The Other Story (28 page)

“She wrote a worse article about me last year. Don’t you remember? Said I was a misogynistic, racist bastard who loved and respected only one living creature on earth: his cat. When you get ripped to shreds by Taillefer, it means you’ve made it. Welcome to the party, pal.” He slaps Nicolas’s shoulder. “This calls for celebratory drinks. Hey, Salvatore, Giuseppe, or whatever your godforsaken name is, get over here! I’m packing up and about to go. Leaving after lunch. So sad to leave this gorgeous place. What about you guys?”

“Leaving tonight,” replies Nicolas.

He watches as Novézan grabs the wine from the waiter and serves them each a large glass. Malvina puts her hand over hers.

“Being a good girl, are you?” slurs Novézan.

Malvina radiates with pride. She places a protective palm on her flat stomach and nods. Luckily, Novézan does not notice the gesture.

“How’s the writing going, pal?” He does not pause to hear Nicolas’s answer. Nicolas sighs with relief. “I’m happy with mine. This is going to be enormous. Should be out next August. Hope your book isn’t coming out then, because mine is going to blow everyone’s away.”

Nicolas makes the most of the pause Novézan takes to down his entire glass of Chianti in one gulp. “Did you notice Dagmar Hunoldt is here?” Nicolas says.

Novézan splurts wine on the tablecloth. He looks around. “What, here? Now? At the Gallo Nero?”

Nicolas nods. “Not right now, but definitely here.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“I’ve been swimming an hour with her every morning.”

“And…”

Nicolas shrugs.

“Did she make you an offer, pal? Come on, you can tell me.”

Nicolas feels tempted to pronounce the three sentences on the paper, which he remembers by heart. But Dagmar Hunoldt did not recognize him. Novézan would weep with laughter over that. So he says nothing.

“Dagmar,” says Novézan, whimsically. “I know a writer who slept with her. Atomic bomb, he told me. I never fuck women her age, but I’m tempted. How interesting that she’s here. What a pity I’m leaving. I wonder if she’ll come after this new book of mine.”

“What’s it about?”

“As if I’d tell you!” taunts Novézan, wagging a scornful finger under Nicolas’s nose. “You wouldn’t tell me about yours, would you?”

“Oh, mine? It’s about the vanity of writers,” quips Nicolas.

Malvina flashes a surprised glance at him, and Nicolas shrugs at her, as if to say, Hell, why not?

Novézan lights a cigarette, puffing at it. He says, “You think writers are vain?”

“Some of them.”

“Well,” says Novézan, studiously picking his nose, “why shouldn’t they be? Writers hold the keys to the world, don’t they? They re-create the world. So they should be vain. Literature is a kingdom where writers rule, like kings, like emperors. A kingdom where emotions do not exist, where truth does not exist, where history means nothing. The only truth is the words on the page and how they come to life. That’s why writers are vain. Because they are the only ones who know how to bring those words to life.”

Novézan lets out a large belch and squeals with laughter at Malvina’s cool stare. Alessandra and her mother send disapproving glances from the next table. All through the meal, Nicolas and Malvina endure Novézan’s monologue. His problems with his mother, who resented his books and who voiced her disapproval in a recent interview. His problems with his teenage son, who is in rehab. His problems with his ex-wife, who always wants more money. His problems with an ex-girlfriend who has been posting intimate details about their past relationship on a spiteful blog, where he is not named but where everyone can recognize him. His problems with his landlord, his neighbor, his assistant, his publicist, his dentist, his aging cat, his hair loss. Novézan does not mention the sex scandal involving the French politician and the New York hotel maid, which is on everyone’s lips. He does not talk about anything except himself. He is wrapped up in his own universe. Nothing else seems to interest him. Is it with that scorn, that egocentrism, that he writes such powerful books, thinks Nicolas. Are his novels spawned from the utter disdain he feels for others, for women, for society, for political leaders, for the intelligentsia? At the end of lunch, when the bill comes, Nicolas expects Novézan to make a gesture toward his pocket, to say something about splitting the bill. But Novézan remains silent and lights yet another cigarette. Nicolas remembers hearing from a journalist that Novézan is unbelievably stingy. The journalist told Nicolas that Novézan, one of France’s most famous novelists, who owns an apartment in Paris and one in Brussels, a house in Dublin, and a villa on the Costa del Sol, never lends anyone money, never pays for anyone’s drinks, anyone’s meal, never gives a tip to a taxi driver, a deliveryman, an usherette, and always counts his change.

Nicolas charges the three meals to his room. Novézan stands up, plants a slobbery kiss on Nicolas’s cheek, tries to do the same to Malvina, who shrinks away; then he leaves, waving. Nicolas watches him disappear into the building with a mixture of admiration and revulsion—exactly what he feels when he reads Novézan’s books.

“Is your new book really going to be about the vanity of writers?” Malvina asks.

Nicolas smiles. “Why not? I’m tempted.”

“Nicolas,” says Malvina. “Your BlackBerry.”

He glances at the phone on the table.
ALICE
is flashing on the screen.

“Are you going to pick up?” Malvina whispers.

He had not been able to tell Malvina the truth about their relationship earlier on. He had to be brave now and tell Alice what he had promised to reveal. No more beating around the bush. He notices that the Belgian family and Alessandra and her mother are too near. This is going to be one of those private conversations.

He rises, takes the phone, and moves away, where he can stand alone and not be heard.

He braces himself and answers. “Alice,” he says.

There is silence, an ominous one, like the one before François spoke, and he feels a sort of dread spill through him.

“Alice, are you there?”

He picks up an odd sound. Could it be a sob? Another one comes. It definitely is a sob. Alice Dor is crying. He can no longer speak.

“Nicolas! How can you do this to me?” Her voice, usually low and poised, is a croaky moan. “I trusted you. I’ve trusted you since the beginning. I thought we were a team and we worked together hand in hand. I made a mistake. I guess Delphine was right after all.”

“Alice, please…,” he says, filled with consternation. “You mean the book? I have started it. It’s just not as advanced as you may think it is, but I have started it. I promise you. You must believe me. Of course you can trust me.”

“Be quiet!” she yells. He has never heard Alice Dor yell. He is stunned. “Stop it, Nicolas! Have the decency to tell me the truth. I always knew you might leave me. But I never thought you’d do it this way.”

Malvina comes to his side. She must have seen his face. She holds on to him. He feels her warmth, her love. Somehow, it helps.

“Alice…,” he says again.

“No, let me finish.” Her voice is calmer now. The sobbing has stopped. But the pain is still there. He can hear it. “You know very well what difficult times we in the publishing industry are going through. People read less, buy fewer books. We publishers have so much to work out, with the advent of e-books, the slow death of printed books. Booksellers are worried; bookstores are closing down. Publishing deals mean so much more than they used to in a world where everything is changing—for writers, for publishers, for readers. And you chose this particular moment, when you know how fragile all this is, to do this to me. You know I run a small company. You are my star author. You are the reason I can publish other authors. We all live off you. But you used to say, with such grace, such elegance, ‘Alice Dor changed my life.’ And I used to answer, with earnestness and truth, ‘Nicolas Kolt has changed mine.’ I’m not talking about money, Nicolas. I’m not talking about your very generous contract and your ample royalties. No, I’m talking about trust. I wonder if you know what that word means anymore. I’m saying to you now, and I want you to answer me now, how can you do this to me?”

Nicolas is so bewildered, he cannot speak. Malvina strokes his hand gently. He can hear the thrumming of his heart, the voices coming from the restaurant behind them, Alice Dor’s ragged breath.

“What do you mean?” he stammers helplessly, knowing this will unleash her fury.

She yells again, and he can hear the outrage, hear the suffering.

“It’s all over Facebook! It’s all over Twitter!”

He finds it difficult to breathe.

“Alice, can you hold on, please?”

He mutes the BlackBerry with a trembling finger.

“Malvina, give me your iPhone.”

Malvina hands it to him. His heart pounds. On his Facebook page, there are two photos posted by Alex Brunel fifteen minutes ago. They were taken during his breakfast this morning with Dagmar Hunoldt. Appalled, Nicolas sees the photos through Alice’s eyes. He sees what she saw. In the first one, Dagmar and he are rubbing shoulders, wearing the same bathrobes, seated at the same table. Like old friends. Like accomplices. As if they had shared something special. A swim? A conversation? More? Much more. In the second photo, Nicolas is standing up, and Dagmar’s right hand is in his. The precise moment when she handed him the piece of paper. He is gazing down at her, and she is smiling.

“Alice, for God’s sake, it’s not what you think! I can…”

But Alice Dor is no longer there. Alice Dor has hung up on him.

He tries to call her back. He calls five, ten, fifteen times. She has turned her phone off. He leaves message after message, sends three pleading e-mails, six texts. He is distraught. Malvina leads him back to the room. She strokes his hair gently. They have a late checkout, she reminds him, but they need to start packing; the chauffeur is picking them up at six to drive them to the airport. That is in a couple of hours. He should pack now, and then what about a final swim? “Isn’t that a good idea,” she says, smiling, “a final swim?” He nods, his mind miles away. Nothing else matters. Only Alice. How is he going to explain this to her? Will she ever believe him?

As Malvina begins to fold her clothes, Nicolas remains frozen, standing in the middle of the room. How can ever he win Alice’s trust back? How could he have been so stupid, so vain? Yes, it was a question of vanity. It was all vanity. He had felt flattered, tempted, enthralled by Dagmar Hunoldt’s presence, infuriated by the fact that she pretended not to recognize him. Look where that has landed him. How could he not have foreseen that Alex Brunel (whoever Alex Brunel is) would post other photos? He should have blocked that account. He should have done that from the start.

The phone vibrates in his pocket, startling him. That must be Alice, calling him back. She will be angry at first, but he will explain it all, and he even has that piece of paper in his pocket with those crazy sentences about Epicure to prove it. She will come around. He will make sure she does. He will do everything in his power for her to forgive him.

The number is a private one, not showing up on the screen. He hesitates. Perhaps Alice is not at home; perhaps her battery has run out, and she is calling from another phone, another place. It can only be Alice.

But the voice he hears when he takes the call is not Alice’s voice. It is that of an unknown man.

“Nicolas Kolt?” The voice is clipped, polished, with a Germanic ring to it.

“Who is this?” he asks uneasily.

“Hans Kurz.”

The name rings a faint bell. Enough to make Nicolas feel uncomfortable.

A pause.

“Yes?” says Nicolas carefully. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” A dry laugh rings in Nicolas’s ear. “Now, you listen very carefully. You were stupid enough, Herr Kolt, to send e-mails to my wife, in which you left your phone number and in which you also mentioned where you were staying. So it was easy for me to contact you.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Nicolas says firmly. “You’ve dialed the wrong number.”

His tone must sound contrived, because Malvina stops packing and turns all her attention to him. Hans Kurz continues, his voice louder now.

“Oh, I see, you are not alone. Your unsuspecting girlfriend, I imagine. Poor thing. I’ve seen her Facebook page. In a relationship with Nicolas Kolt. Malvina Voss. Very pretty. Very young. Poor little Malvina. She adores you, doesn’t she?” Another ironic chuckle. “How uncomfortable this must be for you, Herr Kolt. What a pity Sabina’s BlackBerry is kaput. BBMs are so practical, aren’t they? Nobody can intercept them. But it’s a different story with e-mails, isn’t it? So easy to read someone else’s e-mails. And to pass them on, too. To forward them. To send them on to unsuspecting people. And that last e-mail of yours was so very graphic, wasn’t it? The one with your phone number in it. Where you describe to my wife exactly how you are going to fuck her. In great detail. Oh, you wrote that beautifully, Herr Kolt! You had a hard-on, didn’t you? Probably more exciting to write that kind of crap.”

Malvina is now standing close to him. She can probably hear Hans Kurz’s guttural tone.

“Who is it?” she whispers.

“I can’t hear you,” shouts Nicolas into the phone, turning away from her. “This is a bad connection.”

“Pathetic excuse. You leave my wife alone, Herr Kolt, or I will come in person to the luxury hotel you are staying in, the Gallo Nero, and I will kick your arrogant face to a pulp, until your beloved fans no longer recognize you.”

Nicolas turns the phone off. His hands are shaking, but he manages, somehow, to keep a normal expression on his face.

“What did that person want?” Malvina asks, frowning.

“No idea,” says Nicolas. “Some creep. Wrong number.”

He goes out to the balcony. He finds he cannot think properly. Every thought is sluggish. He feels numb. How long will it take? Not long now, he guesses. As soon as she finishes her packing, or even before, Malvina will check her iPhone. There is nothing else to do but wait.

He feels like those people frantically protecting their home against an oncoming tornado. Boarding up windows, piling sandbags in front of doors, stocking up on water, sugar, pasta, batteries, and flashlights. He waits. Down below, he sees the flow of the unhurried pace of the Gallo Nero’s rhythm, disconnected from reality. An iridescent butterfly wings by. Valets come and go. A gardener tends to the plantation. Guests stroll past with tennis rackets. Others head to the spa in their bathrobes. The Swiss can be spotted in the sea, on their way back from their afternoon swim. The American ladies are having tea in the shade. He can hear the “Oh, my God’s” from where he stands. The terrible Damian runs by, followed by his exhausted mother. Dr. Gheza and an elegant man are talking near the cypress trees. The gay couple play badminton on the lawn, dressed in white, like a scene out of
Brideshead Revisited.