“There you are!” she says.
He sits down on one of the white armchairs facing the bed. He finds he has little patience left. It has been nibbled away by his lack of sleep, by Dagmar Hunoldt’s incomprehensible behavior.
He is going to be blunt. For him, there is no other way.
“I don’t want this baby, Malvina.”
Her face hardly moves. He was expecting it to drop, to crumble. It remains perfectly smooth.
She takes a sip of tea. Then she says quietly, “We’re going to get married, and you’ll see, you’ll be so happy. I know it.”
He is too stunned to speak. When the words come out, they sound like a roar.
“Are you crazy, Malvina? Are you out of your mind? Marriage?”
She smiles serenely. “Yes, marriage, Nicolas. We’re going to make this little person very happy. We’re going to build a lovely home for him, or her.”
He grabs her arm. The tray tilts sideways on her knees. Tea spills, staining the white sheets brown.
“Be careful!” she cries. “Look at the mess you’re making.”
He drags her out of bed. She is standing in front of him, wearing a short white T-shirt, appearing tiny, faced with his height. A frail slip of a woman. But there is no fear in the small face turned up to his.
“The mess!” he hisses. “Let’s talk about the mess, Malvina. Let’s talk about your mess. If you don’t mind.”
“What do you mean?” She is pouting like a little girl. Like Gaïa used to.
“I mean, how the hell did you get pregnant? I mean that mess. Your mess.”
She shrugs and looks away. “I don’t know. Maybe I forgot my Pill.”
“I see. Maybe you forgot your Pill. Great. Wonderful. You forgot your Pill, you’re pregnant, and now you want to get married. Right?”
“Yes!” she says, stamping her foot. “What’s wrong with that? I love you. We love each other. We’re having a baby. Don’t you see the beauty of it?”
And now the tears come, as he had expected. He lets her cry; then he takes her elbow again, but more gently this time, and leads her back to the bed, sits her down. He has to tell her he does not love her. That he never did love her. That he still loves Delphine. That he respects her, that he has enjoyed their time together, that she is a fine, emotional, intense, interesting person, but that there is no way he is ever going to marry her and bring up that child. Has she any idea what she is talking about? She is a child herself. How can a child have a child? He thinks of her and a baby, on the rue du Laos, and closes his eyes with horror. A baby! Bringing up a child. The responsibility of it. A child changes a life forever. She should know that. He should tell her. And him, a father? How can he be a father? He doesn’t even know what a father really is. His own father died so long ago. Marriage! How can she even pronounce that word? She is like a little girl, dreaming of Prince Charming. He remembers her talking to her mother last night on the phone. She sounded elated, like this was the most wonderful thing that could possibly happen to her.
Malvina sobs into his shoulder and he holds her close. The words don’t come. He thinks of her fragility, her loneliness. Malvina moved to Paris for him. She gave up her life in London, her studies, her friends, all for him. She never made any friends in Paris. She just sat at home and waited for him. He thinks of her ex, Justin, and how that guy destroyed her, broke her wings, posting scornful, odious messages on her Facebook wall for all to see, telling her over and over again how useless she was, how stupid, how lost and pathetic she was, that she had never made him happy, that he had obliterated every single memory of his relationship with her, that she was a nonentity, that she might as well jump out of a window or stick her face in an oven and turn on the gas.
The words stay buried within him. He feels trapped, as if a metal door has clanged shut right into his face. He closes his eyes with despair.
“Are you so very angry?” Malvina says softly.
“This is a shock,” he admits as nicely as possible.
“I know. I can tell.”
She walks to the window. In that body, he thinks, that slim body, there is a minute bundle of cells that is growing and thriving with every passing second. Her cells, his cells, their baby. He cannot bring himself to believe it. Or accept it.
“I can give you more time,” she says, looking out to the blueness. “For you to get used to the idea of being a father. I won’t put any pressure on you. You need to finish your book.”
“My book?” He laughs spitefully. “There is no book.”
“What do you mean?” she says, turning back to him, alarmed.
He says, robotlike, “There. Is. No. Book.”
Silence, and then she says, “I don’t understand. What have you been writing for the past year?”
“Nothing. I’ve been pretending to write. I’ve been lying to all of you.”
Her eyes are round with shock. “So what have you been doing all this time?”
“Nothing!” he yelps. “Nothing!”
“But everybody thinks…,” she begins.
“Yes, everybody thinks!” he echoes, waving his hands.
“Why?” she asks simply.
He snorts. “Because. Because!” he yells.
“What are you going to do?”
“I have to tell Alice.” The mere thought of that makes him want to howl.
“I’m sorry,” says Malvina.
“About the baby?” he retorts, a little too fast.
She scowls. “No! About the book.”
“Malvina, we still need to talk about this. About how I feel. Do you understand?”
She nods. “We can take it slowly,” she says. “We don’t have to get married right away. We can wait till the baby is born. And once the baby is here, I’ll take care of everything, I promise. I know you will love this baby. I love it already! Have you thought about names yet? I’m so excited. Oh, my darling Nicolas. I’m the happiest girl on earth. Please don’t look at me like that.”
Later, at lunch, Nicolas notices how Malvina is glowing. Gone is the sullen, glum creature spying on his every move, checking the way he looks at other women. Even when Savannah undulates by, wearing a bikini the size of a stamp, when the Spanish lady removes her top and exposes charming, pert breasts, and when the Natalie Portman sisters prance in and out of the pool in an adorable aquatic ballet, she remains impervious, gazing at him with idolatry, a proprietary hand on his arm. She has not looked at her iPhone once, a miracle, as she usually monitors every single item posted about him on the social networks. She is like a queen. Her radiance says to all, Yes, I am having Nicolas Kolt’s child. Yes, I am the chosen one. I am that woman. I am the one. He wants to crawl under the table and weep.
This was meant to be a restful, inspiring escape. Yesterday afternoon, after François’s devastating phone call, Nicolas begun to understand that this was not the case. He somehow knows, with dread, that it is not over. There is more to come. What, he cannot tell. But all his guards are up. His armor is on. It is as if the lovely scenery, the sun, the guests, the staff are all part of a play. It is a sham. They are all onstage. Behind the coat of luxury, tragedy lurks. Only this time, Nicolas gears himself up for it. He is ready.
“Mind if I join you, pal?”
Nelson Novézan, wearing a stained blue T-shirt and grimy jeans, slides into an empty chair at their table, plucks a grissino from the bread basket, and grins at them.
“That Taillefer article was something,” says Novézan, his mouth full. “She’s such a bitch. She hates my guts, too.”
“Really?” asks Nicolas.
He is secretly relieved that Novézan has sat down, uninvited. His presence, however offensive, creates an unexpected and welcome barrier between him and Malvina. Novézan appears to be in a friendly mood. His usually sullen face is beaming. He pats Nicolas confraternally on the arm.
“She wrote a worse article about me last year. Don’t you remember? Said I was a misogynistic, racist bastard who loved a
nd respected only one living creature on earth: his cat. When you get ripped to shreds by Taillefer, it means you’ve made it. Welcome to the party, pal.” He slaps Nicolas’s shoulder. “This calls for celebratory drinks. Hey, Salvatore, Giuseppe, or whatever your godforsaken name is, get over here! I’m packing up and about to go. Leaving after lunch. So sad to leave this gorgeous place. What about you guys?”
“Leaving tonight,” replies Nicolas.
He watches as Novézan grabs the wine from the waiter and serves them each a large glass. Malvina puts her hand over hers.
“Being a good girl, are you?” slurs Novézan.
Malvina radiates with pride. She places a protective palm on her flat stomach and nods. Luckily, Novézan does not notice the gesture.
“How’s the writing going, pal?” He does not pause to hear Nicolas’s answer. Nicolas sighs with relief. “I’m happy with mine. This is going to be enormous. Should be out next August. Hope your book isn’t coming out then, because mine is going to blow everyone’s away.”
Nicolas makes the most of the pause Novézan takes to down his entire glass of Chianti in one gulp. “Did you notice Dagmar Hunoldt is here?” Nicolas says.
Novézan splurts wine on the tablecloth. He looks around. “What, here? Now? At the Gallo Nero?”
Nicolas nods. “Not right now, but definitely here.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“I’ve been swimming an hour with her every morning.”
“And…”
Nicolas shrugs.
“Did she make you an offer, pal? Come on, you can tell me.”
Nicolas feels tempted to pronounce the three sentences on the paper, which he remembers by heart. But Dagmar Hunoldt did not recognize him. Novézan would weep with laughter over that. So he says nothing.
“Dagmar,” says Novézan, whimsically. “I know a writer who slept with her. Atomic bomb, he told me. I never fuck women her age, but I’m tempted. How interesting that she’s here. What a pity I’m leaving. I wonder if she’ll come after this new book of mine.”
“What’s it about?”
“As if I’d tell you!” taunts Novézan, wagging a scornful finger under Nicolas’s nose. “You wouldn’t tell me about yours, would you?”
“Oh, mine? It’s about the vanity of writers,” quips Nicolas.
Malvina flashes a surprised glance at him, and Nicolas shrugs at her, as if to say, Hell, why not?
Novézan lights a cigarette, puffing at it. He says, “You think writers are vain?”
“Some of them.”
“Well,” says Novézan, studiously picking his nose, “why shouldn’t they be? Writers hold the keys to the world, don’t they? They re-create the world. So they should be vain. Literature is a kingdom where writers rule, like kings, like emperors. A kingdom where emotions do not exist, where truth does not exist, where history means nothing. The only truth is the words on the page and how they come to life. That’s why writers are vain. Because they are the only ones who know how to bring those words to life.”
Novézan lets out a large belch and squeals with laughter at Malvina’s cool stare. Alessandra and her mother send disapproving glances from the next table. All through the meal, Nicolas and Malvina endure Novézan’s monologue. His problems with his mother, who resented his books and who voiced her disapproval in a recent interview. His problems with his teenage son, who is in rehab. His problems with his ex-wife, who always wants more money. His problems with an ex-girlfriend who has been posting intimate details about their past relationship on a spiteful blog, where he is not named but where everyone can recognize him. His problems with his landlord, his neighbor, his assistant, his publicist, his dentist, his aging cat, his hair loss. Novézan does not mention the sex scandal involving the French politician and the New York hotel maid, which is on everyone’s lips. He does not talk about anything except himself. He is wrapped up in his own universe. Nothing else seems to interest him. Is it with that scorn, that egocentrism, that he writes such powerful books, thinks Nicolas. Are his novels spawned from the utter disdain he feels for others, for women, for society, for political leaders, for the intelligentsia? At the end of lunch, when the bill comes, Nicolas expects Novézan to make a gesture toward his pocket, to say something about splitting the bill. But Novézan remains silent and lights yet another cigarette. Nicolas remembers hearing from a journalist that Novézan is unbelievably stingy. The journalist told Nicolas that Novézan, one of France’s most famous novelists, who owns an apartment in Paris and one in Brussels, a house in Dublin, and a villa on the Costa del Sol, never lends anyone money, never pays for anyone’s drinks, anyone’s meal, never gives a tip to a taxi driver, a deliveryman, an usherette, and always counts his change.
Nicolas charges the three meals to his room. Novézan stands up, plants a slobbery kiss on Nicolas’s cheek, tries to do the same to Malvina, who shrinks away; then he leaves, waving. Nicolas watches him disappear into the building with a mixture of admiration and revulsion—exactly what he feels when he reads Novézan’s books.
“Is your new book really going to be about the vanity of writers?” Malvina asks.
Nicolas smiles. “Why not? I’m tempted.”
“Nicolas,” says Malvina. “Your BlackBerry.”
He glances at the phone on the table. ALICE is flashing on the screen.
“Are you going to pick up?” Malvina whispers.
He had not been able to tell Malvina the truth about their relationship earlier on. He had to be brave now and tell Alice what he had promised to reveal. No more beating around the bush. He notices that the Belgian family and Alessandra and her mother are too near. This is going to be one of those private conversations.
He rises, takes the phone, and moves away, where he can stand alone and not be heard.
He braces himself and answers. “Alice,” he says.
There is silence, an ominous one, like the one before François spoke, and he feels a sort of dread spill through him.
“Alice, are you there?”
He picks up an odd sound. Could it be a sob? Another one comes. It definitely is a sob. Alice Dor is crying. He can no longer speak.
“Nicolas! How can you do this to me?” Her voice, usually low and poised, is a croaky moan. “I trusted you. I’ve trusted you since the beginning. I thought we were a team and we worked together hand in hand. I made a mistake. I guess Delphine was right after all.”
“Alice, please…,” he says, filled with consternation. “You mean the book? I have started it. It’s just not as advanced as you may think it is, but I have started it. I promise you. You must believe me. Of course you can trust me.”
“Be quiet!” she yells. He has never heard Alice Dor yell. He is stunned. “Stop it, Nicolas! Have the decency to tell me the truth. I always knew you might leave me. But I never thought you’d do it this way.”
Malvina comes to his side. She must have seen his face. She holds on to him. He feels her warmth, her love. Somehow, it helps.
“Alice…,” he says again.
“No, let me finish.” Her voice is calmer now. The sobbing has stopped. But the pain is still there. He can hear it. “You know very well what difficult times we in the publishing industry are going through. People read less, buy fewer books. We publishers have so much to work out, with the advent of e-books, the slow death of printed books. Booksellers are worried; bookstores are closing down. Publishing deals mean so much more than they used to in a world where everything is changing—for writers, for publishers, for readers. And you chose this particular moment, when you know how fragile all this is, to do this to me. You know I run a small company. You are my star author. You are the reason I can publish other authors. We all live off you. But you used to say, with such grace, such elegance, ‘Alice Dor changed my life.’ And I used to answer, with earnestness and truth, ‘Nicolas Kolt has changed mine.’ I’m not talking about money, Nicolas. I’m not talking about your very generous contract and your ample royalties. No, I’
m talking about trust. I wonder if you know what that word means anymore. I’m saying to you now, and I want you to answer me now, how can you do this to me?”
Nicolas is so bewildered, he cannot speak. Malvina strokes his hand gently. He can hear the thrumming of his heart, the voices coming from the restaurant behind them, Alice Dor’s ragged breath.
“What do you mean?” he stammers helplessly, knowing this will unleash her fury.
She yells again, and he can hear the outrage, hear the suffering.
“It’s all over Facebook! It’s all over Twitter!”
He finds it difficult to breathe.
“Alice, can you hold on, please?”
He mutes the BlackBerry with a trembling finger.
“Malvina, give me your iPhone.”
Malvina hands it to him. His heart pounds. On his Facebook page, there are two photos posted by Alex Brunel fifteen minutes ago. They were taken during his breakfast this morning with Dagmar Hunoldt. Appalled, Nicolas sees the photos through Alice’s eyes. He sees what she saw. In the first one, Dagmar and he are rubbing shoulders, wearing the same bathrobes, seated at the same table. Like old friends. Like accomplices. As if they had shared something special. A swim? A conversation? More? Much more. In the second photo, Nicolas is standing up, and Dagmar’s right hand is in his. The precise moment when she handed him the piece of paper. He is gazing down at her, and she is smiling.
“Alice, for God’s sake, it’s not what you think! I can…”
But Alice Dor is no longer there. Alice Dor has hung up on him.
He tries to call her back. He calls five, ten, fifteen times. She has turned her phone off. He leaves message after message, sends three pleading e-mails, six texts. He is distraught. Malvina leads him back to the room. She strokes his hair gently. They have a late checkout, she reminds him, but they need to start packing; the chauffeur is picking them up at six to drive them to the airport. That is in a couple of hours. He should pack now, and then what about a final swim? “Isn’t that a good idea,” she says, smiling, “a final swim?” He nods, his mind miles away. Nothing else matters. Only Alice. How is he going to explain this to her? Will she ever believe him?
The Other Story Page 22