At that point, the wine bottle is already half-empty, and we’re both quite giggly.
“She sounds like a helluva lady,” Chao chuckles.
“She is. A tender heart, but a stern character. And very, very opiniated. She has those strong ideas about right and wrong, you see. Swearing, for instance, is a complete no-go.”
“How you must suffer each time you visit her!”
“Very funny. Well, true enough, I’m always extremely careful when she’s around. It seems way back, Granma Parker once overheard Mom saying, ‘Damn!’ She washed out Mom’s mouth with soap. Literally, according to my mother.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“Neither can I. You know, my sister and I are a bit circumspect where Mom’s childhood stories are concerned. She once told us that going to school in winter meant she’d walk barefoot half an hour through a meter of snow.”
“Really?”
“Please! A meter of snow? In Louisiana?” I snort. “I even googled it and found out they have an average of five mm per year.”
Chao laughs heartily.
I bring out the huge bowl with the stewed apples just as the sun is sinking beneath the horizon.
Eating the dessert sobers us up a bit. Chao offers to refill my glass, but I decline. “I’ve had enough, I think.” I yawn. “To be honest, I’m already feeling a bit sleepy. Must be the belated aftereffects of my hour-long drive yesterday.”
“Oh.” Chao looks almost disappointed. Then he asks softly, “Would you care for a last nighty-night drink, though? There’s that bottle of old cognac upstairs…”
I mock-sigh. “All right, if I must. You get the bottle, I get the glasses.”
While he’s upstairs, I rinse the dirty plates, then put them in the dishwasher.
When he comes back, I’ve switched off the kitchen lights. There’s only the faint afterglow of the sun in the rapidly darkening sky. The pool is glittering. On the other side of the sea, we can make out the flickering lights on the Mont Boron, and behind, the shiny dots of where Nice hugs its long, curved bay.
Chao pours us some cognac, and we swirl the amber liquid in our glasses. “The Baie des Anges…,” I say dreamily while gazing at the view.
“Pardon?”
“That’s the name of the bay of Nice. Baie des Anges, the Angels’ Bay.”
“Oh, right.” Chao ponders this, then says, “Did you know the name had nothing to do with actual angels?”
“No.”
“Apparently, there were many sharks in the bay, back in the day. And the word for sharks in the local Nice dialect is ‘ange.’ Hence the name.”
“Well, Sharks’ Bay sounds rather less alluring. From a tourist point of view, I mean.”
He laughs softly. We take a sip of our brandy, which is amazing.
“So…,” Chao says. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
I chuckle. “I think no one has ever insinuated I might have a girlfriend.”
He seems astonished. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “Don’t tell me it isn’t obvious at a glance, man.”
“I still don’t get it…”
“I’m gay. A boy who loves boys. A poofter, a queer, a sissy dude, a dick mate, a bum buddy, a cocksucker, a…”
By then, Chao is crimson, which is visible even in the waning light. He waves his hand, “All right, all right, now I get it.”
“And you?” I ask back lightly. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
He’s silent for a moment. Takes a sip. And says with a hoarse voice, “Not anymore.”
That might explain his mood changes.
“Oh. Sounds like a recent breakup,” I state.
“Yep.”
“Okay.” I leave it at that.
We spend some minutes in silence, finishing our glasses. When I get up and say that I’ll hit the sack, Chao insists on walking me over to my room.
In front of my still open French window, he stops and says, “Thank you for this really… wonderful evening.”
“You’re welcome.” I get ready to step into my room when I feel Chao’s hand on my shoulder.
I turn around, and he…
… softly touches my cheek with a finger. “Don’t change. Ever,” he whispers.
“Er…”
He doesn’t wait for me to gather my wits, which seem to have evaporated into the balmy night air, but briskly walks away.
A faint sound wakes me up in the morning
A faint sound wakes me up in the morning, after a night filled with weird dreams. In the last one, I somehow knew it was a Saturday afternoon, and I was hastening down the Champs-Élysées. The Most Beautiful Avenue of the World, as we Frenchies with our sense for restraint and modesty always say, capital letters included. The sidewalk was literally bursting with people. I was in a hurry because I had that vague feeling that I was running late for a very important meeting. What I found strange was that everybody was staring at me as if I had two heads or four eyes or another willy in place of my nose.
That’s when I sensed something was totally wrong. I mean, I could feel the air brush over me, like, everywhere! All over my body! Because—you guessed it already, didn’t you?—because I was bloody naked!
Shriek!
That’s why I’m glad that faint sound wakes me up.
For the record, I am naked. But to my relief, I’m in my bed in an isolated summer villa.
I pick up my cell and realize it’s six in the bloody morning!
There. The faint sound again. A splash and a slosh.
Burglars? is my first thought. Then I chide myself. Burglars wouldn’t bother going for a swim, would they? Birds enjoying the pool, then? Yikes—do they do pigeons in this ritzy area, or are only phoenixes allowed to grace the peninsula with their presence?
I get up, walk over to my half-open French window and peek outside.
Oh. Even better than a phoenix, because, honestly, what good could that have done me?
It’s Chao. My unfathomable, dead-gorgeous Asian housekeeper swimming his morning laps. He has probably chosen this ungodly early hour because he’s unwilling to share his dead-gorgeous seminudeness with a common mortal such as, at random, me.
To and fro he goes, very focused, in a steady, easy rhythm, his movements powerful and smooth. So smooth that only occasionally do they cause a slight ripple to ruffle the surface and then die on the pool’s edge with a splash.
I’m suddenly glad it’s so early. I’m pretty certain Chao wouldn’t appreciate having an audience. He seems quite aware of his body, which for reasons that elude me he doesn’t want to expose too much. At least, no to me. At this time of day and with my room facing south, I’m hidden by the deep and long morning shadows. Which is good because, not only am I playing Peeping Tom, but I’m also… naked.
Again.
I know I should withdraw on tiptoes and give Chao some privacy, but I can’t. I’m simply frozen to the spot, leaning against the cool window frame, hands crossed over my chest and praying to remain unnoticed.
I guess this whole thing lasts half an hour. Chao doesn’t interrupt his movements once, doggedly swimming on and on and on.
At long last, he turns toward his side of the pool and stops there for a minute, panting. I see his broad shoulders move with each inhale and exhale while he’s gripping the pool deck, his bulging arm muscles glistening in the first sunrays.
Then he heaves himself out of the water.
I hold my breath.
He’s wearing another minimalistic white swim trunk that looks like a Speedo.
Of course, I’d like to claim that what follows is rendered in slow motion, with a timely zooming on body parts such as the tight bum, the muscular thighs, or the magnificent chest with those pink, erect nipples that I glimpse when he turns around. But no. Eyes don’t
work that way in real life. That’s just clever camera work. In movies.
Sigh.
But even without these cinematographic ploys, I’m mesmerized.
How can someone be so perfect in every physical aspect?
As if Chao sensed that I was admiring him from the other side of the pool, he just stands there, motionless, head bowed, and lets the early sun warm up his skin. He’s indeed hairless apart from his legs and a narrow, black line leading from the navel down to the waistband.
I also must admit that the little white thing he’s wearing fits him like a glove. Better than a glove because, well, it envelops more interesting parts of his anatomy and does so very becomingly. As it’s white and tight—and now wet, of course—it has a certain, h-rm, see-through quality, too, if you catch my drift.
Which, yes, is a quality. In this case, definitely.
I don’t have eagle eyes, but even from the distance, I’m able to make out that my housekeeper’s package looks very inviting. And promising, despite the effect of the cool water. Shape and size almost make me drool, and my hands involuntarily try to keep my growing excitement at bay.
Chao suddenly glides a hand over his flat, beautifully six-packed stomach, and for the first time, I notice five small scars that look like stab wounds.
Then he lifts both arms over his head and stretches. He doesn’t shave, apparently, and I find the two little black tufts an amazing and amazingly stimulating sight. Not that I have an armpit fetish—I think I don’t have any fetishes, or at least none I’m aware of—but the man’s skin is almost childlike in its smoothness and whiteness that that sign of adult masculinity strikes me as exceedingly sexy.
This must be one of those rare moments where I have the impression that I’m touching perfection with my fingertips. Like other instants of bliss and happiness, it’s fleeting but overpowering.
What strikes me is not Chao’s beauty. He is beautiful, of course, almost painfully so. But he doesn’t know I’m watching, so I’m allowed to see him the way he really is. Strong and content and composed and, yes, happy. Because he’s all by himself.
I feel awed, just like Actaeon must have felt when he spied on the virgin huntress cum goddess Artemis while she was bathing in the woods. I just hope that unlike Actaeon, I won’t be transformed into a stag and torn to pieces by my own hounds. Luckily, I don’t own hounds, to start with.
Chao finally shakes out his arms, turns around, and disappears in his room, closing the French window behind him.
I’m so dazed
I’m so dazed that my next moves are hidden behind a veil of unreality. I guess I shower at one point, dry myself, then get dressed. Really dressed for once—nothing fancy, just shorts and a T-shirt, but still. It goes to show how flummoxed I am. Jeez, I even don underwear. Give me a medal, guys!
I gather my frizzy hair in two bobble-like side buns and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. How I’d love to be handsome and hunky! Don’t ask me why I think that would help me attract Chao; I’d still need a good pair of boobs and somehow get rid of my dong and company. But I’m painfully aware of how average I look.
I sit on the sofa in the bay window and stare at the sea. An early heat haze is already forming at the horizon. The sky has that pale blue morning color that looks young and innocent. Some boats cross the sparkling sea. Everything seems wide and far away, untouched by my presence, oblivious and thus content.
I’m so lost in my meditative observations that I don’t notice the time go by. It’s almost eight when I shake myself out of my melancholy.
Damn, do I need a coffee!
Determined, I get up and walk over to the kitchen.
No one’s there, but I immediately spot the message Chao has scrawled on a sheet of Armistead Kinner summer house stationary, which he has taped to the Nespresso machine.
“Left for Nice. Back before nightfall. Delivery expected this afternoon, so stay here. Keys and beeper upstairs. C.”
I guess a terser message ne’er was written. Except maybe for Richard III’s last letter, “More fucking horses!” Which, to be honest, is just another of my ad hoc inventions4.
Great. I’ll be all alone, all day long.
Chao has also messed with my plans for the day. I wanted to drive over to Nice during my noon break because I need decent swimwear. That plan falls through, now. I’m the hired help, after all, so it’s only natural that I stay here and wait for Chao’s delivery. No problem, no problem at all. The swimwear can wait. It’ll have to.
Anyway, if I’m too hot, I’ll just have another quick dip in the nude. No one will see me.
I take the elevator to pick up the keys and beeper upstairs. Chao has left another message written on the house stationary. “Sorry, I really have to leave in a hurry. Here are the keys I forgot to give you yesterday. You’ll probably also need the information below. Have a nice day. See you this evening. Chao.”
He has added the instructions that’ll allow me to connect my laptop to the house Wi-Fi.
Well, well, well. What happened between the Nespresso machine and the living room? I mean, look: complete sentences and an apology. Plus, the Wi-Fi instructions! Chao has taken an initiative of his own. Wowsers!
I return to the kitchen, where I have my coffee—two cups—sitting outside and staring at the swimming pool. Despite being mollified by Chao’s second message, I still feel strange, slightly despondent, lonely, and left behind. I’ll really have to work harder to fight down those sensations bubbling up inside. I couldn’t even name them properly; they feel like… you know, a long and longing sigh trapped in my chest.
Dirk would have a word for it. The word.
Somehow, I know it would be a word I wouldn’t like.
I brush my teeth and send my best friend a WhatsApp message. “What’s up? How’s Greece? Care to share?” He’ll probably answer around noon. I don’t think he gets up earlier.
The elevator spits me out on the visitors’ deck ten minutes later. Laptop under my arm, I enter the library. I don’t want to be trapped in here all day, but I am getting paid for it, and I’m one day behind schedule. The sooner I start, the better.
The room is almost as big as the kitchen and has been furnished with several sofas, armchairs, and side tables. In one corner stands a massive oak desk with a leather office chair. The three walls consist of shelves, of course, and the shelves hold books. A library, duh!
After a first, quick glance, I’m utterly disappointed. I didn’t expect papyrus scrolls, codices, or early folios printed on parchment. I didn’t even expect to find another collection of antique books like the one I was allowed to marvel at in Mr. Kinner’s Paris mansion. From the start, the look on Mademoiselle Destrelle’s face when I implied I might be touching those babies didn’t bode well for such a scenario.
I didn’t expect… paperbacks, either.
But that’s what we have here. A bloody collection of bloody paperbacks.
I mean, come on, Mr. Kinner, you’re a millionaire. How cheap is that?
I look at the first row, and my spirits sink even lower. Barbara Cartland, Danielle Steel, Colleen McCullough, Rosamunde Pilcher, Sidney Sheldon, and Jacky Collins among the better-known names. Some covers show buxom ladies in various stages of undress swooning in dapper-looking gentlemen’s arms.
Romance novels! Of the tackiest kind! I didn’t lie yesterday; I do like a nice romance. But please completely devoid of buxom ladies and exclusively filled with dapper-looking gentlemen enjoying each other’s charms.
The next shelf holds mystery novels. Again, most names ring a bell, Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, John le Carré, etc.
Well, of course. Summer house, summer library, summer reads.
Do we even need to ‘duh!’ this?
The whole room is plunged into a sparkling, blueish twilight, even though it�
��s already nine o’clock. I move toward the French windows that take up the front wall and look at the water cascade sloshing down from above. It looks nice from the outside, I’m sure, because it completely hides the room. But frankly, I really don’t see the point when you look at it from here. I mean, imagine you’re a guest and simply want to borrow a book before settling down on a deck chair. You’re forced to return to your room because if you walk through the water curtain, you and the book will be soaking wet.
Less than optimal, right?
That’s when I notice a remote control on one of the side tables. I pick it up, and there’s a button that says, “Curtain Open/Close.” As I don’t feel like starting on the paperbacks at once, I press it, expecting chintz curtains to swish before the windows.
But no. First, I don’t see anything happening. Then I spot two spikes descending outside, right in the middle of the central French window frame. While slowly moving down, they somehow unfold and become two rails, which then separate, one moving to the left, the other to the right. When they clunk into their final position, they come to rest on two sturdy poles… and they’ve skillfully parted the cascade in two in the process, creating a real, open water curtain.
I stare at the design in awe. How utterly clever. And how utterly nuts to have something like that installed. Just for, you know, the fricking fun of it.
I guess I’ll never understand the folly of millionaires.
Someone must have started to sort out the books at one point
Someone must have started to sort out the books at one point. That’s my first conclusion when I look over the volumes gathered in the summer library, because they’re already shelved by genres. And each shelf has a number, too.
How to Bed a Millionaire Page 8