The Suitors (7 page)

Even at seven in the morning, my mother was determined not to be impressed by the prestige of her daughters’ guests, since a success achieved by anyone other than herself, my father, and their friends irritated her purely on principle.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Just imagine, his secretary called yesterday to ask if we could accommodate his driver. Couldn’t he rent a car like everyone else? It’s unbelievable! And so ill-bred.”

“I have to admit it’s rather strange, and certainly cheeky, but would you be able to put him up?”

“Yes, luckily enough, in one of those two small rooms over the garage.”

Having arrived late the previous evening, I was eager to take a tour of the house, making it my own again the way I did at the beginning of every summer. I felt that I bloomed at L’Agapanthe like those Japanese paper flowers that unfold their petals in water.

I went down to the beach. Carved out of the living rock and jutting like a promontory into the water, it nestled at the midpoint of a bay wide open to the horizon and that seemed to hold the sea within its arms. At this early hour, the water was as smooth as a slick of oil. I looked to the left, at a house that was constantly changing hands and where I’d once seen a James Bond movie being filmed. This time, the flag flying near the water’s edge was Russian. Probably a “Russkaya” mafioso. Mother must be tickled pink, I thought treacherously, forcing myself to stand at the edge of the boardwalk even though I felt dizzy. At the bottom of the ladder, I dipped a foot into the
water but found it too pale and cold in the early-morning sun for swimming.

I breathed in a scent of curry from the plants growing among the rocks, and the smell of kelp, lying stagnant in the grotto fitted out as a shower, and the intoxicating musty odor of the little cave that had been made into a bar. Then I strolled along the seaside path to the other beach on the property, a triangle of flat rock at water level reserved for the household staff. An entertaining irony of fate thus made our servants neighbors with one of the world’s richest men, a Saudi prince who had bought several houses on the bay to the right of ours. Posted every thirty yards, the armed guards of his security force all stared at me intently as I walked along his beach, and I nervously quickened my pace. Wishing I’d thought to bring the cigarettes I allowed myself from time to time, I climbed back up to the house, arriving out of breath.

“So, all’s well, you’ve done your little victory lap? Ask for your tray and come sit with us,” Frédéric said firmly.

In the pantry, the butlers were already busy in aprons and shirtsleeves preparing the apricot and raspberry juices for breakfast, the pyramids of dainty cucumber sandwiches for teatime, and grating the lime zest indispensable for the evening’s cosmopolitans.

“Madame Laure!”

“Marcel! How are you? And your hip, it’s getting better? The children are well?”

Marcel was a sturdy, good-natured fellow from Mont-de-Marsan. He was married, had arthritis, and two daughters, one of whom was beginning a promising career in banking. And that was all I could say about him, because like the other members of our staff, he belonged to a shadow army about which we knew almost nothing.

Numerous and omnipresent, they worked so discreetly, silently, and invisibly that it remained a mystery to us how they managed to complete their tasks. Through what miracle were our rooms made up? And how did the living room, which we abandoned late at night, become spotless again by seven in the morning? Not to mention the towels left at the beach or around the pool that turned up, freshly laundered and neatly folded, in baskets by the pool or in the grotto down by the water.

The staff shifted constantly between work and discretion, at times preferring to quietly withdraw rather than attract notice. And their choreography—with the imperceptible refinement of our grandmothers’ hems, sewn with lead weights to muffle the rustling of their
skirts—produced an effect close to perfection. Like a pleasure dome freed from all material contingency, the house inspired reverie, and even happiness. It was only upon leaving this womblike world that we could realize or remember that no one lived like this anymore. No one lived like us.

The Rules of the Game
FILM BY JEAN RENOIR (1939)

CHRISTINE de la CHESNAYE, lady of the house:

CELESTIN, kitchen boy:

CHRISTINE de la CHESNAYE:

MADAME de la BRUYERE, guest:

CHRISTINE de la CHESNAYE:

…

(At the servants’ table)

LISETTE, personal maid to the marquise:

GAMEKEEPER:

…

CELESTIN:

JEAN, the chef:

…

JEAN:

“Roberto isn’t here?” I asked.

“No,” replied one of the butlers in the pantry. “He’s out shopping.”

“Of course, silly me …”

Roberto, the head butler, was responsible for buying our bread, newspapers, flowers to make up bouquets, the fruits and cheeses he arranged on serving platters, on dishes for the guests’ rooms, and in baskets for centerpieces. He was also in charge of slicing the larger fruits served at breakfast and shelling the fresh almonds set out on the little tables in the loggia during cocktails.

“What would Madame like for breakfast?” asked Marcel, opening a large cupboard.

Some twenty trays laden with coffeepots, milk pitchers, and jam jars of brightly colored Vallauris china were
lined up inside, next to a small notebook hanging from a hook. Warped and blistered by moisture, this recorded the customary preferences of our guests. Beneath Lady Wallingford’s name was written “Lemon tea + plain yogurt + fruit +
Herald Tribune
,” whereas the requirements of Laszlo Schwartz demanded an entire paragraph: “Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, croissant, toast, jam (no orange marmalade), café au lait,
Herald Tribune, Nice Matin, Le Figaro, Le Monde
.”

“Tea with milk?” replied Marcel, astonished by my request, “but usually you have—”

“Black coffee, yes, I know. I apologize for changing my mind like this, Marcel, which doesn’t make things easy. It’s a good thing not everyone is like me!”

I went back to the loggia, a sort of covered patio extended by an awning above the terrace, which looked out over the lawn and the sea. Furnished as a living room, the loggia was connected to all the reception rooms in the house, thus serving as a forum to the “city of L’Agapanthe,” a center for intrigues and conversation. I sat down beside Gay and Frédéric in one of the wicker armchairs from the 1940s, across from the huge green linen sofa where my mother held court from the moment breakfast began. Comments on the day’s news were enriched by the appearance of each freshly awakened
guest, and everyone got quickly up to speed. What had the finance minister said yesterday evening? How many dead from that earthquake? How had this or that guest slept? Who wanted to go for a swim or into town?

“Which of your clients have already arrived?” was the first thing I asked my mother.

I should explain that my parents, always happy to “go slumming,” liked to call their guests clients, often comparing L’Agapanthe to a family boardinghouse and themselves to its “bosses.”

“Well, aside from Gay and Frédéric right here, there are the Démazures, Henri and Polyséna … and also Schwartz, who arrived two days ago.”

“Bingo!” I thought, wishing Marie had been there to exchange knowing smiles with me, because my mother had just betrayed once again her attraction to Laszlo Schwartz by using only his last name, unusual behavior for one so addicted to etiquette. In fact my mother was scrupulous about using absolutely everyone’s first and last names, saying for example, “Henri Démazure just telephoned.” If writing or making an introduction, she would add the person’s title, if necessary: “Let me introduce you to the Baroness de Cadaval” or “Lord Fraser.” Unless she were speaking of a merchant or other businessperson, in which case she graced the last name
with a “Monsieur” or “Madame” that was all the more condescending for its appearance of respect. This led to remarks like, “Monsieur Lefèvre, you won’t forget that estimate for my living room curtains, will you?”

So, although my mother was careful to appear casual and unconcerned whenever she mentioned Laszlo Schwartz, modulating her tone with a care she imagined went unnoticed, we couldn’t help detecting her interest. True, Laszlo was attractive. Tall, elegant, with an imposing silver mane, and intimidating in the manner of those who make it clear that they follow only their own rules, he could even appear haughty. He did to my mother, in any case, who was timid and insecure by nature, in spite of all her elegance and irreverent airs, and who would have found him overpowering if he hadn’t been introduced to her by the Démazures, whose friend—inexplicably—he was.

Enthralled by his talent, fame, and freewheeling conversation, she was still amazed that he paid attention to her. For Laszlo, who had always been curious about the rich, had swiftly succumbed to her hospitality and had also begun to flirt with her. Openly, but without any real impropriety, for the pleasures of the chase, of gently teasing a sophisticated woman—and for the more refined rewards of experimenting with a dalliance from
another age, which he had never had the time or means to explore.

“And Odon Viel, he’s not coming this year?” I asked her.

For we were still missing our astrophysicist, the Nobel Prize winner of the family, whose major failing was to believe us all capable of fathoming the nuances of quantum mechanics and molecular and atomic physics. Viel would complete my mother’s group of intimate friends—along with Gay, Schwartz, and the Démazures—whom she proudly called her little band, and whom Marie, my father, and I referred to as her pets. They were cultured people, intellectuals and, with the exception of Gay, sometimes crashing bores, according to my father, who much preferred eccentrics like Georgina de Marien or Charles Ramsbotham, whom my mother dismissed as “oddballs” or “duds.”

“As it happens,” she told me, “he’s arriving at Juan-les-Pins on the six o’clock train.”

“Someone,” intoned Gay lugubriously, “should perhaps explain to dear Odon that it’s now cheaper to travel by plane than by train. Because I truly doubt that his ticket was a better buy than the thirty euros for a ParisNice on EasyJet, even with his beloved senior-citizen card and those discounts he so adores.”