I stop listening and study the métro plan instead.
The angry, crazy woman finally leaves the train at Place de Clichy. I sigh. A gipsy with an accordion comes in. He starts to play Kalinka, rather badly.
I discreetly rummage in my pocket. No, I haven’t got any change. He is a bad musician anyway.
Mister Mousey has been observing me all this time, or so it feels.
We reach Charles-de-Gaulle-Étoile. I wait for the very last moment. When the ringtone announces the departure of the train and the doors close, I jump up, force the doors open again, and bounce out.
Before I head for the exit to the connection tunnel, I turn back. I see the train drive off and glimpse the mousey guy standing behind the door, glaring at me.
—36—
“You remembered,” I say approvingly, looking around. We’re sitting under a sunshade. The terrace of the restaurant is half-empty. Behind us rises the strict architecture of the eastern wing of the Palais de Chaillot. Before us lie the Jardins du Trocadéro and their monumental central fountain. At the foot of the hill flows the river Seine, and on the other side sits the Eiffel Tower, so close you can almost smell the steel, its filigree structure looking like an improbable building made of light-brown lace. “It was here we met last time, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” Gloria smiles at me. “I remembered how much you liked the view.”
“It is fabulous,” I admit. The sound of traffic drifts up from the Voie Georges Pompidou and the avenues down below, but subdued, almost dream-like. The few people around us are talking in low voices. I turn to her. “I’ve always liked the Eiffel Tower, you know.”
“Me, too. It’s so beautiful because it’s so… useless, right?”
“Exactly. When anyone asks me for the reasons it was built, I always say, ‘There was no reason. They did it just because they could.’”
Gloria beams at me. “You look good, jongen! A real hunk!”
“You look stunning, too,” I counter-compliment her.
She’s wearing Gaultier with high-heeled Louboutin boots and has lost nothing of her legendary beauty. Even wrinkles or sagging skin seem unwilling to flaw her face. Her full hair has turned white, which suits her well.
“What’s your secret? You look no older than… forty!” I say.
“Come on, you shameless liar!” she protests. “I’m over sixty now. A few years ago, I toyed with the idea of having some repair work done, if you know what I mean.” She winks, and I nod. “But Karl said, ‘Daaahling, ve don’t vunt you to look like ze common rich bitch. Your face it is Haute-Couture—you must not transform it into a cheap prêt-à-porter mask.’ That did it. I decided I’d let nature have its way. What you see is just the result of yoga, healthy food, and lots of beauty products. And…” She chuckles. “…good lighting.”
I laugh. “Great to see you haven’t changed!”
She squeezes my arm.
A waiter comes over and looks at us expectantly. We place our orders; he nods and disappears soundlessly.
Gloria leans forward. “How long has it been?” Her citrus-musk perfume invades my nostrils. It’s still the same, too.
“Hard to say,” I admit. “Must be ten years?”
“Is it? Jeez, time flies by.”
“I was quite surprised when you called, to be honest. How did you get my number?”
“Oh, you know, Google… You can find almost anything there these days.” She leaves it at that. “Sooo… What have you been up to lately? I heard you were working in… tourism?”
“Uhm, yeah, you could say that.”
“Nice.” To my relief, she keeps her voice neutral. And doesn’t ask more questions. Instead, she talks about the last decade, which she has spent in Qatar, it seems. “Helping the local rich girls replenish their wardrobes with a maximum of money. And a minimum of taste,” as she puts it.
“Sounds like a tough job,” I comment. “But you’ve come back.”
“Yes. After a while, I got tired of seeing how in vain my efforts were. I mean, a Dior dress was never meant to match a head-to-toe veil, was it? I got tired of hiding my vodka bottles, too.”
We chuckle.
“I’m selling my own ready-to-wear collections now. It’s still word of mouth business, but I do have some enthusiastic clients. Our offices and showrooms are off the Avenue Montaigne. I’m working with this young Spanish designer, Rodolfo Velásquez. He’s really talented, you know.”
“Hey, great for you!” The more we chat, the more I wonder what I’m doing here. It’s almost as if I can sense a purpose behind Gloria’s charming jabbering.
After our breakfast has been served—with an iced glass of vodka for my companion—Gloria prattles on about her small but promising business. I lean back, sip my coffee and stab at my food, content to listen. All right, I’m not really interested in the story about that young Danish girl Gloria hired as an assistant and who resigned two days ago because Escada offered her a job in Munich. I mean, that’s life in the fashion world. That’s life in general, I gather. But it’s rather restful to hear about someone else’s problems.
“We cope without her,” Gloria says, lighting a cigarette. Apparently, she is still talking about the Danish girl. “Until I find a suitable replacement, that is. But she’s started one thing I’d like to see finished rather quickly.” She looks at me expectantly.
“Like what?” I ask, intrigued despite myself.
“Well, you know how much music means to me…”
I nod.
“The thing is, Rodolfo has already come up with a couple of fascinating ideas for our next collection. He’s currently working on the first drafts. But I need a muse to inspire me. Of course, I won’t be interfering with his work, but my job is to guide his overwhelming imagination. Otherwise, I’m afraid he’d go off every which way. And I have to admit I feel absolutely uninspired at the moment.”
She drifts off, gazing vaguely at the Eiffel Tower, smoking.
“Yes,” I prod.
“The thing is, I’ve asked Hedvig to compile some tunes, some music to help me and Rodolfo focus. You know, a sort of soundtrack for our work. But as I said, Hedvig left, and the compilation is far from ready.”
I deduce that Hedvig is the Danish girl who is enjoying Bavaria, beer, sausages, and dirndls right now.
Gloria looks at me, eyes sparkling. “That’s when I thought of you. We do have a common history where music is concerned, don’t we?”
Cautiously, I say, “Um, yes, I guess you could say that.”
Gloria briskly snuffs out her cigarette, takes a sip of vodka, and lifts her Hermès bag. She rummages around, murmuring, “Where have I put… Where the heck is…” Finally, she takes out a thin laptop. “There it is!” She places it before her, opens it, and switches it on in one quick movement. “Last thing Hedvig told me, she preselected a playlist. Hours of songs, mind you, much too many for our purpose. All the files are saved on this thing.”
I nod.
Gloria smiles at me. “I can see it in your face, jongen. You know what I’d like you to do, don’t you?”
“You want me to continue Hedvig’s job. Narrow down the selection.”
She beams. “Exactly. Only the music, you know. Do you think you have the time? Do you think you could help an old woman in need?”
I think about it for a second. Truth be told, I’m afraid I won’t see a lot of business in the near future. Most of it was planned and scheduled by Alessandra, and by my reckoning, Alessandra is out of the picture now. My appointment book, if I possessed such a thing, would be empty.
“Stop saying you’re old,” I say automatically. “And yes. I’ll help you.”
“It’s just the music. But you know, there are just too many songs in that darn playlist, some of them rubbish, I’m sure…”
“I said I’d do it. I
have time enough, God knows.”
Gloria pats my hand. “How about I simply copy the files onto your mobile? You make your selection, and when you’re ready, you send me a USB stick. Or you could come to our office. You absolutely have to meet Rodolfo. Such a fascinating man! Oh lief! I’m so excited!”
I hand her my mobile. “Whatever you prefer.”
“Well, let’s see…” A cable materialises in her hand, she plugs it in and connects my mobile to her laptop. “It’ll take some time…” She places the phone next to the computer and smiles at me, almost apologetically, before focussing on the screen. Her long, dark red fingernails tap-tap-tap on the keys.
“No problem. I’m not in a hurry.” I take another sip of my coffee, which is cold now. I replenish our cups. Suddenly a thought strikes me. Could it be that…? Could this be the real purpose?
Lightly, I ask, “Have you heard from, uh, from Mother?”
Gloria’s head jerks up, her eyes widen. I get the impression we’re close to a revelation I might not like.
She smiles sheepishly. “I’m afraid I haven’t been in touch with your mother for a couple of years, jongen. You know, when I can avoid her…”
I decide to bluff. “Really? I thought I heard her mention your name the other day…”
“Are you sure?” Gloria looks outright embarrassed now. She strokes the white tablecloth before her. “Well, I guess she must have complained…” She drifts off.
Then she leans forwards and lays her hand on mine. Her eyes bore into me, shining with earnest concern. “All right. She sent me an invitation for your father’s funeral, lief. One of those impersonal printed things, you know. I’m sorry I haven’t offered my condolences to you yet, by the way. How are you keeping up?”
I am thrown off my track. I didn’t expect this. “I’m fine. You know how things were between Father and me.”
She nods. “I know. But still… I’m ashamed I didn’t attend the funeral. I should have, I guess. But the mere thought of seeing your mother… I hope you understand. We were never very close friends. That’s why I preferred to ignore the invitation. I do apologise, it was very rude of me.”
It dawns on me at last. She is embarrassed because she thinks I blame her for not turning up at Father’s obsequies.
“Gloria, you don’t have to apologise. It’s okay. I understand your reasons perfectly well—it sure was an ordeal for all involved. Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”
She looks relieved.
“So. Tell me about your upcoming collection. I need to know more if you want me to find inspiring music.”
She claps her hands and says, “All right. Well, we were thinking Japanese-ish, zen, rare and pure patterns. You know, pared-down florals, black, ruby red, tender greens, dainty and delicate ornaments. We were also thinking something wilder, like ocean swirls, watercolour-like patches that seep into each other…”
—35—
I take a taxi, which drops me off near my apartment. The area was working-class some years ago but has turned resolutely boho. I pass in front of organic food stores, hipster bars, wine shops, e-cigarette retailers, shoe and clothes shops. When I walk down a side street towards my apartment building, I see our janitor watering our strip of lawn.
He waves at me, switches off the hose and calls out, “Hi, Marc.”
“Hi, Tomas. How are you doing?”
“Fine, thank you.” He lays down the hose and walks over to me. Tomas is a short, wiry man in his thirties. His family is originally from Portugal. His features are a bit too sharp for him to be called handsome, but he is easy-going, good-humoured, and never afraid to get his hands dirty if someone in the building needs work to be done. We’ve never talked much but get along quite well. He is paid to get along with all the tenants and apartment owners, of course.
Tomas crosses his arms before his chest and says, “You were out this morning?” He doesn’t sound nosy, just politely interested.
I reply with a shrug, “Yes. I had breakfast with a friend. Why?”
He simply nods as if I had given the right answer. “I rang your apartment an hour ago, and you didn’t answer. That’s why I’m asking. In fact, there were three men loitering about for quite a while around here.”
“Oh.”
“I was chatting with Cécile—you know, the postwoman. That’s when I noticed them. They looked… odd, you could say, what with their suits and sunglasses. Seemed to just hang around, staring up at your balcony and talking. Finally, when I was in the hall to put the mail in the boxes, one of them tried to follow me inside. Mousey-looking chap, short hair, grey suit. I asked him what he wanted, and he said he had an appointment with you…”
“I didn’t have any appointments this morning apart from my breakfast.” Despite the lush, warm morning, I feel cold all of a sudden. Could this be the same mousey guy who stalked me in the métro? Why would he do such a thing? Why would he shadow me? Why would he show up here? Who were the other two guys?
I guess I knew that something like this would happen sooner or later. I guess I hoped it would be later. Much later. At a time when I would have figured out what is going on.
Tomas stares at me as if trying to read my face. Then he shrugs. “If you say so. Anyway, I asked him to ring your apartment or call you. He left instead. I thought that was strange.”
“It was probably nothing,” I lie, plastering a fake smile on my face. “He must have got the date wrong or something. Thank you for telling me, Tomas.”
“You know who they are?” Tomas leans closer, obviously curious.
“I’m afraid no. Maybe some business acquaintances,” I say lightly, hiding my unease. “I’ll look in my appointment book. Thank you again. It’s good to know you’re here. Have a nice day, Tomas.”
“All right. Have a nice day, too.” He doesn’t seem to believe me, but I don’t care.
—34—
Of course, I don’t check my appointment book. First of all, I don’t use appointment books; and secondly, I know perfectly well that I’m free in the foreseeable future.
I realise only now how much I’ve come to rely on Alessandra for my… job. My hook-ups. Indeed, the process has been so slow it has become almost impossible to notice it, but my own connections have one by one stopped contacting me over the last two years. No news from the lusty senator, the communist député, the heart surgeon, the busty psychologist, or the rich heiress and her husband who loved to have swimming-pool threesomes in their country estate near Arles.
Like an insatiable ogre, Alessandra has devoured my private links, leaving me empty-handed as if I had never had any acquaintances.
I stomp into the kitchen and drink a glass of water to get rid of the sour taste on my tongue. Then, I return to the living room and pick up two bottles from the steel-and-glass bar.
Back in the kitchen, I grind a couple of ice cubes, put an egg white, Amaretto, Angostura, and fresh lemon juice in the shaker, and mix myself an Amaretto Sour. That keeps me busy for a little while.
Tumbler in hand, I return to the living room, where I plug my mobile into the home wi-fi system.
I notice a text message has come in in the meantime.
We came to play but u
wasn’t their. Naughty,
naughty boy. Behave
yourselve or else…
I shudder briefly, not only because of the blatant typos. Then, I delete the message and start Gloria’s playlist. I don’t think I can stand the silence of my apartment any longer nor the noise in my head.
Adele starts to sing Someone Like You. Ah, all right. That’s what Hedvig had in mind for Gloria. I take an empty notebook and a pen from my desk, scribble down “1”, and add “N” for No. I like the song, but I don’t see Japan or flowers, nor does it conjure up ocean swirls.
The English singer is followed by Rihanna singing Only Girl
.
A great tune, but no.
The Black Eyed Peas don’t do it for me, either.
I sit on the sofa, grab my tumbler, and take a sip. The icy glass smells of raw egg, the drink tastes sweet-sour, the crushed ice leaves a prickling sensation on my tongue.
After ten songs, all of which seem to have been recent number-one pop or rock hits, I’m fairly certain Hedvig’s playlist won’t do. I know Gloria’s tastes. I guess I have to come up with my own selection, after all.
I fetch my laptop from the desk, open it, enter YouTube, and type in my first search. Seconds later, Debussy’s Clair de lune trickles out of the loudspeakers. No link to flowers, but the performance of the renowned pianist I’ve chosen is so ethereal and beautiful, the notes strung together like precious pearls sound so pure that I can easily imagine it inspiring Gloria.
I close my eyes and let the sparse grace of the piano music wash over me. As always, I’m thinking of that scene in Frankie and Johnny: Michelle Pfeiffer sitting in her small New York flat at night, all by herself, aching, while the same music is playing on the radio.
After that, the next tune is easy to find. I stick to Debussy. The first movement of La mer.
Unwanted memories bubble up in my mind, bursting forth from my inner safe.
A beach.
A glistening, sharp and scrubby rock.
The crumbling ruins of an ancient stronghold on top.
Waves licking the pebbles, reaching for my feet.
The shape of a young man in black swimming trunks.
A muscled bum. Hard nipples standing out from a bush of black chest hair that narrows to a thin line on ripped abs.
A handsome face with a scowl.
The movement’s finish catches me in an emotional high that sets me to tears. I wipe them off my face in a fast, angry movement.
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