“I’d love to,” I said, pressing my ear into the receiver.
“Can I meet you there? I have to be at the theater before.”
“Are you in a play?”
“I’m directing something. I’ll tell you about it.”
“Do I need to dress up?” I asked hopefully.
“Not so much. It’s at a friend’s house, Laure de Saligny and her husband. Meet me there around seven-thirty?” he asked. “We could have dinner afterward.”
I wrote down the directions and hung up. I slid over the wood floor in my socks and bounced from one foot to the other while I searched the closet for something to wear and speed-dialed Clara.
“It’s me, it’s me, why aren’t you there? Not only did I get the lingerie back, but I think I’m going to wear it!” I babbled into her voice mail.
The rest of the afternoon, I was useless. I tried to distract myself by doing one of Tante Isabelle’s yoga DVDs, but I knocked the back of my head on the coffee table doing downward dog. I ran out to Monoprix and bought two pairs of black stockings and the wrong batteries for the TV remote. I painted my toenails, then spent half an hour fixing the smudges. I had to force myself to put down the eyebrow tweezers before I plucked myself into the silent film era.
I propped my feet on the coffee table to let the polish dry and caught the end of one of the literary talk shows. The episode was devoted to the fall book releases, and a wraithlike man with spiky, gelled hair delivered an impassioned monologue decrying the amount of attention devoted to the highly overrated Rémi Le Jaa, an opinion unpopular with the studio audience, who booed him.
It was a name I hadn’t heard before. I turned off the TV and studied Tante Isabelle’s bookshelves: nothing by Le Jaa.
I wiggled into my new lingerie, sucked in my stomach, and pranced around the bedroom. Leaning back on the bed, I lifted one leg, pointed my toes, and pulled on the stockings. Stockings always made me feel glamorous, a little retro, like Monica Vitti in smudgy black eye shadow. My mother wore stockings. I remembered watching her fasten them with nublike clips that didn’t exist on any other piece of clothing.
I slipped my feet into a pair of high-heeled, black silk pumps with velvet bows and pink flowers embroidered on the heels, one of my expensive summer sale purchases, and shimmied into a tight but slimming, sleeveless black turtleneck dress. I sucked in my cheeks, turned three-quarters, and did my best Faye Dunaway in front of the mirror.
I looked like a slut. I changed a half dozen times before returning to the black turtleneck dress. As I struggled back into it, I broke out in a sweat. It was oddly muggy for mid-September. Little bits of black dress lint stuck to my face. I rubbed them off with a towel.
I still looked like a slut. I covered up with a fitted jacket. Now I looked like an undertaker. I put a run in my stocking when I bumped into the desk rushing to answer the phone. It was Bunny.
“Under the Volcano is on cable. Wanna join me for Mexican food and a cocktail I call Lighter Fluid Surprise? My own invention,” he said.
“Raincheck? I’ve got a date,” I said. “And there is no good Mexican food here.”
“You are so wrong, my young friend. I got an Algerian guy in Boulogne who makes carne asada like you would not believe,” he said. “Are you in the freak-out about what to wear stage?” he asked. I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear and ripped open another package of stockings.
“Yeah. What do you think, slut or mortician?”
“Mortician. That’s the look that always does it for me. In fact, I dated a mortician. New York, 1967—”
“Bunny!”
“Okay, okay. Mortician. It’s less obvious. Have fun.”
I pulled on a fresh black stocking, hoping both legs matched. All this dithering was very time-consuming: it was already seven-twenty. I rushed through my makeup, swiping on a couple of coats of mascara at the last minute. It was seven-thirty. I put my hair up with a barrette, stuffed my keys and some money into a beaded evening bag, and flagged a taxi. I would be late, but maybe only fashionably so.
The taxi pulled up in front of an imposing 1930s building on a quai in the Seventh. I walked through a marble and mosaic entrance with double-height ceilings. When I got to the top floor, it was so quiet, I thought I might have the wrong address, but I rang the doorbell anyway. A blond woman with a streak of white hair and hammered gold jewelry answered the door. I was relieved when I saw she was wearing an ivory silk dress that showed off her bronzed skin. I wasn’t overdressed.
“Bonsoir, madame,” I said. “Olivier Vallant m’a invitée,” I added. She gave me a cool smile and led me into an enormous living room packed with people. It was decorated with taupe leather furniture, abstract paintings, and large arrangements of gnarled twigs. She said something I couldn’t hear over the party chatter and walked away. As I searched the crowd for Olivier, I recognized a writer I’d seen on the talk show deep in conversation with a rock star who’d published a book of poetry. Then, my eyes connected with a familiar pair.
From across the room, Bernard Laveau frowned at me, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in two fierce slashes.
15
Car à Paris presque tous les amants d’une fille connue vivent en intimité.*
—ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS, La Dame aux Camélias
Great. Just peachy. No sign of Olivier, and here was Bernard Laveau, barreling down the Aubusson carpet with a glass of champagne held high like a medieval weapon—that ball thing covered in spikes, attached to a chain. If ever there was a time to feel caught red-handed, this was it. I froze. My heels sank into the carpet pile.
“Alors, mademoiselle. Qu’est ce que vous faites là?” Monsieur Laveau asked. His voice was scathingly polite, barbed wire wrapped in a silk foulard. I tried not to flinch. For some reason, he thought I shouldn’t be here. A waiter held out a tray of champagne flutes, and I armed myself with one.
“Quel plaisir de vous voir aussi, monsieur,” I responded, trying to out-polite him. I gulped down half the champagne, trying to think. Olivier wasn’t there, so Monsieur Laveau had no way of knowing he’d invited me. Unfortunately, there was no one else I knew. I searched the room wildly and made eye contact with a red-cheeked, middle-aged man in a rumpled linen suit. He stood with a small group of people by the large windows. I darted another glance at him. He gave me a perplexed look and went back to his conversation. I took another swig of champagne. Monsieur Laveau took hold of my elbow and wheeled me around.
“Do you have any idea how awkward this is?” he hissed. “Vraiment, ça me déplait énormément,” he said and proceeded to scold me, and none too discreetly. I could feel my face screwing up with tension.
“Comment vas-tu, ma chérie?” interrupted the man in the rumpled suit. He grasped my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks, his razor stubble scraping my skin. He smelled of citrus and had the face of a sad Russian poet. I liked him immediately.
“Très, très bien, merci,” I squeaked, nodding my head up and down.
“Et ta maman et ton papa? Oui? Sont-ils toujours—”
“A Los Angeles, oui,” I interjected, nodding furiously.
“Tu me rassures. Ah, Bernard,” the man said, turning. “You’ve met my young friend?” Monsieur Laveau looked discomfited, mumbled a gruff word of greeting, and retreated into the crowd, but not before giving me a final glare.
“Merci, monsieur,” I said, relieved.
“Antoine,” he corrected. “After all, we are old friends. Or rather, you must be the daughter of old friends I didn’t know I had in California. Whose name is…”
“Anna,” I said, smiling. “Thank you, Antoine. That was gallant of you.”
“But bizarre, you must admit. Bernard Laveau is not the kind of man young women generally need rescuing from. And you looked so very distressed.”
“Oh, that…” I tried to shrug it off.
“Surely you could give me an explanation? It would be most intriguing.”
“Why?”
/> “Bernard used to be my editor. We had a disagreement and he’s never forgiven me. Now, we meet at these literary parties”—Antoine waved a small, white hand—“and we ignore each other. Of course, he edits my wife, so we must be civil.”
“I had no idea Monsieur Laveau was so…active,” I said.
“You mean the dusty storefront? A kind of reverse snobbery, I suppose. One mustn’t appear pretentious.”
“How…nineteenth century,” I said.
“Si on veut. Plutôt intello gauche caviar,” he said, using the French equivalent for “intellectual champagne socialist.” “But it’s an affectation. Bernard pretends to be retired, but he’s still quite influential.”
“You sound like someone who’d know. What kinds of books do you write?”
“Biographies. I am at present working on the life of Villiers de L’Isle-Adam.”
“Les Contes cruels?”
“Very good. And how would you translate that?” he asked blandly.
“Cruel Tales?” I asked, puzzled. It was such an easy translation. “Am I missing something? How is it usually translated?” I asked.
“Sardonic Tales,” he said, with a curious little smile, a casual lift of the mouth, as if I’d said exactly what he’d expected me to say. As he lifted his champagne glass to his lips, his eyes darted almost involuntarily to Bernard. I’d walked right into it. Antoine was a sly old fox.
“You guessed,” I said.
He shrugged. “I’ve known Bernard for years. He does not change his habits easily, and he has always been a cheapskate. It must be his Breton upbringing. So much less expensive to hire someone au noir.” Antoine gave me a concerned look, though it was hard to tell if it was genuine. “Surely you know you are not the first of his traductrices? Though you are, perhaps, the first to show up at one of these parties.”
“Well, no, I mean, I hardly thought I was unique, but it did seem like an unusual situation…” I said, stumbling over my words.
“Ah yes, the secrecy, the weekly assignments, the gag order.” He looked dreamy-eyed for a moment. “I like this expression, ‘gag order.’ It is delightfully fascistic. I remember when I first heard it, in a spy movie with Robert Redford. Always, I find it fascinating, this sexual fetishization of power.”
“Not sure I follow,” I said, watching him. His face pleated in amusement.
“Oh, the iconography of the phrase. It conjures up blindfolds, the S and M aficionado’s mouth restraint with a rubber ball, black vinyl, latex. The friction between knowing something and not being able to speak it: it’s the definition of suspense, a kinetic tension. What are you working on?” he asked. He had a style: outrageous provocation, followed by innocent-seeming inquiry. Slash and burn for the smart set.
“That was good,” I said, admiringly.
“Was I close?”
“Let’s just say I’m enjoying the friction between knowing something and choosing not to say anything about it.”
His impish face crinkled again. “I’ll get it out of you.” He wagged a finger at me.
A short, beady-eyed woman in a burgundy dress and a jade necklace marched over to us. “Let me introduce you to my wife,” he said. Victorine had wide cheekbones and a gravelly voice probably caused by chain-smoking Murattis. Flecks of ash dotted her dress, and she brushed them away with bony, blue-veined hands, the nails short and red. When I asked, she told me she wrote on semiotics, as well as the occasional novel.
“Like Kristeva?” I asked, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. She gave me a heavy-lidded, withering glance.
“Her biggest rival,” Antoine explained sotto voce.
“I’m sorry, it was the only name I remembered,” I explained.
Victorine sniffed. “We only come to these parties to gossip. Let’s not talk about anything so boring,” she said and waved over a couple, a book editor and her husband. Antoine handed me another glass of champagne as the conversation turned to Rémi Le Jaa. I leaned in to listen. Apparently, he hadn’t published anything in years, and everyone had assumed he was either dead or dying a slow and sordid death in a distant country until one of the big publishing houses had announced a forthcoming book. When no one had any inside information, they moved on to one writer’s messy divorce and subsequent face-lift, another’s sale of movie rights, and yet another’s dramatic exit off Laurent Ruquier’s talk show the week before. It was like a movie party in L.A., but with better vocabulary. I wondered what was keeping Olivier. I reached into my purse for my cell phone, but it wasn’t there. With a start, I realized it was in my other purse. The one that was back in the apartment.
I asked Madame de Saligny if I could use her phone. She showed me to a book-lined study. I sat at the desk and called my cell phone. By the time I realized I’d entered the wrong code secret three times—I’d used my L.A. cell phone pass code instead of the French one—the system had locked me out. I slammed the phone down. A woman walked in.
“Excusez-moi, je ne vous avais pas vue!” she apologized, smiling. She looked around fifty but was probably older, with sleek brown hair cut in a bob, pale, creamy skin, and wide green eyes lined in black. She wore a tailored green dress, showing off a slim, toned figure, with a fiery orange silk duster, d’un chic fou, open over it. She was stunning.
“Pas du tout,” I said. “I was trying to call my friend, who seems to be missing in action,” I explained.
“Comme c’est curieux!” she exclaimed. “At the last minute, I freed myself to come tonight, and my friend isn’t here either!”
“Please,” I stood up, indicating the phone. She glanced at my shoes.
“I nearly bought those! Chez Lanvin, non?” she asked. I nodded. “So pretty! I have such a weakness for shoes.”
“Me, too. I got them on sale,” I confided. There was something about her that made me want to tell her secrets, a feeling of instant complicité, that French word that means a delicious sense of being partners in crime without there being any actual crime.
“Comme c’est étrange,” she said, cocking her head to one side. “You remind me of me…oh! Such a long time ago!” She smiled but narrowed her eyes, studying me.
“Not so long ago, I’m sure,” I said, blushing at the compliment. I left her alone to use the phone, wondering who she was, with her fabulous outfit and effortless charm.
The living room was hot and foggy with cigarette smoke. I helped myself to another glass of champagne. Olivier could have ten more minutes and a cheese puff, then I was leaving. Antoine and Victorine were still gossiping about people I didn’t know and the cost of maintaining their eighteenth-century house in the Limousin. Prickly beads of sweat made their way down my back, but I didn’t want to take off the jacket. Damn Olivier and his stupid invitation. I longed for my flannel pajamas. Maybe the DVD rental place was still open.
At a lull in the conversation, Victorine turned to me. “And how do you know Laure?” she asked, pointing her glass in the direction of our hostess.
“I don’t. A friend of mine, who is reprehensibly late, invited me,” I said. I swayed forward and grabbed a chair back to steady myself.
“Who is this unfortunate person?” she asked with a glazed, almost cross-eyed look.
“Olivier Vallant,” I said. She gave a tinkling, somewhat malicious laugh.
“Ne vous inquiétez pas, ma chère. Estelle is here, so Olivier is bound to show up,” she said, talking as if we were coconspirators. “Monsieur le Ministre is out of town.”
“Le Ministre?” I asked.
“Romain Chesnier, our minister of l’Education Nationale,” she said. “So convenient to have a husband who travels,” she added.
“Aha,” I said, though I didn’t follow. “Who’s Estelle?” I asked. At this, Victorine looked even more pleased with herself. She waved her glass in the direction of the fireplace. The woman I’d talked to in the study sat, surrounded by admirers. As I watched, she crossed one long, thin leg over the other, a nonchalant flamingo.
/> “Who is she?” I asked. Victorine played with the jade beads at her neck.
“I thought you said you knew Olivier,” she said, spider to fly.
“I do.”
“Alors, voilà Estelle Bailleux, l’actrice. Son amie,” I heard her say.
“Friend” can mean many things in French, I repeated to myself in the jaune de Sienne marble guest bathroom. The same way it can mean many things in English: acquaintance, casual friend, old friend, friend friend. But spoken in that tone, with that look, it meant significant friend, as in romantic partner. I splashed water on my face.
When I looked up, I had black bags under my eyes. I looked like a raccoon. It wasn’t waterproof mascara, which I’d forgotten, because I usually don’t wear mascara. I was buzzed, and I looked like a raccoon. I rubbed my eyes with a linen guest towel. Now I was red-eyed, and there were black streaks on the towel. I dumped it in the sink and scrubbed it with my knuckles, splashing the front of my dress. I wrung out the towel and refolded it to hide the black stains.
I could hear the rumble and laughter of the party outside, but I couldn’t leave the bathroom without an exit strategy. I couldn’t talk to Monsieur Laveau, I didn’t want to talk to a bunch of people I didn’t know, never mind that I would probably never see them again, and I wasn’t going to wait for Olivier to show up and introduce me to his “friend.” The idea of shaking her hand and smiling insincerely while I ground my molars to a fine dust was too hideous. Someone knocked on the door.
“Une minute,” I called out. I reapplied my lipstick and stepped back to inspect my appearance. The wet part of my dress was a visibly darker black. I took off the jacket and held it in front of me.
“Pardon, madame,” Antoine said automatically as I came out. “Oh, it’s you. We’re off to dinner at Lipp. Before I forget,” he said, fumbling in his wallet. “Here is my card. Call us, come to tea.” He looked like he meant it.
Foreign Tongue Page 11