“How is she?” he hisses.
“Back to business. But you’re able to imagine her reaction, I guess. She’s your mother, after all. She’s still upset but determined,” I say. “Tell me—how much do they know?”
“Nothing, luckily. I stumbled upon the news when I checked my emails at the airport. I called you immediately and have kept them busy ever since.” Michele smiles wanly. He looks as if he has slept in his brown suit, which is wrinkled, hanging from his skinny frame like a burlap sack. With his stubble and huge sunglasses, he looks much older than his age. Much older than I do although we went to at least two boarding schools together. But he’s good at whatever his mother asks him to do.
“I need a shower,” he whines, “and a reviver.” Involuntarily, he rubs his nose, confirming the vague rumours I’ve heard about his addiction.
“You’d better be quick. You’ve got exactly ten minutes before she’ll notice your absence.” I pat his shoulder. “We have a cocktail before everybody’s shown to their rooms.”
“Tell her I’ve gone to the loo,” he begs and rushes inside.
—92—
“… the prince has been such a darling! Hasn’t he, Rodolfo?”
“Please, don’t mention it, Baronne! It was my pleasure.”
“You are too modest for words, Boris, verdad…”
“… and then, listen! Nour screamed, ‘Eire fik! You’re just a filthy liar!’ And Aïsha screamed back, ‘Yena’an kusha ommak!’ In the middle of Le Gabriel! I mean, Le Gabriel! Can you imagine! With everybody watching the scene! I would have died then and there! The servers had to call Claude, who finally managed to separate them. Otherwise, they would’ve started to scratch each other’s faces!”
“I can’t believe it! I’m too shocked for words!”
“I was, too. Isn’t it just wonderful? …”
“… he wants to buy the new Sesto Elemento as soon as they’ll release it, but I find it a tad too showy…”
High-society small talk hums through the lounge. The excited, half-boozed, self-satisfied and void babble of the powerful and rich. I hear bits of Arabian, French, Italian, Spanish, and Russian. But mostly, it’s heavily accented English, posh British, and slurred US-twangs.
Wandering from little group to little group, I smile, I nod, I tap frail shoulders clad in expensive fabrics, I kiss hands, my nose hovering over priceless diamonds. “Tout va comme vous voulez?” I constantly ask; “Do you want me to get you another Cosmo?”; “Where have you been all this time, Contessa?”
Faces beam at me, some wrinkled and covered with age spots, others tautened by surgery, with eyes imprisoned in the icy cage of recent injections.
The Baronne de Jiménez y Rodrigo holds my hand a bit too long, ogling me hungrily as she asks, “Do you think la chère Alessandra could spare you later, Marc? I’d love to see you this afternoon!” She winks, and I tactfully invent urgent chores that, to my utter distress, cannot be postponed. She takes it with dignity, grabbing another glass of Roederer from a tray a handsome Moroccan server passes around. I recruited the guy yesterday. The Baronne’s eyes glint while she stares at his retreating bum.
Alessandra is standing near the huge sliding doors that lead to the terrace. She is smoking one of her slim Davidoffs while chatting with the Senior CEO of a prestigious South-African vineyard and the feisty fiftysomething heiress of an international hotel chain. She waves me over.
My mobile vibrates in my trouser pocket. I take it out, only to discover an SMS from an unknown number. The message says:
we know who
you are, we know
what you’re doing.
I’m momentarily dazed. What the fuck is that about?
Then I shake my head, help myself to another glass of champagne, and join Alessandra’s group.
The hotel heiress is literally thrilled to meet me. “I’ve heard so many naughty things about you!” she swoons. While she starts to flirt with me, I catch a broad smile from Alessandra. Then, the heiress’s hand glides behind me and touches my buttocks. By accident, of course.
I hear the South-African winegrower say, “I don’t understand these people. Why did they feel the need to chase off their president, I ask you? Legally elected, too, if I’m not mistaken. My, he used to be such a charming chap! And his wife, too. Charming, absolutely charming, both of them. And so generous.”
“Well, you know how these things go. Let’s not feel too sorry, caro,” Alessandra answers. “Thanks to that little rebellion, we have the island all to ourselves this weekend!”
“Certainly.” The winegrower isn’t paying attention, too busy ogling the pretty Algerian women who appear on the terrace to set the tables. He shakes himself out of his lascivious day-dreams, adding, “You’re right—last time I came here, it was too ghastly for words. Tourists wherever you looked. It all felt so cheap that I had to leave after a few hours. It’s much better now. So quiet and, well, intimate would be the right word, wouldn’t it? Charming, absolutely charming.”
“A real paradise,” Alessandra agrees and lights another cigarette.
Unheeded, the sea throws wave after wave against the beach. A paradise, no doubt, but a painfully empty one. The smell of unreal abandonment floats over the glimmering virgin sand. I let myself go, sip my champagne, flirt back with the heiress, and dispel unpleasant thoughts. This is work, after all. If I want to appear natural, I need to remain focused.
—91—
Our guests enjoy themselves so much that nobody asks to be shown to their rooms for the moment. They prefer to hang out together, bathe in their mutually asserted brilliance, drink themselves towards mild oblivion with champagne and Cosmos and other gin- or vodka-based drinks. Everyone indulges in complacent blabber and constant name-dropping, showing off perfect rows of pearl-white teeth combined with strange smiles that handsomely paid surgeons have locked in time for the next couple of years.
Without transition, we glide from cocktail to lunch. Everybody finds a seat on the terrace. Then greedy oesophagi are crammed with Tunisian specialities and wine. The babble continues all the while, interwoven with exclamations of rapture.
“How exotic!” an extroverted New Hampshire business widow cries out after tasting her first Brick. I almost laugh out loud—God, it’s just a Brick!
“Quel délice, en effet!” her neighbour agrees.
“What a party, dear Signora Di Forzone!” the Baronne shouts down the table.
“Do try this one, Excellency!” I tell the ambassador by my side.
Munching, gulping, gossiping, laughing. Whiffs of salty air drift over eager faces. Void minutes swell to void half hours, lost time coated in a blurry-tipsy mixture of glistening sunshine and excited voices of people pretending to be dignified. The whole eating and drinking process slowly trickles us towards mid-afternoon.
I feel like a bee caught in some sort of sticky time and space, buzzing from guest to guest as if they were flowers, my half-empty, never refilled glass of Medea in one hand, minutely prepared warmth and interest reflected by my facial features.
At such short notice, we only managed to recruit a reduced staff of waiters and waitresses. They look the part in those uniforms out of a sultan’s wet dream. I had my doubts but, yes, Michele did a good job once again. They all endure this first confrontation with their future benefactors rather well, too. As far as I can see, they understood my preparatory speech: remain professional, efficient, discreet, calm, and polite. Above all, be ready to please. The difficult blend of distance and simultaneous availability is perfect. This is what we’ve been striving for, Alessandra and I, over the last few weeks.
After lunch, when the illustrious bunch finally shuffles to their rooms one by one, I sigh with relief.
So far so good.
Alessandra beams in my direction, then blows me a kiss before retreating to her office with Michele.
The hotel lobby and I stay behind, low and emptied. The constant hum of the air conditioning makes the cold luxury of the premises feel even more impersonal and irrelevant.
Noiseless, my loafers slip over the marble floor, leaving no trace.
The small side office that is mine lies behind the reception. I nod to the middle-aged receptionist, who is wearing his fake wedding ring as inconspicuous evidence. Another of Michele’s ideas. A man in his forties, no outstanding beauty yet visibly married, should effortlessly arouse interest and lusty fantasies. I’m still astounded by Michele’s down-to-earth accuracy and wicked perspicacity. They really don’t show when you meet him for the first time. But then, he was already good at hiding his cards when we were teenagers.
The smell of new furniture and wet paint lingers in the room when I enter. Stylish but neutral design. Expensive, it goes without saying. A heavy desk with a huge computer screen; a heap of papers next to the keyboard; a leather chair that looks important all of its own; lush plants; a row of identical black folders, yet to be filled, on the transparent glass-shelves. A huge window overlooks the circular driveway, the softly moving and rustling palm trees, the theatrical entrance gate in the distance.
I immediately switch off the air conditioning and open the window. A hot breeze sweeps in.
Sitting on the sill, I gaze at the rich green park outside, barring all conscious thoughts from my brain and wiping that stupid social smile from my face. I need a quality moment, only for a minute or two. Boredom is easier to bear when you’re alone.
In the sky, far away and high above, French jet fighters hum through the afternoon blue, the sound of their engines stifled by the sheer immensity. They are flying south, on their way to bomb a mad dictator and his clan out of this world.
My mind starts to roam upon secret, forbidden paths. Probably because of the distant sound of airplanes. Or the heavy silence that weighs on the hotel compound. Or the heat that breathes over my shoulders, wave after sizzling wave.
Whatever it is, I suddenly think of the villa my father used to rent for our summer holidays, back in the 80s. The first year we went there, he had just been appointed State Secretary. That particular villa in the south of France had been selected because he wanted to impress his government colleagues. You can be a socialist or even a communist and still have astonishingly refined tastes. In her usual, uncaring way, my mother had consented without saying a word. She was fine as long as no one expected her to take a decision.
My sisters and I arrived one sunny Friday in July, accompanied by our charmless, stiff Norwegian nanny Eva. I remember my excitement during the train trip, nose pressed to the window of our compartment, eyes sucking in the magically changing landscapes. My contagious enthusiasm made my sisters giggle and Eva roll her eyes, exasperated. She was a dedicated sulker, and her favourite words were “No!” and “Don’t!”
My father’s chauffeur picked us up in Avignon. I’ll never forget the smell when we finally reached our destination in the Nice hinterland: a mixture of dry grass and herbs, rosemary, thyme, laurel, and of hot stones, with the sweet whiff of lavender.
The house was a typical, old-fashioned Mas Provençal, one of those rugged but cosy two-storey farmhouses. Lonely and imperious, it was standing on a hill, surrounded by pines and plane-trees. I remember its cream-coloured stones under that red, softly slanted roof. A low stone wall ran all around the house. The land was falling in rolling movements down to the sea, which I could make out in the far distance.
This would be our playground: an undulating patchwork of stone-grey, harsh brown and beige, of glittering green, lavender-lilac, and the odd silvery patch of an olive tree, with the slim azure ribbon of the Mediterranean far away under a cloudless sky. Not to forget the pitiless summer sun from dawn to dusk. And almost constant hot gusts of wind.
When the car came to a halt, my sisters and I jumped out and sprinted towards the entrance door.
And Eva immediately yelled, “Don’t! Run!”
Of course, my mother and my father weren’t there. Whether they had been invited to see show-biz acquaintances in Saint-Tropez or asked to show up at a political gathering in Marseille, or had returned to Paris, I don’t recall.
It didn’t matter, anyway. They’re only ghostlike appearances in my summer souvenirs. We didn’t see much of them. Neither during that first summer nor during the following ones. We were left alone with Eva and the chauffeur, and an old couple whose accent I had a hard time understanding. The wife seemed to spend her whole life in the kitchen or on the phone. Her husband was in charge of the big garden around the house. Constantly scowling, he would smell of sweat, sunburnt skin, alcohol, and aniseed. When he smiled, which didn’t occur often, he would show off a gaping hole where his front teeth should have been.
What I remember most vividly are the lonely moments I spent on my own in the garden. In fact, each day Eva forced us to have a nap after lunch. I would wait until I heard her snore in her room. Then, painstakingly trying to avoid waking up my sisters, I would skulk off on tiptoes, hurry down the stairs, and dash down the hill.
Invariably I would stop under my favourite olive tree, in the shadow of which I would lie down, pressing my stomach against the dry soil and inhaling those strong Provence fragrances. Through the roof of the leaves, fierce sunrays would sting my bare skin.
Sometimes I stayed there for hours, watching the fields, the parched grassland, and the trees dancing in the wind. I would listen to the swish-swish-swish of the breeze racing through the vegetation and murmuring over the land. The deafening concert of crickets and cicadas never ceased; after a while, I wouldn’t even hear it anymore. I would smile when a lazy bird chirped out.
And I would feel a longing and yearning inside, unknown and unexplainable; a swelling sensation that made me fear I might explode any moment. Without understanding any of it, I somehow knew that my yearning was unreasonable, irrational.
I was still a child; only a child, because beyond and before reason, can experience a feeling so strong and overwhelming and accept it without asking questions.
From time to time, a tiny airplane would disturb those early afternoons, droning through the stillness. The sound came from far away, in waves, as if there were mountains in the sky. Squinting, I would follow the tiny black spot in the sky-blue. Sometimes, I would close my left eye, then my right, and discover with astonishment that the airplane would hop forward, then back, then forward, then back again.
—90—
Alessandra made it very clear: she wants the best. Until now, she has succeeded. In almost no time, she has found this secluded place with its private beach. The hotel compound offers a perfect combination of subtle refinement and calm.
My task consists of rounding up a staff of willing professionals. “I don’t care about their nationality,” she told me. “Use your flair. They have to be beautiful, naturalmente, and look as if they were locals. They need to be trustworthy. They must understand what we’re playing here and play the game without qualms. The rest doesn’t matter, va bene?”
To give Tunisians a priority treatment was my idea. You could call it my strange and twisted notion of justice and reward. Whatever. I’m aware that a job in this place is all I can offer. When the revolution broke out, I felt vaguely stirred for the first time in years while following the events on telly. To give some of them a chance could be my personal way of encouraging them to pursue their dreams.
Some would scoff and call me a pimp. But what? What I’m doing hasn’t killed me, has it? I don’t even feel dirty or immoral, hell, no. It’s just a job. Aren’t we all prostitutes, in one way or another? The wages I’m allowed to propose are also higher than anything these people could ever dream of.
Anyway, I don’t want to think about it too much. I will not and shall not think. Not about me, not about others. They’ll have to decide for themselves.
My
first candidate comes from Hammamet. He has dark, short, wavy hair, a good and sane body, a face like a model. He enters the office, his stride self-confident, his smile bright. Beautiful teeth, I notice. An important asset, especially for our guests from the US. His handshake is firm and straightforward.
I glimpse at the notes Habib, our local liaison man, has prepared. “Please, have a seat,” I say.
He sits and looks around. I don’t say anything, just study him. He is single, I’ve read, and perfectly healthy. Has a degree in economics. His last job ended when the revolution broke out and the tourists deserted the country.
Good point: he senses my observation, lifts his eyes and holds my gaze. I see him reach a conclusion, and he smiles even wider. I detect no malice, no contempt. Then, ever so incidentally, he opens his muscular legs, thrusts his hips forward, and lays his hands in his lap in a suggestive way. It’s subtle yet unmistakable.
“Okay,” I say. “Your name is Rachid, right?”
“Right,” he nods. His French sounds correct, a light accent betraying his origins. That’s the local touch we’re looking for.
“Tell me more about your last job,” I say and lean back, keeping my eyes on him.
“I’ve been working for the Beach Palace in Hammamet,” he answers. “For two years.”
“Masseur and physical trainer, I know.” I leaf through the notes. “And your degree? Have you never thought of working in your field of competence?”
“In this country?” Rachid laughs. He doesn’t sound bitter, just matter-of-factly.
“Your last employer speaks of you in high terms,” I say.
“Does he?” Rachid licks his full lips.
“We’ve heard rumours, however,” I add. “About your… shall we call them extra-curricular activities?” Luckily, our liaison man started his investigations some months before the recent events.
If Rachid is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Rumours?” he asks. “What kind of rumours?”
“Several tourists,” I wave some letters at him, “attested to your… after-work prowess. You seem to have offered… more than massages or tennis matches. To both men and women, as far as I’m informed.”
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