The Other Story

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  Alice Dor. Her tears. Her voice on the phone. Winning her trust back. Winning her esteem back. Writing at last. He is reminded of that unforgettable moment in her office when she said to him, four years ago, “Have you thought of publishing this book under another name? Or do you want to stick to Nicolas Duhamel?” He had replied immediately. “No,” he said. “I want to sign it Nicolas Kolt.” She had held out her hand to shake his and said, smiling, “Good. I hope to publish many other books by Nicolas Kolt.”

  It is only a shiver, a shudder, but he feels it: heady, intoxicating energy.

  And he sees it: a tendril of blue haze unfurling in front of his eyes.

  WHEN NICOLAS RETURNED FROM Saint Petersburg in November 2006 with a heavy cold, he sent an e-mail to Lisaveta Sapounova the morning after his arrival.

  Dear Lisa,

  Thank you for your precious help. There is one final question I need you to answer for me. You are the only person who can help. It’s going to sound strange, but here it is.

  I need to know how Alexeï Koltchine died. He was only fifty-three when he passed away, and I must know how. It’s important for me. Is there any way you can find this out? I’m sorry for the trouble.

  I often think of you in your room overlooking the blue Fontanka.

  Maybe one day, I will come back. I would like that very much.

  Thank you again,

  Nicolas Duhamel

  Lisaveta Sapounova did not respond for a few days, but when she did, Nicolas had to print the e-mail and then read it on paper over and over again.

  Dear Nicolaï,

  It was a pleasure to hear from you. And it is a pleasure to help you. I am presently sitting in my room, a trifle cold and damp today, drinking tea and translating. The Fontanka is still as blue and lovely, and we have had some snow already.

  I found the information you wanted rather quickly. Another friend of mine works for a newspaper and she has access to that sort of data, which I don’t.

  However, I must warn you, Nicolaï, that what you are going to read is not happy news. I feel I must tell you. You are still very young. And now that I know you a little, I can guess you are a sensitive person.

  I have taken the liberty of translating the short article that was published in the local newspaper in late July 1993. Please find it herewith. I hope that reading it will not be too distressing for you.

  My thoughts and prayers are with you,

  LS

  The body of a drowned man was found floating yesterday morning at dawn in the Griboedov canal, just across from the Kazan Cathedral. The man has been identified as Alexeï Vladimirovitch Koltchine, fifty-three years old, an office clerk, unmarried, no children, living near Sennaya Square. His neighbors describe him as a gentle, timid man, with few friends, who led a quiet life. He had no problems at work, where he was employed for the past fifteen years. Forensic tests reveal a large quantity of liquor in the bloodstream. The body does not show signs of batter or foul play. There was a letter in Alexeï Vladimirovitch Koltchine’s pocket, but the long moments spent in the water diluted the ink, and thus the writing was no longer readable. The police are pursuing their inquiries, but at this stage it has been impossible to determine whether Alexeï Vladimirovitch Koltchine stumbled and fell into the canal, or whether he decided to take his own life. He will be buried in his parents’ grave at Volkovo.

  ALEXEÏ. ZINAÏDA. FIODOR.

  His Russian blood.

  What had happened behind those walls in that old building on Pisareva Street where his father was born?

  The brother. The sister. Five-year difference between them. The small, cramped apartment.

  Had it been a hideous, forceful act? Had it been a secret, doomed, impossible love? What had Natacha and Vladimir known?

  When Alexeï wrote to his sister in July 1993, some thirty years later, was he asking for her forgiveness? Or had Alexeï written to say he could not live without Zinaïda? That he was going to put an end to it all?

  The letter retained all its mystery. Nicolas could see it perfectly, the envelope, dingy from its long trip from Saint Petersburg to Paris, made of plain white paper. The careful, curly handwriting. “Madame Lionel Duhamel. Boulevard Saint-Germain.” Or had it been forwarded to the villa near Nice? Nicolas imagined the breakfast tray, toast, coffee, the pot of milk, jam, honey, the morning papers. She must have stared at that Russian stamp when the letter arrived. The leap of her heart when she understood her brother had written it.

  How had the envelope found its way into Théodore’s hands? Who had shown him that letter? Had Alexeï written a similar one to Théodore?

  Suddenly, the novel was mapped out in front of Nicolas, like a runway lights up for a plane arriving by night. He had only to follow the lights, pinpricked in his head. The book formed around the mystery of a father. Mysterious in every way. The father’s birth. The father’s death. No one could tell. No one knew. People who did know were no longer alive to tell the truth, to reveal it in its entirety.

  Nicolas never wished to be in his book. The choice was clear from the start. He needed to turn away from his own story to spin another tale. Yet what he invented had solid roots sprouting from deep within him. Roots seeped with his emotions. His turmoil. His questions. His searching. His quest.

  Nicolas did not have all the answers. He had only possibilities. Choices. Exploring them the way he did in the novel both shielded him and offered him a form of protection, a manner of dealing with what the truth could be. Whatever that truth could be.

  In his book, Margaux discovered the letter hidden behind a loose floorboard in the ancient Zeccherio household, near the small piazza. A letter lying there for years, waiting to be read. A letter from a brother to a sister. A farewell letter. A letter that said the unthinkable. Margaux had to sit down. Her knees gave way. She clutched the envelope to her heart and cried. Somehow, her father had read that letter, the one she was holding in her trembling hands, and her father knew what she now knew, that he had been born of the impossible love between a brother and a sister. The avalanche had been no accident. Her father had taken his own life.

  “How dare you suggest something so hideous?” Elvire Duhamel had screamed two years later, when she read The Envelope after it was published in 2008. “Have you lost your mind, Nicolas? You have no proof, no proof at all! All I can say is, thank God you are signing this book Nicolas Kolt and not Nicolas Duhamel. And thank God my poor father passed away last year, so he can never read this rubbish.”

  But Nicolas’s mother, Emma, had been so moved by the novel that she had not been able to speak; she only held his hands and squeezed them. Later, she wrote him a note, which he kept.

  Nico,

  I understand what you have tried to do. I see how you have filled in the blanks, your way. No one has the answers, but you have opened up doors, courageously; you have looked at truth in the face. You have done what none of us would have dared do. I am proud of what you have written. Bravo, Nicolas Kolt. My son.

  Lisaveta Sapounova sent him a handwritten card made of thick pale green paper. He also kept this one, preciously.

  Dear Nikolaï,

  I read The Envelope with pleasure.

  You will be happy to know that the Russian translation of your novel, which I bought at the bookstore Dom Knigui, on the Nevsky Prospekt, is fluid, almost as good as what mine could have been.

  I was moved by your portrayal of Margaux Dansor and her family secret. You have written a powerful book, which I’m sure will become very successful.

  I do hope that one day, you will write a novel about your intimate connection to Russia, and to Saint Petersburg. Because, after all, you are half Russian. If ever you choose in the future to write about your own Russian heritage, in any way, please be assured that I would be willing to be your guide once again.

  And perhaps this time, I will have the honor of translating the book myself, for you? Warm wishes from the Fontanka,

  LS

  AT EIGHT O’CL
OCK, NICOLAS changes into jeans and a white shirt and goes down to the terrace. A crowd is gathered around a buffet. It seems to him the guests are even more elegant than usual. Some men are wearing black tie, and he spots a couple of extravagant ball gowns. He is offered champagne and greeted warmly by Dr. Gheza.

  “We are very glad you could stay with us for another night,” says the hotel director. “Let me introduce you to the happy couple.”

  The newlyweds, in their late twenties, are named Cordelia and Giorgio. They seem glued together from hip to shoulder like conjoined twins. Cordelia wears an ivory satin dress and has pearls woven into her blond hair; Giorgio is in a perfectly cut white suit. Neither of them recognize Nicolas. I never get the balance right, he thinks despairingly as Cordelia glances superciliously at his jeans. Either people fall over backward when they realize he is Nicolas Kolt and become embarrassingly obsequious or they have no idea who he is and he feels snubbed.

  A silver-haired crooner with smoldering eyes and a chocolatelike tan is installed behind the grand piano. His voice is deep and rich, with Sinatra-like undertones. He sings “La Vie en Rose” with such purpose, he could have written the song himself. Waiters bring a fancy pink wedding cake. People clap and cheer. The couple kisses. More clapping and cheering. Nicolas has another glass of champagne. As he drinks it, watching the night fall once again upon the Gallo Nero, he feels someone watching him. He whips around and is confronted with Alessandra, his fan, taking a snap of him with her phone. Her face goes beet red when she sees she has been caught.

  All of sudden, it clicks. Alessandra … Alex …

  “You’re Alex Brunel.” It isn’t a question. It is a fact.

  She nods, quaking.

  “You need to take those photos off my wall,” he barks. “If you don’t do it, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Do you understand?”

  “But everyone posts photos on your wall!” she wails. “Why am I the one getting into trouble?”

  He feels a vicious rage swirl up within him. He lets it explode. The wrath not only sparks from Alessandra’s faux pas; it is rendered even more powerful by the unfortunate events of the past few days.

  “I am here on a private holiday,” he roars, not caring if guests are looking their way, surprised. “I did not want anyone to know where I was, nor who I was with, and now, thanks to you and your photos, everyone knows.”

  She cowers. He despises her flabby upper arms, her flowery perfume, her blue eye shadow.

  “Of course,” he goes on, fuming, “you have no idea of the damage those photos caused. You don’t care, do you? What were you going to do tonight, huh? Post more photos? Well, now I’ve caught you, haven’t I?”

  Nicolas grabs his BlackBerry, shoves it into her face, and takes a photo, an unflattering one, where she is all quivering nostrils, double chin, and shiny, coarse skin. In an instant, it is posted on his Facebook wall, for his 250,000 “friends” to see. He writes, gloatingly, “A taste of your own medicine. Alessandra, alias Alex Brunel.”

  She turns and flees. Nicolas ignores the glances shot at him and finishes a third glass of champagne. He wanders over to the bar. The people here tonight appear to be as rich as they are boring. He listens to the mellifluous chatter. “Oh, darling, how marvelous.” “Yes, Anastasia and Gaspard have just moved; the triplex has been redone by Fabien, and it is out of this world.” “Did you see Paolo this summer? He has a new yacht.” “I feel sorry for that revolting man’s poor wife, after what he did to that maid.” “We are here till tomorrow, then off to Rome, but Lorenzo is taking his plane—you know what he’s like.” “Wanda looks so thin. I wonder who her new doctor is?” “Hélène is leaving Rodophe, but she gets to keep the château.”

  He wishes Cassia Carper was here, with Savannah and the other models. He even wishes Novézan was still around. And Chris, the blond actor. The American ladies are not to be seen—perhaps not select enough to be invited to the party? The Swiss couple and the gay couple are not here, either. Have they left? Gone back to their pampered lives?

  “Good evening, Signor Kolt.” Giancarlo, the barman, smiles at him. “Signorina Voss is not with you?”

  “She is in Paris, or on her way there.”

  “Are you enjoying the evening?”

  Nicolas chuckles. “Not particularly. Those newlyweds look like a scene out of Gossip Girl.”

  “She is from the richest family in Italy,” says Giancarlo, lowering his voice. “And he is part of the aristocracy. They were married yesterday in Rome; it was all over the papers.”

  “Thrilling,” says Nicolas ironically. “I guess I’ll have some more champagne.”

  The heiress and the prince are now dancing cheek to cheek as the silver-haired crooner launches into “La Mer,” by Charles Trenet. They are watched by doting parents, grannies, aunts, bosom buddies. Nicolas has rarely seen such a concentration of gems, plastic surgery, and luxury watches.

  As he drinks the champagne, feeling giddy, he realizes he has Davide’s card in his pocket. Maybe he should call Davide, get him to pick him up in the Riva, and go back to the Villa Stella for another delicious meal.

  “That’s strange,” says Giancarlo, staring out to sea.

  Nicolas follows his gaze. He spots one of the gigantic cruise ships on the darkening water.

  “What is it?”

  “The Sagamor. It is coming in so close. Look.”

  Nicolas notices the ship is much nearer than it was on Friday night. He can make out the enormous black letters of its name. A muffled rumor filters from the vast boat, the humming buzz of music, of hundreds of voices.

  “You mean to do the inchino?” Nicolas asks.

  Giancarlo nods. “Yes. But it hasn’t blown its horn. And it never sails this far in.”

  Nicolas shrugs. “Maybe a new distraction on board?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The huge boat does not seem to be moving. It has halted near the reef that Dagmar Hunoldt and he swam out to that very morning, blazing with hundreds of lights, sitting on the water like an oversized glittering building.

  “What is it doing?” asks Giancarlo. “I see this boat twice a week, all through the season, and I’ve never seen it come so near and stop like that.”

  Waiters are now handing shrimp canapés to the guests. The crooner is deep into “Ti Amo.” A group of people is slowly dancing. Cornelia and Giorgio exchange wet, amorous kisses. A scowling middle-aged man stops in front of Nicolas. He is wearing a tuxedo.

  “You’re the writer, aren’t you?” he says bluntly, lighting a cigar.

  He has a snarly, unpleasant voice.

  The smoke wafts over to Nicolas, who welcomes the Pavlovian poke to his father.

  “I am,” he replies.

  The man puffs away. “My wife absolutely adores you,” he says tonelessly. Then he walks off, without adding anything else.

  Nicolas sits at the bar, his glass in his hand. To think he is Nicolas Kolt, and he has no one to spend the evening with. He nearly laughs out loud. “Those women,” as his father would say with a roll of his eyes and down-turned lips. Nicolas looks around him, his elbow resting on the bar, and he takes in each detail of the party as the moon rises and the night falls; the murmur of voices, the dazzling array of gowns, of jewels, the strum of music, the candles, the cigar smoke, the languor of the summer evening.

  A young woman of his age, with long brown hair, stumbles up to him.

  “You’re that writer,” she drawls.

  She seems tipsy, or high, or both. She is wearing a silk and gauze taupe dress that is too short, revealing anorexic knees. A diamond the size of a grape sparkles on her finger.

  She holds out an unsteady glass to Giancarlo. “Just fill it up,” she says. “Vodka. Or whatever.”

  She hoots with laughter.

  “Are you alone?” she asks Nicolas, focusing unnatural violet-colored eyes on him. She is not pretty—her nose is too large, her mouth crooked—but there is an appeal about her.

  “Inde
ed,” he replies.

  She presses up to him. “Really? No girlfriend? A good-looking guy like you?”

  He grins halfheartedly. “There was a girlfriend.” He nearly adds, And now there’s a baby, but he doesn’t.

  “I’m alone, too. I am so fucking bored.” Another screech.

  “Are you friends with Cornelia?” he asks.

  “Cordelia,” she says, correcting him. She is trying to sit on a high stool, and failing. He helps her up. “Yeah. I’m her older sister. The spinster.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Liliana. But just call me Lily. Why are you here?”

  “I was invited by Dr. Gheza.”

  “Fat old snob. Can’t stand his guts.”

  “He’s standing not too far away, Lily.”

  “So what? Who cares.” She bats her eyelashes at Nicolas and wets her lips. “Are you going to put me in your new book?”

  “Should I?”

  “Seriously. Please do it. I’ll pay you.”

  “Just tell me why I should.”

  “Why? Because I’m the pathetic older sister. The one no one has looked at since Cordelia was born. I’m the drug addict, the drunkard. I’m the one who gives blow jobs to my father’s friends in their Maseratis and Ferraris. I give very good blow jobs, you know.”

  “I’m sure,” he says, amused.

  Giancarlo and he exchange glances.

  “Do you want a blow job?” she asks, her voice slurred.

  “Well, that’s kind of you, Lily, but no, not right now. Please tell me more about why I should put you in my book.”

  She fumbles around in her purse, finds a pack of cigarettes, and lights one. She offers the pack to him. “You don’t smoke, either?” she says when he shakes his head.