The Other Story (33 page)

I read
The Envelope
with pleasure.

You will be happy to know that the Russian translation of your novel, which I bought at the bookstore Dom Knigui, on the Nevsky Prospekt, is fluid, almost as good as what mine could have been.

I was moved by your portrayal of Margaux Dansor and her family secret. You have written a powerful book, which I’m sure will become very successful.

I do hope that one day, you will write a novel about your intimate connection to Russia, and to Saint Petersburg. Because, after all, you are half Russian. If ever you choose in the future to write about your own Russian heritage, in any way, please be assured that I would be willing to be your guide once again.

And perhaps this time, I will have the honor of translating the book myself, for you? Warm wishes from the Fontanka,

LS

A
T EIGHT O’CLOCK, NICOLAS
changes into jeans and a white shirt and goes down to the terrace. A crowd is gathered around a buffet. It seems to him the guests are even more elegant than usual. Some men are wearing black tie, and he spots a couple of extravagant ball gowns. He is offered champagne and greeted warmly by Dr. Gheza.

“We are very glad you could stay with us for another night,” says the hotel director. “Let me introduce you to the happy couple.”

The newlyweds, in their late twenties, are named Cordelia and Giorgio. They seem glued together from hip to shoulder like conjoined twins. Cordelia wears an ivory satin dress and has pearls woven into her blond hair; Giorgio is in a perfectly cut white suit. Neither of them recognize Nicolas. I never get the balance right, he thinks despairingly as Cordelia glances superciliously at his jeans. Either people fall over backward when they realize he is Nicolas Kolt and become embarrassingly obsequious or they have no idea who he is and he feels snubbed.

A silver-haired crooner with smoldering eyes and a chocolatelike tan is installed behind the grand piano. His voice is deep and rich, with Sinatra-like undertones. He sings “La Vie en Rose” with such purpose, he could have written the song himself. Waiters bring a fancy pink wedding cake. People clap and cheer. The couple kisses. More clapping and cheering. Nicolas has another glass of champagne. As he drinks it, watching the night fall once again upon the Gallo Nero, he feels someone watching him. He whips around and is confronted with Alessandra, his fan, taking a snap of him with her phone. Her face goes beet red when she sees she has been caught.

All of sudden, it clicks. Alessandra … Alex …

“You’re Alex Brunel.” It isn’t a question. It is a fact.

She nods, quaking.

“You need to take those photos off my wall,” he barks. “If you don’t do it, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Do you understand?”

“But everyone posts photos on your wall!” she wails. “Why am I the one getting into trouble?”

He feels a vicious rage swirl up within him. He lets it explode. The wrath not only sparks from Alessandra’s faux pas; it is rendered even more powerful by the unfortunate events of the past few days.

“I am here on a private holiday,” he roars, not caring if guests are looking their way, surprised. “I did not want anyone to know where I was, nor who I was with, and now, thanks to you and your photos, everyone knows.”

She cowers. He despises her flabby upper arms, her flowery perfume, her blue eye shadow.

“Of course,” he goes on, fuming, “you have no idea of the damage those photos caused. You don’t care, do you? What were you going to do tonight, huh? Post more photos? Well, now I’ve caught you, haven’t I?”

Nicolas grabs his BlackBerry, shoves it into her face, and takes a photo, an unflattering one, where she is all quivering nostrils, double chin, and shiny, coarse skin. In an instant, it is posted on his Facebook wall, for his 250,000 “friends” to see. He writes, gloatingly, “A taste of your own medicine. Alessandra, alias Alex Brunel.”

She turns and flees. Nicolas ignores the glances shot at him and finishes a third glass of champagne. He wanders over to the bar. The people here tonight appear to be as rich as they are boring. He listens to the mellifluous chatter. “Oh, darling, how marvelous.” “Yes, Anastasia and Gaspard have just moved; the triplex has been redone by Fabien, and it is out of this world.” “Did you see Paolo this summer? He has a new yacht.” “I feel sorry for that revolting man’s poor wife, after what he did to that maid.” “We are here till tomorrow, then off to Rome, but Lorenzo is taking his plane—you know what he’s like.” “Wanda looks so thin. I wonder who her new doctor is?” “Hélène is leaving Rodophe, but she gets to keep the château.”

He wishes Cassia Carper was here, with Savannah and the other models. He even wishes Novézan was still around. And Chris, the blond actor. The American ladies are not to be seen—perhaps not select enough to be invited to the party? The Swiss couple and the gay couple are not here, either. Have they left? Gone back to their pampered lives?

“Good evening, Signor Kolt.” Giancarlo, the barman, smiles at him. “Signorina Voss is not with you?”

“She is in Paris, or on her way there.”

“Are you enjoying the evening?”

Nicolas chuckles. “Not particularly. Those newlyweds look like a scene out of
Gossip Girl.
”

“She is from the richest family in Italy,” says Giancarlo, lowering his voice. “And he is part of the aristocracy. They were married yesterday in Rome; it was all over the papers.”

“Thrilling,” says Nicolas ironically. “I guess I’ll have some more champagne.”

The heiress and the prince are now dancing cheek to cheek as the silver-haired crooner launches into “La Mer,” by Charles Trenet. They are watched by doting parents, grannies, aunts, bosom buddies. Nicolas has rarely seen such a concentration of gems, plastic surgery, and luxury watches.

As he drinks the champagne, feeling giddy, he realizes he has Davide’s card in his pocket. Maybe he should call Davide, get him to pick him up in the Riva, and go back to the Villa Stella for another delicious meal.

“That’s strange,” says Giancarlo, staring out to sea.

Nicolas follows his gaze. He spots one of the gigantic cruise ships on the darkening water.

“What is it?”

“The
Sagamor.
It is coming in so close. Look.”

Nicolas notices the ship is much nearer than it was on Friday night. He can make out the enormous black letters of its name. A muffled rumor filters from the vast boat, the humming buzz of music, of hundreds of voices.

“You mean to do the
inchino
?” Nicolas asks.

Giancarlo nods. “Yes. But it hasn’t blown its horn. And it never sails this far in.”

Nicolas shrugs. “Maybe a new distraction on board?”

“Perhaps.”

The huge boat does not seem to be moving. It has halted near the reef that Dagmar Hunoldt and he swam out to that very morning, blazing with hundreds of lights, sitting on the water like an oversized glittering building.

“What is it doing?” asks Giancarlo. “I see this boat twice a week, all through the season, and I’ve never seen it come so near and stop like that.”

Waiters are now handing shrimp canapés to the guests. The crooner is deep into “Ti Amo.” A group of people is slowly dancing. Cornelia and Giorgio exchange wet, amorous kisses. A scowling middle-aged man stops in front of Nicolas. He is wearing a tuxedo.

“You’re the writer, aren’t you?” he says bluntly, lighting a cigar.

He has a snarly, unpleasant voice.

The smoke wafts over to Nicolas, who welcomes the Pavlovian poke to his father.

“I am,” he replies.

The man puffs away. “My wife absolutely adores you,” he says tonelessly. Then he walks off, without adding anything else.

Nicolas sits at the bar, his glass in his hand. To think he is Nicolas Kolt, and he has no one to spend the evening with. He nearly laughs out loud. “Those women,” as his father would say with a roll of his eyes and down-turned lips. Nicolas looks around him, his elbow resting on the bar, and he takes in each detail of the party as the moon rises and the night falls; the murmur of voices, the dazzling array of gowns, of jewels, the strum of music, the candles, the cigar smoke, the languor of the summer evening.

A young woman of his age, with long brown hair, stumbles up to him.

“You’re that writer,” she drawls.

She seems tipsy, or high, or both. She is wearing a silk and gauze taupe dress that is too short, revealing anorexic knees. A diamond the size of a grape sparkles on her finger.

She holds out an unsteady glass to Giancarlo. “Just fill it up,” she says. “Vodka. Or whatever.”

She hoots with laughter.

“Are you alone?” she asks Nicolas, focusing unnatural violet-colored eyes on him. She is not pretty—her nose is too large, her mouth crooked—but there is an appeal about her.

“Indeed,” he replies.

She presses up to him. “Really? No girlfriend? A good-looking guy like you?”

He grins halfheartedly. “There was a girlfriend.” He nearly adds, And now there’s a baby, but he doesn’t.

“I’m alone, too. I am so fucking bored.” Another screech.

“Are you friends with Cornelia?” he asks.

“Cordelia,” she says, correcting him. She is trying to sit on a high stool, and failing. He helps her up. “Yeah. I’m her older sister. The spinster.”

“What’s your name?”

“Liliana. But just call me Lily. Why are you here?”

“I was invited by Dr. Gheza.”

“Fat old snob. Can’t stand his guts.”

“He’s standing not too far away, Lily.”

“So what? Who cares.” She bats her eyelashes at Nicolas and wets her lips. “Are you going to put me in your new book?”

“Should I?”

“Seriously. Please do it. I’ll pay you.”

“Just tell me why I should.”

“Why? Because I’m the pathetic older sister. The one no one has looked at since Cordelia was born. I’m the drug addict, the drunkard. I’m the one who gives blow jobs to my father’s friends in their Maseratis and Ferraris. I give very good blow jobs, you know.”

“I’m sure,” he says, amused.

Giancarlo and he exchange glances.

“Do you want a blow job?” she asks, her voice slurred.

“Well, that’s kind of you, Lily, but no, not right now. Please tell me more about why I should put you in my book.”

She fumbles around in her purse, finds a pack of cigarettes, and lights one. She offers the pack to him. “You don’t smoke, either?” she says when he shakes his head.

“No. But I drink—a lot. Go on. Tell me.”

“You should put me in your book because I’m desperate. I live alone, in a magnificent apartment in Rome on the Piazza Navona. I have so much money, I don’t know what to do with it. I haven’t had a real boyfriend for years, but I’ve slept with over a hundred men since I was fourteen. I have a degree in law no one cares about. I’m much smarter than my sister, but, alas, I don’t have her looks, so no one notices. Desperate characters are always more interesting, aren’t they? You know that; you’re a writer. Look at Anna Karenina. Or Madame Bovary. Although I wouldn’t go so far as killing myself. Afraid of the mess. Tonight, for instance, because I’m so desperate, I could do something foolish and ridiculous, just to ruin my sister’s party. If you look over there, you will see the way my parents are watching me. See, that spindly man with the glasses, in black tie, and that pinched-faced woman in green, drenched in diamonds. My parents. Look at them. They are so worried that something might go wrong tonight in their perfect world. And over there, look, my new brother-in-law’s parents. Like royalty, my dear. That posh lady in blue, wearing her ridiculous tiara, and that bloated man with the white mustache. All these people here tonight are the crème de la crème of Rome—bankers, trophy wives, heirs, designers, politicians, masters of the universe who fly in private jets and who get their monogrammed sheets changed every day.”

“Just how would you ruin the party, Lily?”

“I’m drunk enough already as it is, but I have a couple of ideas. I could strip and jump naked into the pool. I could set some woman’s haute couture dress on fire. I could smash up the buffet. I could call the Gallo Nero from my cell phone and tell them a bomb is going to go off.”

A loud explosion startles them, coming from the sea, from the motionless
Sagamor.
Fireworks, popping upward like long-stemmed white flowers.

“Looks like people on board know the famous newlyweds are here tonight,” says Giancarlo drily. “That boat has been there for over an hour. Maybe they’re hoping to join the party.”

The guests clap and cheer again. More fireworks go off loudly, shimmering into the black sky.

A woman’s gushing voice is heard: “What a lovely idea! How sweet of them!” Nicolas notices Dr. Gheza’s looking out to sea with a perplexed expression. A couple of smaller boats can be made out in the dusk, speeding toward the
Sagamor.
Dr. Gheza walks quickly to the bar and asks Giancarlo for the telephone. He speaks staccatolike in rapid Italian that Nicolas does not catch. His hand slices the air, moving up and down. His mouth is tight and thin. Then he hangs up and storms away. Lily translates.

“The old snob wants to know what those
cazzos
on board think they are doing. How the hell do they know about the wedding party? No one from the
Sagamor
is allowed to land at the Gallo Nero tonight. ‘Get some men out there right now to stop boats coming in.’ That’s what he said.”

Disco music is now being played. The silver crooner has gone. The golden honeymooners move with the smooth, sure steps of nightclubbers. “Dancing Queen,” by Abba. Other couples join in; they twirl and strut, smiling and laughing.

“How I hate watching my parents dance,” groans Lily. “It’s almost as bad as imagining them having sex, which I’m sure they haven’t for the past century.”

“I think I must put you in my novel,” says Nicolas. “You’re just too funny.”

“I knew I could corrupt you.” She grins back. “Do you think writers are vampires? I mean do you use us? All the people you meet in your everyday life. Do you suck inspiring stuff out of us?”