The Suitors (16 page)

January 2000

I am twenty-three years old
.

The olive trees seem clothed in their Sunday best, tucked into their ermine muffs of snow. I walk across the lawn, crackling with frost, and pause at the top of the stairs leading down to the beach. The mistral has already swept away the scumbled fog of winter. The contours of the bay are now clear, the colors crisp and gleaming. I descend the staircase carved into the rock with the sensation that I will enter and be embraced by the blue of the sky, but the sky retreats as I advance, as if content simply to cover the landscape with a sheet of blue. Squinting, I look at the ruffled sea, frosted over by the wind
.

Solid patches, flecked with foam or wrinkled with streaks of dull white, rise up to lick the rocks and then submerge them.
I take off my clothes, place them on a tumble of rocks the color of raw silk. Compact and frothy, the edging of foam fades into lacy lines around me before pulling itself together and rejoining its race with the waves, as mighty as a waterfall
.

It’s cold
.

Since Marie was taking a nap, I had to stroll around outside on my own, which entailed certain risks, in particular that of bumping into Destret, whom I could definitely have done without for a few hours. I might also be waylaid by Odon Viel (who was always ready to tell me about particle physics or the density, luminosity, temperature, and chemical composition of the stars, planets, and galaxies), or even worse, by the Démazures. Especially since I knew that Polyséna wanted to talk to me about her precocious daughter. I was fairly sure, however, that all she wanted was to sing her child’s praises under the pretext of asking my advice. And so I spent the afternoon, or what was left of it, trying to avoid everyone, treated all the while to the noise of the orchestra set up on the Russians’ beach,
where preparations seemed to be under way for a truly hellish party.

“One … two, one … two,” a man kept repeating into the mike.

By zigzagging between the beach and the swimming pool while carefully avoiding the loggia (which was too dangerous, especially at teatime), I almost succeeded in my evasive maneuvers. Then, while coming up from the beach, I let myself get trapped like a rat when Polyséna pounced on me from the guests’ shower tucked under the steps leading from the lawn up to the house.

“Come down to the beach with me,” she said. “Everyone’s inside, so we can talk privately.”

It must have been seven o’clock, meaning that if I wasn’t careful, I could get stuck with her until dinnertime. Things took an unexpected turn, though, because in fact Polyséna had real questions on her mind, and as usual when someone speaks frankly to me, I was touched and eager to help. Her problem was not very serious after all, and after twenty minutes of discussion she announced that thanks to me, she understood things ever so much better now. She was beaming, and her palpable relief cheered me, gratifying my deep need to be of some use and assistance in this world, which is, along with my son, the only thing that gives
meaning to my life. I was happy. We were about to return to the house when we froze, startled and intrigued by the sound of a propeller.

A helicopter was circling over the Russians’ beach, now awash in tuxedos and evening gowns! Absorbed in our conversation, Polyséna and I had not even noticed how these guests, competing with the crickets’ chirping, had gradually replaced the background noise of the orchestra’s sound testing with their lively chatter. There looked to be about fifty of them, neither young nor old, but more stocky than not and somewhat provincial in appearance, judging from the slightly outdated style of the dresses and awkward cut of the dinner jackets. They squinted against the blast blowing their hair in every direction as the helicopter came in for a landing, its propeller blades so menacing that even Polyséna and I ducked instinctively.

As soon as the craft had landed on the beach, however, the guests crowded together into an audience that raised their glasses as one to salute the three disembarking passengers. Was it the raincoats they wore, the attaché cases they carried, or the zeal of the welcoming delegation that rushed forward to greet them with a toast? Something about the scene was definitely disquieting.

While Polyséna and I were wondering whether the new arrivals were Russian, Georgian, or Albanian, one of them stepped forward with the composure of a movie Mafia don. He said a few words and was vigorously applauded by the throng, into which he plunged as if diving into the sea, clapping a few men on the back and greeting others with a manly embrace, before leading his two acolytes back aboard the helicopter, which immediately took off.

“Did you see that? I don’t believe it!” we kept repeating in a daze, while Frédéric and Marie, attracted by the commotion, came rushing down the steps.

“Are we too late? What happened!”

For a few minutes Polyséna and I had their full attention.

“What did he look like? Was he handsome?” Marie asked eagerly.

“Oh, please! You’re such a nympho! No, he was completely blah,” I told her.

“Meaning? Tall, short, fat, skinny? Come on! Details!”

“He was completely bland, that’s the best I can do. Polyséna, you tell her.”

But having just realized that Frédéric and Marie were dressed for dinner whereas she was still in her bathing
suit with wet hair a half hour before dinnertime, Polyséna was in a flap.

“Hurry back to the house and change, while I deal with these two scatterbrains!” Frédéric urged her, then whispered to me, “Stay, I’ve got a serious scoop.”

“What’s up? Tell me,” I said as soon as Polyséna had gone.

Now Frédéric had the spotlight, but he wasn’t a playwright for nothing and he knew how to pace his effects to keep an audience on tenterhooks. His bedroom happened to overlook the servants’ dining area, and when he’d heard them howling with laughter at the table, earlier in the afternoon, he’d listened in, finally piecing together what was so funny.

After knocking on the door of the Yellow Room, for which she was responsible, Colette, the chambermaid, had not heard any reply. Upon entering she had found Jean-Michel lying on the floor, up against the baseboard, with his head wedged in a corner of the room and his ear glued to a cell phone connected to a charger with a cord so short he had to stay right by the wall socket into which it was plugged. Rolling his eyes in embarrassment at being surprised in such a posture, he nevertheless continued his business conversation while making gesture of helplessness in Colette’s direction.

“I don’t get it,” I admitted. “What was it he was doing down by the baseboard?”

So Marie explained it to me again, while Frédéric delivered the chambermaid’s imitation of Jean-Michel for the staff, all convulsed with laughter: “You have certainly been following recent developments in the business sector and seen that Femo has launched a hostile takeover of Ymex. I can’t really speak to you as frankly as I would like because I’m in a meeting, but I
can
say that I am concerned. So much so that, to tell you the truth, this morning I put together a team in Paris to study the question, devise a suitable strategy, and allow us to go forward with the appropriate action …”

“No!” I gasped, torn between laughter and pity. “The poor guy, can you imagine! It must have been a nightmare!”

I could tell they were disappointed with my reaction and thought I hadn’t truly appreciated the importance of the hot news flash they’d just delivered, but it was already ten minutes to nine and I had just time enough to dash back and slip into a dress, a marvel of Parma violet chiffon that had cost me a tidy fortune, and tuck my hair into a low chignon like my mother’s before going down to dinner.

Jean-Michel didn’t deserve so much consideration, however, because he behaved disgracefully when he discovered that Frédéric knew all about his misadventure.

“What room are you in?” Jean-Michel had asked him with studied casualness.

“The Chinese Room, which, like yours, overlooks the staff dining room,” Frédéric had replied, to allow him to tell his story himself and put all those laughing on his side.

Instead of which, Jean-Michel, who was trying to bamboozle him and assure himself of Frédéric’s discretion as quickly as possible, clumsily attempted to establish a relationship of complicity with him that was based on some very ill-advised remarks.

“Don’t you think it’s strange, how we’re all obliged to live cheek by jowl here, in a villa of this size?”

Then, assiduously mongering his little scandal, he explained in a confidential tone that he’d been disappointed in this house, which he’d imagined was quite grand, having heard so much about it, because an invitation to L’Agapanthe was a social coup much prized by regular visitors to the house as well as by any fortunate occasional guests. But, well, he’d been forced to admit that it really wasn’t much to write home about. He, for
example, wouldn’t have hesitated one second to enclose the loggia with glass walls.

“It would help with the mosquitoes and allow the area to be used year-round, as a kind of winter garden. Don’t you agree?”

“An excellent idea! You should just have a word or two with Flokie about that,” Frédéric replied treacherously before turning his back.

MENU

Consommé
Seven-Hour Leg of Lamb
Salad and Cheeses
Red Currant Pie with Custard Sauce

Jean-Michel was truly hopeless, since he seemed to disapprove of his dinner as well, so much so that my mother, sitting next to him, felt obliged to explain that the lamb, far from having been overcooked, had been caramelized for seven hours to become so delectably tender that we could have eaten it with a spoon, had the rules of etiquette so permitted. In the same way, he downed his Cheval Blanc 1961 without a thought, while the other guests were in raptures over its charms.

At our table, Odon Viel had us in stitches with the description of his train trip from Paris and his discomfort at the behavior of a group of young people, in particular some lovebirds sitting across from him in his compartment, who had spent the entire trip in energetic liplock.