Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy)

by Arianne Richmonde

  Hair loose, mascara, a little eyeliner and some lip gloss. My eyes don’t look good with a lot of make-up, and I’m so bad at blending foundation that I pass on that.

  My bag is a simple black clutch (that’s a first) and I just have a pale blue cashmere wrap, in case I get chilly, but right now it’s pretty hot outside.

  The elevator doors open directly at the Penthouse on the thirteenth floor (lucky for some) and I walk inside the apartment. There is no corridor. It seems that there are no other apartments on this floor – Alexandre has it all to himself.

  He welcomes me. He looks even more informal than usual in just his Levis and a T-shirt. He’s barefoot and I catch a glimpse of those elegant toes.

  “Good evening, Pearl, you look quite beautiful.” More Beauty Full than Beauty Fool, his accent says. Let’s hope I can keep going with the Beauty Full and not slip into the Fool which I fear I did this morning with my needy begging for sex. He said himself he likes me because I am ‘mature’ – I need to act like a grown-up, not a spoilt brat screaming for more candy.

  He kisses me softly but not passionately, as if to say, let’s try not jumping each other’s bones in the first few seconds.

  I keep my shoulders back (thanks for that tip, Mom, it has served me well) to try to give the gliding, poised look. It seems to work. I feel tall in my heels.

  “You look so elegant in the necklace,” he says. “I appreciate that you’re wearing it for me.”

  “Not as much as I appreciate the gift. Every time I look at it, I’m bowled over.”

  “I have another gift for you.”

  “Oh no! Alexandre, please. You’re cooking me dinner, that’s already special. And this choker was beyond generous. You really don’t have to give me anything else.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s very simple. I’ll show you in a minute. Now what can I offer you to drink? Champagne? A cocktail?”

  “A cocktail sounds tempting but I think I’ll go with champagne, please.”

  “As lovely as you look in those shoes why don’t you kick them off – you’ll be way more comfortable – I’ll show you around my abode.”

  His abode? His palace, more like.

  He’s right. I’m tottering about and feel self-conscious with Alexandre being so informal. I sit on a chair and slip my shoes off my newly buffed and manicured feet. My toenail polish is ice blue. I look in awe about me. Like the main lobby, the floors are marble, not black and white but a pale gray. Up here the feeling is more Bohemian chic than in the lobby. Nothing is too polished, nothing flashy or overdone. It gives the air of an eighteenth century Parisian house that you might read about in a novel or see in a period movie. Everywhere there is wood paneling, even hiding the elevator when it closes. There are paintings on the walls, mostly figurative – an eclectic mix of modern and old, and a worn priceless-looking tapestry – a medieval scene of unicorns and ladies picking apples from trees.

  Just this hallway is practically the size of my whole apartment.

  Alexandre takes my hand. “Come, I’ll give you a tour.”

  He leads me into the first room. The floors are now parquet, the wood buffed to a warm glow. The room is also completely paneled.

  He stands there, his legs astride, and tells me, “This walnut boiserie is original 1930s when the building was constructed. None of the other apartments have this paneling. See how the era’s ribbon-edge wood motifs are intact?”

  I notice how it adds a kind of rococo accent to the place, adorning the doorframes, and the cabinetry and bookshelves which are integrated within the paneling. They run along one side, and on the other are picture windows looking across Central Park to the West side, letting in beams of evening light. The massive room has two fireplaces and a double-aspect – from the south windows there are views to the Plaza and Fifth Avenue. In the middle of the room are two enormous sofas facing each other with a coffee table in between, and at one end of this striking living room cum library is a black, grand piano.

  “Do you play?” I ask.

  “No, but my sister does.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In Paris. But she always stays here when she’s in New York.”

  “How often does she come?”

  “Once a month, or so.”

  “What’s it like having a business partnership with a member of family?” I pry.

  “Put it this way, I couldn’t have done it without her. We’re a team. She’s savvy, smart and has a good head on her shoulders when it comes to deals. She’s a tough negotiator.”

  “Did she go to Mumbai, too?”

  “Oh yes. I don’t make deals without her present. She got a scholarship to Harvard Business School – she’s very well versed when it comes to corporate, multinational stuff.”

  I lean against the Steinway and run my fingers along its smooth lines. “I used to play,” I say. “If only we’d had room for a piano like this in our small apartment, maybe I would have continued more seriously.”

  “Really? Be my guest. Play something now.”

  “Oh, I’m very rusty.”

  “No, you’re not,” he replies with a wry smile, and I roll my eyes at his innuendo. “Go on, play something,” he entreats.

  I sit at the piano stool and shake out my fingers and wrists. “It’s been a while.”

  He leans languidly against the grand, waiting. I take a deep breath and begin one of my favorite tunes.

  “Erik Satie,” he says with a knowing smile. “Gymnopedie number 1 - so haunting. You play beautifully, Pearl.”

  When I finish he claps and I feel pleased that I didn’t make any mistakes. It makes me remember why I chose the instrument in the first place. I would give anything to have a piano like this.

  “Some champagne,” he remembers, opening a hidden bar, camouflaged by the walnut paneling. He looks into a small refrigerator. “For some reason there doesn’t seem to be any in here. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

  We make our way down a wide corridor and I find myself in – not a normal kitchen – but a sort of show-room. The ice-box alone would fit a regular-sized bathroom inside it. There is an island in the middle of the room, a big round table at one side, and wall to wall cabinets reaching to the high ceiling. All is white, the counter-tops marble, the floor marble. Light is pouring into the room as the windows are massive. There is a gas-burning stove, wider than an elephant, from which is emanating a delicious aroma of something roasting quietly in the oven.

  “That smells wonderful,” I comment.

  “Well, let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells.” He walks over to the refrigerator and takes out a bottle of Dom Pérignon rosé champagne and pops open the cork.

  “The lady from the third floor was raving about your cooking,” I tell him.

  “My grandfather was a chef – I picked up a few tricks.”

  “I guess you have the best food in the world in France.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, lots of other countries have caught up with us in many ways. I had the most exquisite dish near San Sebastian in Spain a couple of weeks ago, and some of the pizzas here in America rival Italy.”

  “Pizza doesn’t count,” I exclaim, “as world-class cooking.”

  “Never underestimate the culinary importance of pizza, Pearl,” he tells me with a sardonic smile. “If you were on Death Row you probably wouldn’t ask for haute cuisine.”

  “I’d ask for my mother’s macaroni and cheese.”

  “Exactly, there you go. It’s the Italians that have us all hooked on their food.” He pours us both some chilled champagne. It’s crisp and aromatic. Champagne, an unbeatable French export.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Do you sometimes think about that? Imagine being on Death Row?”

  “We don’t have the death penalty in France but since I’ve lived here in The States I do question the possibility sometimes.” He says this with a serious look on his face. Is he kidding? I can never quite tell with him.

  “Do you think you’d b
e capable of murder, then?” I ask, half teasing.

  But his answer is serious. “We’re all capable of murder, aren’t we, Pearl? Given the right – or rather the wrong – circumstances.”

  I stare at him. I can’t read his expression. He’s a dark horse – an enigma, that’s for sure. I return to the more comfortable topic of food. “You’re probably the only European I’ve met who hasn’t touted his country’s cuisine as the best in the world.”

  He laughs. “Oh, I never said we weren’t the best. We take our cooking very seriously. The lunch hour in France is sacrosanct. Everybody sits down for a three course meal. The point is, we want to be the best – our reputation matters to us. We want to create gastronomic fantasies – so that our guests beg for a second helping.”

  The way he says this speaks volumes. That double entendre again. He’s got me begging for a second helping, that’s for sure.

  “Follow me.” He leads me by the hand to another room with a flat screen T.V splayed across one wall – the room peppered with opulent sofas and chairs. There’s a wrought-iron, spiral staircase and he leads me to it, guiding me as I climb the steps in front of him. At the top, we arrive in a Victorian-style conservatory, spilling over with tropical plants and trees. “I have several species of rare plants here. My sister could be arrested by Customs. She transports cuttings from all over the world in her suitcase.”

  “Don’t the plants die in transit?”

  “The secret is to wrap the cuttings in kitchen paper towel first, and then plastic. The paper towel is important or the cuttings sweat to death with too much moisture. This way they can survive a good twenty-four hours.”

  “Your sister sounds like quite a character.”

  “Yes, Sophie can be formidable. Not someone to have on the wrong side of you.”

  The more I hear about his sister, the more wary I am, although she seemed perfectly friendly when we met in the coffee shop.

  I look about this conservatory which is full of small orange trees, purple bougainvillea and towering palms. It has a sweet aroma of jasmine which I notice climbing on trellises, wild and free.

  There is a table in the middle, and elegant garden furniture composed of wrought iron, topped with sumptuous cushions, and double French doors which lead out on to a garden.

  “You have a garden on the roof? In New York City?” I squeal in delight, running outside.

  “I told you I was organizing my life around my dog. Rex should be quite content here, don’t you think?” His lips curve into a mischievous grin.

  The garden has real grass running across the length of the roof and small trees which are swaying in the evening breeze. The view across Central Park is spectacular – a sea of green reaching across the park to the Dakota on the Upper West Side, and I can even spot the Empire State.

  “Now, where would you like to eat? Up here in the conservatory or in the dining room downstairs?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t seen the dining room yet.”

  “Well, I’ll show you.”

  The dining room is perfectly round and a work of art. Tromp l’Oeil murals adorn the walls, making everything look three dimensional. Looking up, there is a painted blue sky around a dome with puffy wisps of clouds and a hawk flying through the air. It looks so real! There are double-doors opening onto a lake with swans, the view reaching to a far away horizon. The effect is extraordinary. I feel as if I am in an Italian palace centuries ago.

  I catch my breath. “I’m in awe”

  “So which is it to be, the fake view or the real, rooftop view?”

  “I don’t know which to choose. Both are unique. Which one would you suggest?”

  “Let’s toss for it.” He reaches into his jeans’ pocket and pulls out an odd silver coin.

  “That doesn’t look like a quarter,” I remark.

  “It’s my lucky coin. I carry it with me everywhere. It’s a silver stater from ancient Greece.” He shows me a wonky coin, almost the shape of a small pebble – more oval than round with an image of a sea turtle. On the other side are triangular notches.

  “Heads for upstairs, tails for down here, okay?”

  “Okay, which side is heads?”

  “The turtle side.”

  He throws the old coin in the air and catches it between his palms. Those palms that cupped me and pressed against my sweet spot only this morning. A shiver rushes through me. He slaps the coin on the back of his hand.

  “How d’you know that stater is real?” I ask, foolishly forgetting for a minute that Alexandre is so wealthy he can buy anything he wishes, even museum relics.

  “Because I had it checked out by an expert at the Met. She said one of the earliest and busiest Greek mints was on the island of Aegina, off the north-eastern coast of the Peloponnese. It’s probably from around 550 BC. It comes everywhere with me. Nice to have a slice of history traveling about in my pocket wherever I go. Tails it is.”

  Before I can ask him where he got the coin from, he takes his cell from his other pocket and says something to somebody in French. He then turns to me. “Let’s go back on the terrace, Pearl, and watch the sunset.”

  After we spend a good twenty minutes watching the sky turn from hues of deep oranges and shades of purple to spotting the first star (which happens to be Venus), we go back down to the round dining room. I do not see or hear a person anywhere. It is as if invisible fairies have swept about and organized everything: the table is set for two with a white damask tablecloth, crystal glasses and silver candlestick holders. There are just the candles lighting the room – those on the table and others in sconces on the walls.

  The mood is romantic; a warm, golden glow flickers about the room. Etta James is singing At Last softly in the background – mirroring my frame of mind exactly – that’s how I feel right now…at last. At last I have met someone I feel so strongly for. At last I feel passion again.

  I look about the room. “Where did those magic hands come from? The noiseless ones that laid the table?”

  “You’ll soon see. You sit and I’ll bring you a little amuse bouche.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Literal translation: something to titillate your taste buds. A bite-sized hors d’oeuvre.”

  I sit in a daze studying the room, letting my eyes stray to landscapes of lakes and trees. I can hear low mumblings in the kitchen. He has help but obviously likes to keep that low-key. Soon, he comes in carrying two small glass dishes and sets one before me.

  “This is a little Carpaccio de Dorade – sea bream – with Gelée de Poivrons – peppers. Sorbet Poivron et Piment d’Espelette. Special peppers from the French Pays Basque region right next to the Spanish border.”

  He pours me a glass of chilled white wine and I notice three glasses in front of me – this is sure to be quite a culinary experience to be paired with different wines.

  He sits down and we begin. I pop the little roulade into my mouth and feel it melt. The chilled creaminess melds beautifully with the delicate flavor of lightly spiced fish. Sublime.

  “So do you ever get tired of traveling so much?”

  “You know, Pearl, even if I had the budget of a student, I think I’d be getting away whenever I could, maybe backpacking about the globe. You learn so much by visiting other parts of the world, immersing yourself in other cultures – the music, the language and customs. And it makes me grateful for what I have in life when I return home. I work hard but still, I’m not unaware of my luck. Every time I come home I think, look, look at everything I have.”

  “And where do you consider your home is? Here or Paris?”

  “Good question. More and more I feel rooted to New York but I suppose they’ll always be a place in my heart for Paris. Rex is there, of course. When he gets here, I’ll find it harder to leave.”

  “When’s he coming?” I ask with too much eagerness in my voice. Selfishly speaking, I want that dog to arrive ASAP.

  “Soon. I have some more business meetings overseas an
d when a few more deals are tied up, I’ll go and pick him up by private jet.” He is not smiling when he says this.

  “Really?”

  “It was your suggestion, Pearl, and what a good one it was, too.”

  “I never said—”

  “You sowed the seed in my mind – asked me the other day if I flew about by private jet. Why should poor Rex be subjected to a travel crate in the hold of a commercial plane – the air conditioning blasted up too high, or worse, none at all?”

  A young girl in a shift dress appears from nowhere. She looks no more than eighteen. The smile on my face drops with consternation because she’s extremely pretty with long dark hair, a neat little figure and rosebud lips. She silently clears away our plates. He takes her by the wrist. A sexy little maid he sleeps with on the side? My heart races with envy and suspicion.

  “Elodie, meet Pearl. Pearl, this is Elodie, my niece from Paris – Sophie’s daughter. She’s working for me this summer. Learning a few tricks of the trade.”