly, “More. Please. Now.” Another e-mail came flying in. The same bed, the same pale blue cover. But this time, Sabina was on her back. There was nothing left to the imagination. It was all there, exposed in its luscious rosy glory. And these words: “Now tell me, Nicolas Kolt, exactly what you would do to me right now if you were really here. And please, no romance.” What would he do to her? As he began to touch himself, staring down at the photo glowing in the dark, he knew exactly what he would do to her. He would ravage her. It would be as simple as that. There would be no tender caresses, no foreplay. No making sure she was on the same level, no being worried she was paces behind. No b
eing careful about going too fast, about hurting her, no wearing a condom. He could do exactly what he wanted in his own personal dream world. The orgasm was so fast, so powerful, he nearly dropped the phone. It took his breath away for a few seconds. He had to go back into the water to clean himself up. Then he wrote to her, his breath still short, describing with fast, furious sentences what that photograph had inspired in him. He did not tone it down. He wrote it as it came. He did not care about the typos. Even if they were obscene words, he did not steer away from them. No romance, she had stated. He did not fear her reaction. Never in his life had Nicolas Kolt written anything so pornographic, so steamy, to a woman. At the end of the e-mail, he wrote, “Can you call me? Soon? I want to hear your voice. I want to hear you come. Call me.” And he added his number.
When he got back to the room, very late or very early, there was a note for him on the pillow. Malvina was fast asleep. He took the note into the bathroom to read it. “I am so happy. Our baby. Our baby! I love you. Malvie.”
“HELLO, HERMES,” COMES THE low rumble of an unmistakable voice.
Nicolas, startled, looks up. Dagmar Hunoldt, wearing a white bathing suit, goggles, and a bathing cap, is smiling down at him, a mountainous pale form against the blue sky.
“What about a swim?” she says.
Without waiting to find out whether Nicolas is coming or not, she climbs down the ladder and flings herself into the water. She moves away with an energetic backstroke. Nicolas discards his bathrobe and plunges in, following her. The beach area is still deserted. They are the only ones in the sea. The water is cool this morning, vivifying and choppier than usual. Nicolas finds that keeping up with Dagmar Hunoldt is difficult. She seems to have a secret inner strength that keeps pushing her forward. He acknowledges his lack of sleep but is irked by the fact he has to swim as hard as he can to keep abreast. The woman is past sixty. How does she do it? She is heading for the large reef, at least half a mile away. Nicolas grits his teeth with the effort. It would be too humiliating for words if he had to return to the shore. They are now far from the Gallo Nero. How foolish, how proud can he get? This is ridiculous. All this to keep up with the great, the unique, the one and only Dagmar Hunoldt. All this to impress her. How much longer can he hold out? And, dreadful thought, each stroke outward means another stroke inward. He is already thinking about the way back. He feels drained. He looks up and sees with relief that the reef is straight ahead, coming nearer and nearer. Dagmar Hunoldt is pulling herself onto it, clambering up with the clumsy power of a polar bear. Nicolas’s fingers at last grasp the rough surface of the large rocky reef, and he nearly cries out with joy.
The Other Story Page 19