The Suitors (35 page)

“ ‘… Toward the end of a trying day, the marine mammal ended up in the cove of La Galiote, at Saint-Aygulf, where it had been trailed by two inflatable dinghies carrying firemen, Mike Ridell (coordinator of the rescue effort), and Véronique Vienet, the veterinarian of the Alpes-Maritime Fire Brigade. The site had seemed ideal, allowing the rescuers to keep the stricken animal afloat in the shallow water while the veterinarian examined, fed, and cared for the whale until the floating sling arrived. Human stupidity, however, then intervened. A woman suddenly shouted, “We have to push it back out,” and dozens of people approached the young fin whale to move it out to deeper water. The creature fled in a panic toward a breakwater, colliding with it, and mass hysteria ensued. Someone shouted, “I have a bit of its skin,” and others threw a policeman into the water when he tried to keep them from going out on the breakwater. “We’re still in shock,” said a disgusted and discouraged Mike Ridell.’ ”

“Really, that’s unbelievable! I’ve never liked crowds, they scare me,” observed Jean-Claude.

Frédéric continued reading.

“ ‘ “They were out of control. You cannot manage a crowd of over two thousand people, there might have been serious injuries,” added Véronique Vienet, stunned not only by the attitude of the vacationers, who thought they were helping yet made things worse, but also by a glancing blow to her head from the tail of the baby whale, whose chances for survival, now that it has been frightened back out to sea, are almost gone. “He’s weak, and has lost a terrific amount of weight,” the veterinarian observed soberly. “When I first saw him, he weighed between seven and eight tons, but now he’s down to only three or four.” The would-be rescuers, including three injured firemen who’d been manhandled by the crowd, were saddened by what had happened. “They were like hooligans at a soccer match. Everyone wanted to get in on it and bring back a trophy.” The vacationers, in their attempt to help, have probably signed the young whale’s death warrant.’ ”

The departure of Nicolas, Vanessa, and Alvin occupied us for the rest of the morning, since we had to exchange money for them because they had only dollars and wished to leave tips for the staff. This persuaded me
that they were the only ones among our guests who had thought to do this and were thus the only ones to show kindness and good manners. Then we had to track down Anagan, who’d gone for a swim in the bay, and one of Vanessa’s dresses, which had accidentally been placed in Astrid’s closet, and watch our three travelers say good-bye to the entire household.

After which, Marie and I finally rendezvoused in my room, where we decided to cheat a little on our departing flight schedule so that we two could have lunch together at the Hôtel du Cap before taking the plane. So we told our parents we had to leave the house slightly earlier than planned, and after saying good-bye to them, Marie and I took a tour of the house. Everything was back to normal in the kitchen, where our own chef had returned and the menu was once more to our taste. Like the rest of L’Agapanthe, which seemed so unchanging. I thought about the end of a love affair, about how we make love with someone without realizing that it’s for the last time, because nothing tells us solemnly that this moment will never come again, a moment we often try in vain to recall later on, when the affair is over.

Frédéric came to find me before I left.

“You know, your idea about chasing after suitors?” I said to him. “Idiotic!”

“I don’t happen to agree,” he replied. “Have you ever heard the story of the goat? A fellow goes to see his rabbi to complain. ‘I live in a one-room apartment with my wife and our two children, we’ve no room to turn around, it’s awful!’ So the rabbi says to him, ‘Get a goat, and come back to see me in a month.’ The guy returns a month later and says, ‘Well, I’m living in sheer hell! Why the devil did you tell me to get a goat?’ And the rabbi replies, ‘Nu, because once you’ve gotten rid of the goat, you’ll be able to enjoy what you have.’ ”

I stared blankly at Frédéric.

“You mean to tell me
that’s
why you suggested the plan to me? So that it would turn into a fiasco and give me time to get used to the idea that the house was going to be sold? I can’t believe it.”

The road to Eden-Roc

July 20, 1987

I am ten years old. A tedious road, unappealing, paved like a city street. I have to watch my step, be careful not to fall and twist my ankle or skin my knees or elbows, because I’m clumsy and the road is full of bumps and potholes
.

In any case, I don’t know how to lift up my head and dream away, just dream myself away from this punishing walk. All I can do is gather up my courage, set out, and get it over with
.

But the heady scent wafting from the fig tree arching over the asphalt on my right soon carries me into another world of sweet languor, shady and cool. The moment is too brief and the fragrance too fleeting for me to realize that this is where I would like to stop and linger. Baffled by this new feeling, I
have a hard time grasping the idea that simply breathing this soft and syrupy perfume would make me happy. It never occurs to me to dawdle, to stop and savor it. No one has suggested this to me or given me leave to do it. I only know what I’m supposed to do, and I have a long way to go
.

So I walk on
.

There is no shade anywhere except a narrow band, like a lane of shadow, cast by the low wall behind which lie our neighbors’ modest, even humble homes
.

A man is watching me with curiosity. A little nervous, I politely say hello because I don’t want to seem like a stuck-up little girl. The neighbor doesn’t smile or reply. But it doesn’t matter
.

I have to get going. Especially since I’m afraid of the dog barking behind the gate. I don’t dare look over there, for fear of offending the man. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m comparing his house with mine, or to feel judged, spied on, stared at, even though that’s what he’s doing with me
.

I quicken my pace under the sun beating down on my skin lacquered with sweat. Trying to escape the bite of the sun, which stings like sea salt, I hug the little wall so close I’m almost scraping my side. When the pathway leads to a real road, the only available strip I can walk along becomes as thin as a ribbon. I put my feet one in front of the other like a tightrope walker, afraid of being swept away by the cars
zooming past, but I can enjoy the refreshing sense of speed left in their wake. The cars are convertibles, as brightly colored as sourball candies
.

Their hair streaming in the wind, the smiling passengers look happy, ready to take mysterious pleasure in what I do out of obligation: I must swim and play tennis every day to become an accomplished young woman. And I arrive at last
.

The entrance gate, the front steps, the familiar doorman, and finally the gentle and often breezy slope leading down to the sea and the swimming pool. The winding path to the oppressively hot and dusty clay tennis courts is shady and more protected. The boring lessons drag along. I do as I’m asked. And I watch the other visitors to this palatial hotel, who seem so free, so cheerful. Why? I just don’t understand their happiness. I understand only schedules and obligations
.

The hour limps by. Soon I’ll be done
.

The Hôtel du Cap seemed completely transformed to us, through the combined efforts of passing time and new management. They take credit cards now but no longer issue free beach passes to a privileged few. Thus Marie and I felt our welcome blow now cold, now hot, between a new protocol, made of rules and prohibitions suited to an impersonal and almost banal establishment, and the familiar charm of a priceless and singular place; between the pool attendant who inquired haughtily if we were guests at the hotel, and Michel, the Eden-Roc doorman who asked for news of the family while kissing us on the cheek.

“What’s the event?” I asked him.

“The grand terrace has been reserved for a conference.”

“Ah, I see! But we can still go there, can’t we?”

“Yes, of course, go right ahead.”

Marie and I toured the gastronomic restaurant, which no longer used the same china as before, and the main dining room, prettily repainted in white. Then we went down to the bar, where the lighting, mixing with that of the swimming pool, kept shifting from blue to green, and from rose to violet.

“It’s really something, that design gadget! It gives the restaurant a fake nightclub atmosphere, don’t you think?” asked Marie.

“Oh, my, that’s quite a problem.”

“But … what is the matter with you?”

And then I told her that there was a buyer for L’Agapanthe, and gave her the gory details of my doings with Alvin, and revealed my sadness at having spoken so little to her that weekend.

“In any case, those suitors? That idea was a farce,” she said dismissively. “God only knows what got into us.”

I remembered what Frédéric had said to me. But when I spoke to her, it was about what might have been the real heart of the matter.

“I think I wanted nothing to change, I wanted to
be able to keep the house, to stay together the way we were when we were little, but that’s impossible. Anyway, to stay together, we have to evolve, to become more friends than sisters, and each have a life of our own. Because when we attempt to re-create our childhood, we remain—for life—the children of our parents. Haven’t you ever wondered why we aren’t married?”

“Well, because we haven’t met our husbands yet!”

“No! It’s because we weren’t ready! We could have vetted every single guy on earth and it wouldn’t have worked. First off, because you don’t recruit a lover the way you do an office employee, and all that fancy planning never works, you simply have to fall in love. And second, it was an absurd idea to tie our love life to L’Agapanthe, which is a family home, and therefore
our parents’ house
.”

“True, and nothing worked in that mix, anyway. None of the suitors liked the house and we didn’t like them in the house.”

“Ah, except for Béno!”

“Oh, thanks a lot!”

“Seriously, how are you with that?”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I’ve gotten over it, really.”

“And that dog in Rio, are you still upset about that?”

“No, I’m over that, too.”

“So it’s just too bad about L’Agapanthe?”

Marie was about to agree when she looked off suddenly to my left, and I heard a voice I seemed to know, speaking English.

“Laure! You remember me?”

I turned, and there he was, nodding briefly in greeting to Marie.

“Rajiv! What are you doing here?”

“I’m running a conference!”

“Oh?” I said stupidly, unable to say anything more because I was so stunned to see in daylight this man who had such an effect on me.

“It is a discussion on economics as a moral science.”

“And that is …?”

“The idea that economics, unlike physics or chemistry, is not a hard science devoid of ideological bias, but is a discipline that requires ethical scrutiny and a deep understanding of the role political action plays within it.”