My mother had trotted out her reply so quickly and with such girlish glee that I was frankly astonished.
“Well, that’s twice someone has said favor,” mused Frédéric, “but not Mathias, so I’m not … wait a minute, he did say favorite, so that’s it, right?”
Caught up in the game now, we sent Georgina out of the room and picked Handi Wipe as our next word, which inspired Béno to come up with, “When you’ve already got something handy, why putz around with anything else?” and Lou to trot out, “Because I’m always equipped with tissues beforehand, I wipe my nose the second I’ve sneezed!” It was Charles who’d already gotten the biggest laugh, though, back when we’d settled on our chosen word.
“A Handi Wipe, what in heaven’s name is that?”
“Really, Charles, you’re such a snob!” exclaimed my mother.
“Excuse me?” he’d huffed. “Just look who’s talking!”
The evening came to an end when Béno—still going strong—asked Flokie for permission to invite Cheryla to lunch the next day.
“But of course,” replied my mother, completely under his spell, without really having any idea whom he meant.
For she pretended to adore music in general and the opera in particular, even though the only opinion I ever heard her utter on the subject was that Bach’s cantata BWV 51 as sung by Suzanne Danco—famous for her silvery, aristocratic tone—was the most sublime thing in the world. As for my mother’s knowledge of lighter fare, it stopped with Barbra Streisand and Liza Minnelli.
Trust my father to put his foot in his mouth. “Who’s she? You all seem to recognize her name …”
Odon and Gay were equally at sea, however, and relieved that he’d asked.
“I can’t believe this—she’s only America’s greatest star!” exclaimed Georgina, clearly a fan. “And what a stunning career: she’s been reinventing herself for twenty years now, changing her look every few years and setting fashions, like the recent flurry of interest in the kabbalah, which Cheryla studies quite seriously. She’s an icon who fills the Stade de France when she gives a concert in Paris, and that’s the fifth-largest stadium in Europe! I mean, next to her, Céline Dion just fades away!”
“Céline who?” asked my father.
“Oh, don’t make it worse,” Marie said with a sigh.
After bowing practically in half when he said good night to his hostess, Béno left the room, leaving us orphaned and adrift in a space he had claimed for his own. We felt as if we had somehow been drained of all energy. Especially Marie, now apparently completely enthralled by Béno, who had singled her out for a particularly meaningful glance before vanishing like a magician.
So enthralled, in fact, that I’d given up all thought of having any private conversation with Marie and was about to go off to my room when she informed me that Béno was planning on joining her later in her bed!
“What should I do?” she asked.
“As if you were really wondering! Go on, what do you expect me to say?”
“You think it’s a dumb idea?”
“Yes, but I get the impression that you’re too far gone to listen to reason.”
“You’re right. Isn’t he sublime, though?”
“Maybe even a little too much so.”
“Perhaps, but so what? I’m going to go for it. May I remind you that all this was your idea?”
“Don’t I know it! Well, here’s your chance, take it, and have a wonderful night.”
Saturday, 9:30 a.m.
Early the next morning I phoned Félix, who’d forgotten what it was he’d wanted to tell me the day before. Relieved to find him so cheerful, I asked him to describe what he was wearing so that I could picture him, all tanned since the last time I’d seen him, and then I closed my eyes, the better to hear his voice and the bright ring of his laughter.
After I hung up, I waited impatiently for Marie to come down to breakfast, only to see Frédéric and Mathias appear and discreetly get into a new tiff while pretending to review the day’s obituaries in Le Figaro. Because there was truly no love lost between the old guard and the beau past his prime, a pair as incompatible as clashing colors. With his out-of-date vocabulary, Frédéric persisted in using words like “automobile,” “bathing costume,” “icebox,” “big bum,” and “lady.” He always referred to Juan-les-Pins as a “village,” for example, when that seaside resort no longer bore much resemblance to the shady town square, church steeple, neighborhood bakery, and café-tabac evoked by such a bucolic term.
“I’m not going into the village this morning because it’s too full of idiots on Saturdays.”
Mathias, on the other hand, who was on the wrong side of fifty but wore jeans, T-shirts, and running shoes, still clung to a more youthful way of speaking full of slang he punctuated with expressions such as “that’s cool,” “too much,” and “it’s the pits” to camouflage his lack of linguistic sophistication. Probably a good idea, insofar as he was largely unaware of his faux pas in that department.
Lou made her entrance wearing a black bustier and matching sarong, an ensemble meant to evoke an elegant evening gown. Amused, I asked Frédéric, “You think it has something to do with the arrival of Cheryla?”
“And how.”
Enough time passed for Mathias and Lou to run a mysterious errand in Juan-les-Pins—to get the papers, they explained evasively, citing their desperate need to see that day’s edition of the Corriere della Sera—and for me to watch the entire household parade by before Marie and Béno materialized as if by magic toward noon, five minutes before Cheryla arrived.
In spite of what Béno had announced the previous evening, the Fondation Maeght had clearly not been part of his morning’s activities. Marie had dark circles under her eyes and, if I was not mistaken, telltale marks on her neck. Unwilling to risk betraying her secret idyll by publicly observing her too closely, I simply watched her reaction when I asked her, “Isn’t Cheryla arriving here a little early? I thought she wasn’t expected for lunch until two.”
“True,” replied Marie without even a glance in my direction, “but she was trapped in her room at the Eden-Roc, besieged by the paparazzi who’ve set up camp among the rocks, en masse. So Béno suggested she come for a swim here at the house.”
Marie’s attention was completely fixed on her lover, at whom she gazed unabashedly, leaving me to feel terribly sad and abandoned. Carried away by her playboy, Marie had forgotten me. Well, so what? There was nothing so unusual about that. And I, like her, had outgrown the need to demand my sister’s exclusive love and devotion. So why then could I not rejoice in Marie’s happiness, when only the day before I had advised her to find someone to love? Was it jealousy? Egotism? Was it my suspicion that Béno seemed only distractedly charmed by my sister? Unless I was simply finding it hard to accept that this whole “blind date” project, which I had launched with the expectation of reinforcing our sisterly complicity, might turn sour by eliminating me from subsequent developments, like that horrible game of musical chairs from my childhood, which always terrified me with the idea that I could be left high and dry.
A sudden surge of anguish and dismay left me breathless. That’s all I need, I thought: to burst into tears in front of everyone.
I announced casually that I was going to fetch some cigarettes from my room.
Strolling around to get some air, I couldn’t help noticing that the news of Cheryla’s imminent appearance had spread through the house like wildfire. L’Agapanthe was in a real ferment, even to the point of luring out into the open its most discreet and rarely seen inhabitants: the cooks, who were having a smoke at the bottom of the service stairs, just around the corner from the front courtyard; the gardeners, suddenly intent on raking the gravel in front of the house; and the chambermaids, all gathered in the linen room overlooking the front door. Not to mention the new head butler, who was pacing up and down the salon with a preoccupied air, no doubt instructed by the rest of the personnel to bring back an exhaustive rep
ort on the star’s arrival. As for Gay and Georgina, firm believers in mornings spent lounging lazily on the beach, they just happened to be in the loggia, which had drawn us all in for the occasion, like a watering hole in the desert.
Only Lou, immune to the light euphoria permeating the house, seemed out of sorts. Was she worried about the limelight our famous guest would surely steal from her, or was she simply refusing to appear impressed?
The crunching of Cheryla’s car out on the courtyard gravel threw into stark relief such a revealing silence that my mother felt compelled to speak up.
“She must be very me, myself, and I, no?” she asked Béno.
Béno, always Béno! I groused to myself in sudden indignation. Was the entire house now in orbit exclusively around him, his guests, and his opinions?
“By that you mean …?” I interjected, just to get my oar in.
“Well, an egotist!” replied my mother.
“As a matter of fact, no, she’s a doll. She’s shy and cultured, quite unlike her public image,” observed Béno so soothingly that my mother was instantly reassured.
Judging from the clatter of her heels on the travertine floor of the vestibule, Cheryla was descending the stairs. And we all pretended not to watch her do it. She appeared at last: slim and yet incredibly muscular, she looked quite sophisticated with her red lips and platinum blond hair. There was a look of intelligence in her eyes, and her chocolate-colored linen dress of striking sobriety—clearly haute couture—corrected any first impression of vulgarity. In short, she was a bombshell. What presence! What charisma! None of which prevented us from keeping up appearances by affecting an air of placid indifference, as befitted our status, while we greeted her and suggested that she might like something to drink—an offer Cheryla unpretentiously declined, however, eager for the refreshment of her promised swim.
“She made quite a good impression on me,” announced my mother as soon as Béno and Marie had escorted Cheryla off to the changing room down by the beach.
Firmly in Béno’s corner, my mother was clearly determined not to be offended by anything his friends might do, no matter how outlandish their behavior. Not even by the fact that Cheryla had thanked her with grateful effusions way too extravagant for a simple luncheon invitation, gushing “You’ve saved my life!” as if we had just granted her political asylum. She’d overdone it. And in so doing behaved exactly like the star she was. For I’d had occasion to notice that although wannabes of all kinds display an arrogance they imagine to be indispensable to the prerogatives of a star, the real ones usually seek to be forgiven for their cumbersome notoriety by trying to behave in what they feel is the proper fashion—even though they haven’t the slightest idea of what normal propriety is anymore.
And how could they? They’re used to stepping out onstage before tens of thousands of people, some of whom go into raptures or faint dead away; they’re obliged to sneak out of their homes in the trunk of a car and leave restaurants through the kitchen, and their slightest action is dissected by the press, which often buys information from certain members of their entourage incapable of saying no to easy money. In sum, there is nothing normal about their lives, so their ability to correctly determine how to behave in the most ordinary situations is often impaired, and they may find it hard—as it was for Cheryla with us—to behave naturally in all things, even when simplicity is all that’s needed.
“I loved her orange Croc leather shoes,” I said perversely.
My mother went on the defense: “Yes, a bit gaudy, I grant you, but very cheerful.”
“Yes, very … like her yellow hair …”
Frédéric burst out laughing, followed by Gay and Laszlo, while Lou, eager to rejoin Cheryla, let us know it was time to set out for the beach by pulling Mathias along by the sleeve. My mother never went down in the morning, so none of us expected her to accompany us, but I knew she was dying to go along, even though she was too much a prisoner of her own snobbery to admit to herself that she was as curious as any ordinary mortal about the star in our midst. And I knew that she would allow herself to come only if she could follow us as if this were nothing at all unusual, without anyone drawing her attention to the fact that her presence among us was truly exceptional. What did I want to punish her for? Putting L’Agapanthe up for sale, or her flirtatious enthusiasm for Béno’s attentions? Whatever it was, I turned toward her with a smile.
“Are you coming with us? I think it would be fun to get a closer look at her, don’t you?”
My cruelty was so wrapped in solicitude that it was almost the perfect crime, but I was filled with shame when I saw that spark of childish excitement die out in my mother’s eyes as she changed her mind with regret, turning away from us now to return to her room, where nothing and no one awaited her. Not even my father, who was going with us to the beach for a scuba-diving expedition he’d been looking forward to for a long time.
I tried to minimize the importance of what I’d done: at least this way, my mother would not have to witness the grand tour performed by Charles, who set out sputtering around the bay on the brand-new Jet Ski as soon as we reached the beach, thus driving into hiding all the fish my father was longing to see. Nor would she have to endure the fresh blunders of Mathias as he kept tripping up over his own native tongue.
“Everyone talks about mankind’s role in global warming, totally forgetting the role of the sun, which they completely denigrate—”
“I think you mean ‘deny,’ ” observed Frédéric, who positively enjoyed correcting him.
But humor and lightheartedness could not dispel the bitter taste of my unkind action, and I could not manage to take pleasure in anything. Not the foaming edge of the waves embracing the rocks of the bay. Not the sight of Cheryla, whose ravishing body strapped into a suit made entirely of laces had utterly dismayed Lou, who hadn’t anticipated having to go up against a woman twenty years older than she was. Not the conversation, which, hampered at first by the silent presence of the singer, grew more fluid once Charles rejoined us. He was so cheery and naturally at ease that he immediately enlivened the atmosphere by talking about London, where he lived, as did Cheryla, Béno, and Georgina.
While I pretended to take part in the conversation, I was looking at the sea, hypnotized by the mosaic of its shifting shapes and nuances. I felt down at heart. With good reason: watching Béno coddle Cheryla instead of my sister wasn’t going to buck up my morale. Especially since I had only to look away from that distressing spectacle for my mother to emerge from the dark corner of my thoughts, where she’d been biding her time, and reclaim the spotlight in wrenching scenes of her wandering the house like a soul in torment.
It was Lou who dispelled my morose mood. Passably entertaining when she was trying to vamp Frédéric and perhaps further her career, or when she tried to attract Cheryla’s attention by joining Mathias in a show of indifference, or when she boldly moved in to pepper the singer with questions, she now grabbed my attention for real when she kicked up a serious fuss by claiming to have lost a golden comb from her hair. She managed to mobilize the guests—one after another and including Cheryla—to help her search for it over by the diving board, where she’d supposedly lost it.
That’s when I spoke up, somewhat bemused. “Really, I know Lou is upset, but no matter how valuable this comb is, perhaps we needn’t all be busily …”
It was too late, as I soon saw. Because Cheryla was standing right next to Lou at the foot of the diving board when a yellow boat hiding behind some rocks on the Saudi property next door suddenly shot out to the bottom of our ladder. It was loaded with apparently well-informed paparazzi, who snapped a barrage of photos from all angles, shouting “Cheryla, how ’bout a little smile!” and “Lou, get closer to Cheryla!”
The attack—because that’s what it was—came so abruptly that I needed a moment to gather my wits, and even then, I really understood what had happened only when the boat scooted off toward the Russians’ place, which it skirted respectful
ly. Béno was the only one with the presence of mind to shield Cheryla from the photo lenses still keeping up a steady fire, and he was the first as well to suspect Lou of having set up this ambush. The rest of us, inexperienced in the pitfalls of celebrity, began to catch on only when we noticed how furiously he glared at Lou while apologizing awkwardly to Cheryla, to whom he’d promised privacy in a house well known for its discretion.
That’s when I remembered the errand Lou and Mathias had run earlier that morning in Juan-les-Pins, and their embarrassment about it. Silly me, I’d wondered if they were trying to score some drugs, but although I was bold enough to imagine that, I was too naïve to believe it, and finally concluded that having arrived empty-handed, like so many guests before them, they were now trying to find a nice little inexpensive gift for my mother, who clearly didn’t want anything. I would never have imagined, however, that our two guests might be negotiating a deal with paparazzi to sell stolen faked pictures for cold cash—and the promise that Lou would be photographed next to the star, to give a boost to her sagging career.
Horribly embarrassed, Marie and I apologized as well to Cheryla, who was obviously used to this kind of misadventure and who could not have been more courteous as she kindly assured us that she knew we’d had nothing to do with the affair. Turning my back on the other guests gathered, still a little stunned, around the singer, I spoke to Lou and Mathias.
“I’m going back up to the house. Are you coming with me?”
Was it something in my voice, or their certainty that they would have to pay the price of their treachery? They followed me in silence to the top of the lawn and said not a word in protest when I ordered them to pack their bags and leave the premises before lunchtime.
I was proud of my reaction. Because in kicking out those two boors I now deeply regretted inviting, I felt as if I’d avenged all those who, like me, had been afflicted with an old-fashioned upbringing and were thus condemned to be preyed on by shameless spongers and other obnoxious leeches, who take cruel advantage of our innate inability to fight dirty the way they do, forcing us to put up with all sorts of aggravation.
The Suitors Page 16