The Beautiful Ones

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “My apologies,” Hector said. “Business bled into the evening.”

  “Do not worry,” Étienne replied, folding the newspaper and putting it aside. “It’s fine. What shall we be having? I have not ordered any food.”

  Hector sat down and took off his jacket. It was hot inside and the ambience was casual enough that one might get away with such a thing, whereas merely considering the act at certain other venues would have been a terrible faux pas.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for your brother?”

  “Luc’s abandoned us. He’s off chasing a skirt. The traitor.”

  “Then he takes after you.”

  “My days of women and wine are over, my friend. My fiancée, the dearly beloved Celeste Faré, would not abide it. I am a model of faithful domesticity.”

  “I still think it’s a minor miracle you were able to find yourself a bride.”

  “I’m not that horrid. Until recently I was one of the most eligible bachelors in town,” he said, smiling his genial smile.

  “If you say so,” Hector said.

  “But speaking of women and miracles,” Étienne said, taking out his cigarette case and plucking a cigarette. “I heard you had dinner with Valérie Beaulieu.”

  The name robbed Hector of any mirth, his face growing serious in an instant. “Who told you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. She is one of the most well known women in the city. Every movement she makes is spoken about.” Étienne lit his cigarette, giving Hector a measured look.

  “She chaperoned her cousin, Antonina.”

  “Hector, you do not mean to tell me—”

  “I intend to court Antonina Beaulieu,” Hector replied brusquely, as if he meant to shock his friend.

  Neither man said a thing. The laughter of the women at a nearby table rolled toward them, sounding almost like mockery.

  Étienne shook his head. “Do you think that is a good idea? You and Valérie—”

  “That was a long time ago. A single summer.”

  Étienne seemed hardly convinced. Not that Hector expected he would be. In fact, he had hoped they would not have this conversation. Étienne was one of the few persons who knew about his relationship with Valérie, and the kind of hold she’d had on him. Because it had not been a single summer. Valérie had shattered him. The intensity of emotion he felt in those days had vanished, and in its place there lodged a tepid, distant approach to everyone.

  “You were mad about the woman. You risked everything for her.”

  “Indeed. It didn’t get me far. Perhaps I’ll have better luck this time.”

  With Valérie or with Nina? He did not specify and he realized the same question must have occurred to his friend because Étienne looked uncomfortable.

  “I know you, Hector. And I know about Miss Beaulieu. You seem hardly well matched. She is neither sophisticated nor accomplished. I think she is a talent, too.”

  “And? Have you forgotten what I do for a living?” Hector asked, raising an eyebrow at Étienne.

  Étienne turned his head, blowing a puff of smoke. “No. But a lady should not attempt it, you realize as much. She toyed with a teacup at a reunion at Defornier’s house, making it float around, and smashed it against the floor. It was an accident, a tic, who knows, but in the end an embarrassing episode. The Beaulieus have money but everyone knows they have not been able to buy Antonina common sense or proper manners.”

  “I like her more already,” Hector said, and thought of his early years spent juggling cups in the air for a few coins.

  “She’s young, Hector, and you are not.”

  “What, I’m a senile lecher?”

  “You are an old man. Maybe not in years, but we both know you are ancient. You’re tired inside.”

  “I told Valérie almost the exact same thing,” Hector muttered.

  Étienne gave Hector a questioning glance, but Hector raised his hand, waving away his friend’s inquiry before he could begin to formulate it.

  “I’m not trying to be young again. This is not a spiritual vampirism.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  Revenge. No. Retribution. God, he couldn’t even pick the right word. No. It was about Valérie. About a chance to be close to Valérie. Also a chance for something else. Fairness. Yes. Why was it that everyone else was allowed a chance at happiness and he was not? Why should Valérie be married, sharing the warmth of her bed with her husband while Hector watched the days slip away in the loneliness of his apartment? He’d had plenty of that. It was enough.

  “I like her. She’s easy to talk to. And there is a pleasant sensation when being in the presence of someone who regards you with admiration. People look at me all the time, Étienne. I am onstage, they clap, and when we are introduced, they express their delight in my performance. But they don’t admire me. I’m not esteemed.”

  “Hector, come.”

  “No, it is true. It is different to be a gentleman like you, born and bred, than to be a man of my ilk.”

  “You are hard on yourself.”

  “I am honest. But the point is, I do not think she would see any difference between the two of us. She might even hold me in higher esteem than you, even if you are a Lémy. Despite her provincial ways or whatever other faults she may possess, she is a Beaulieu and belongs to a category of ladies men like me are not allowed to pursue, yet I feel she does not see it that way. I am her equal.”

  Étienne nodded, putting out his cigarette in the dregs of his coffee. “What does Valérie think of this courtship of yours?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “You said you spoke to her.”

  “Briefly,” Hector said. “Besides, I said I ‘intend to court her.’ Nina and I have conversed only a handful of times.”

  “My question remains the same. What does Valérie think?”

  “She thinks I am a fool. As you do.”

  “I did not say that.”

  “You disapprove.”

  “Have you ever even courted a lady? Aside from Valérie? No.”

  He recalled his first terrifying year away from his native country. Immediately upon his arrival in Zhude, one of the largest ports in the north of Iblevad, when he lodged in a cramped, flea-infested lodging house for young men, his boots were stolen while he slept. He had to walk through the city in his formal shoes, which were not suitable for the cold. He could have either a lunch or a dinner, but not both. The other young men smoked cheap cigarettes to keep the hunger at bay, but Hector could not even afford those and went around to cafés and shops and street corners to put on his shows. In the evenings, against the dimming light, he wrote to Valérie, pages filled with words of love, phrases he’d stolen from poets who declaimed at the same coffee shops where he juggled for his supper, and others composed from his own imagination.

  When she abandoned him, he tore the paper to shreds with his thoughts, flung the inkpot out a window, determined never again to commit passion to the page.

  He had not spent his life living in a monastery, but he had limited himself to more ephemeral relationships. No, he had not courted many, any, ladies since Valérie.

  “I am not a green boy. As you mentioned, I am an old man,” Hector said, irritated.

  “If I were you, I would be trying to stay as far away from the Beaulieus as possible. As far from Valérie as possible. But I am not your father to tell you what to do or not. You know how to live your life. At least, I hope you do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome,” Étienne said, raising his arm, trying to attract the attention of a waiter.

  The waiter arrived, notepad and pencil in hand.

  “We need the finest wine you have. We are toasting to my friend, who is desperately in love and wishes to be married,” Étienne declared.

  Hector did not appreciate the joke and glared at Étienne.

  His friend shrugged. “It has to be brought up, doesn’t it?” Étienne said.

  “What?”

/>   “Love.”

  He thought of Valérie, her face like a poem, lifting her hands, laughing, the sun catching in her tresses. The arc of her arm in that instant, when she ran her fingers through her locks, then extended her hand to touch his cheek. “I love you,” she had said. “I’ll wait.”

  “Love is not a concern anymore,” Hector said, his voice hoarse.

  The waiter returned, placing a bottle and two glasses on the table. Hector drank deeply, feeling as though he’d swallowed a fish bone and it had lodged in his throat. But it was only phantom pain. A pain he knew well, which he’d nursed for a decade.

  Étienne let out a sigh and raised his glass. “To you, my friend,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  IT WAS A DAY FOR social calls, and Valérie had ordered Nina to don a suitable dress that she might drag her through the city, a process made most unpalatable due to the constricting, uncomfortable shoes the girl was required to wear. Valérie was particular about everything, from the buttons on Nina’s gloves to the size of the heel she should sport, and poor Nina, accustomed to boots that would serve her well on her entomological expeditions in the countryside, tripped more than once as they moved down the boulevard.

  “You must be the slowest girl in all of Loisail,” Valérie scolded her. “We’ll be late.”

  “It’s not yet three o’clock,” Nina said.

  “Keep up,” Valérie replied with a huff.

  They reached a narrow, mustard-colored three-story building tucked away on a side street, a relic of primordial Loisail since it was made of wood instead of sturdy stone and time had warped the structure, making it lean to the left.

  This was the domain of Mrs. Dompierre. Nina smiled and sat in a corner of the sitting room, which was too warm. The windows were always closed despite the stifling heat, and half a dozen women gathered there, sipping their chocolate—Mrs. Dompierre did not believe in modern teas or the occasional glass of wine.

  Nina did not understand why she was summoned to these soirées. Valérie never let her speak. Young girls, she said, had best keep their lips closed and let the elders do the talking.

  “And I’m given to understand you went to see a performance by that fellow, Hector Auvray?” Mrs. Dompierre asked.

  “It was good,” Nina piped up, but then Valérie stared at her with eyes as sharp as glass and Nina looked down.

  “Yes, these days everyone is going to the Royal,” Valérie said dismissively.

  “Everyone thinks he’s sensational, it’s that aura of the foreigner he has about him. But I must say, my dear, I prefer the lure of the piano over these new sort of performances.”

  Nina sighed; she glanced at the chocolate pot sitting on a silver tray in the middle of a low table. Idly she made it slide slightly to the left with her mind, growing restless. By the window she could hear pigeons cooing and wished nothing more than to crack the shutters open, the chance to feel the breeze.

  “I think he seemed somewhat distinguished in the posters we saw around town,” declared Cecilia Gugeno. “Not exactly the rough man you might expect, although in person, who knows. Perhaps he has one of those dreadful provincial accents or the manners of a peasant, they tell me—”

  “He is a perfect gentleman and very nice,” Nina said angrily. “And he sounds as eloquent as anyone in this room.”

  Nobody interrupted Cecilia Gugeno, and as soon as Nina had spoken, she realized her grievous mistake. Not only did Valérie stare at her, but all the other women turned their heads in Nina’s direction and pursed their lips besides. Nina twitched her fingers and without meaning it, she made the window pop open with a loud bang, the shutter clacking against the wall. At the same time, the chocolate pot and the silver tray slid across the table. Mrs. Dompierre let out a squeak and Cecilia jumped in her seat and a woman spilled her chocolate.

  You’d think Nina had shot one of the attendants. The window was closed, the pot returned to its place, the spilled chocolate cleaned up by a solicitous servant; all these actions were conducted in a long, painful silence. Then followed a stilted conversation until Valérie said they must be on their way.

  Once they were outside, the woman gripped Nina’s arm. “Are you a complete dolt?”

  “Valérie, I didn’t mean—”

  “What an embarrassment!”

  “Valérie—”

  “No!” Valérie said, moving in front of Nina and raising her index finger in the air, as if she could jab the clouds. “You will not come up with another one of your excuses. Every time I take you out, you do a thing like this.”

  “That is not true.”

  “Not another word.”

  Nina clutched her hands into fists and clamped her mouth shut, and she wanted to cry but it was best not to make a bigger mess of things. She doubted Valérie liked her on a good day, and right now she must loathe her. Her sister had assured her Valérie meant well, that she was simply strict, but Nina could not help the feeling she was constantly walking on thin ice with her.

  When they returned home, Nina fell back upon the bed and pressed her hands against her face, making the paintings rattle against the wall for a moment. If Valérie heard that, she’d be even angrier, and Nina rubbed her hands together.

  Gaetan stopped by later, cautiously sitting on the bed. “Valérie says you had a bad day.”

  “Just a mishap or two,” Nina mumbled. Gaetan seldom chided her as Valérie did, but she hated disappointing him.

  “Maybe it’s too much,” Gaetan suggested. “We could postpone the dinner with Mr. Auvray. I don’t think we’ve sent out the invitation yet.”

  “No, don’t do that,” she said vehemently.

  Gaetan raised an eyebrow at her.

  Nina’s face felt warm. She tried to school her expression and spoke in a lower tone. “I mean to say there is no need to postpone it.”

  “Nina, I know you want to make friends—”

  “Then let me make friends. Everyone Valérie introduces me to despises me.”

  She strived to do the proper things, to be liked, to fit into the niche of normality and decorum demanded by the city. But Loisail was arrogant; it viewed strangers with a raised eyebrow. She was Gaetan’s cousin, but also one of those people, the country folk who seek to ingratiate themselves with the Beautiful Ones and must be repelled. They might have been more accepting if, perhaps, she’d shown herself meek and solicitous, but Nina, despite a youthful malleability, troubled them. They saw a determined spark lurking behind those hazel eyes that they classified as insolence, a lack of artifice that struck them as boorish, a capacity to remain unimpressed by the bric-a-brac on display that they deemed stupidity. And there was the matter of her talent, which confirmed suspicions Nina was, at best, a “difficult” child.

  “Don’t be melodramatic, sweetheart,” Gaetan said.

  Nina had every desire to be melodramatic, to give free rein to thoughts and instincts, as in those books where people loved and lived and declared the most beautiful sentiments, but instead she nodded.

  Gaetan patted her hand, as if to soften his words. He was indulgent with Nina. They shared a naive optimism, fixating on all that was admirable and pretty in the world, and like any two people whose natures intersect, this drew them close together.

  “Now, how about you buy yourself a new dress and we’ll forget anything bad happened today, hmm?” he said.

  * * *

  NINA HAD NOT VISITED BONIFACE and was astonished to find the streets narrow and unwieldy. It was a network of alleys and bridges, undisturbed by the avenues that cut through other parts of the city. There was no point in taking a carriage here; one must walk, and walk she did through this labyrinth, pausing to ask for directions half a dozen times before she found herself on a quiet street. It was a block from cafés and restaurants and the bustle of merchants, but all of a sudden the noise ceased, giving way to old buildings with pots of geraniums at the windows.

  In the middle of the street there stood a statue of a girl holdin
g a bowl in her hands; someone had deposited flowers in it for good luck. Hector’s home was located a couple of paces from this statue, behind a tall, elaborately decorated iron door.

  Nina pulled a string, which was connected to a bell. A long time elapsed before an old woman came out. She was the building’s superintendent and seemed suspicious of Nina, eyeing her up and down.

  “I’m here to see Hector Auvray,” Nina said. “I am a friend of his. Do you know if he is in?”

  “He should be. Upstairs. He has the top floor for himself.”

  The top floor was the fifth one, marking him as a man of wealth though one not entirely concerned with fashion, since he lodged in the older quarters.

  She knocked twice. When he opened the door, he looked surprised. He startled Nina, too. She had been expecting one of the servants to answer. Perhaps he had no live-in staff, which seemed odd to her. He was dressed rather casually, too, a shirt and an unbuttoned vest. Gaetan never looked this relaxed.

  “Miss Beaulieu,” he said. “You are … ah … here.”

  “My cousin has invited you to dinner Friday night,” she said, extending her hand, holding a white envelope. “Valérie had intended a courier would bring you the invitation, but I thought I could deliver it personally.”

  “And Mrs. Beaulieu agreed with you?” he said, frowning.

  “Not exactly,” Nina replied. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”

  There was a time when a chaperone was indispensable at any gathering of young people, but Loisail nowadays toyed with this convention. It was generally believed that if a family approved of a young man and he had been given permission to court a lady, he could take her for a stroll around the city and engage in a few choice activities. They could visit respectable, educational venues such as museums or walk around the park without anyone frowning. It was also fine for a man to see a lady home in a carriage if he had been her escort to a ball.