He had only the top floor left: bedding. The idea of going and having a look did not strike him as all that absurd. Why not a bed, after all? Some day he was bound to need a huge bed, a bed that was so soft it was indecent, to make up for all the sleepless nights spent with Loraine. A bed that was so exceptional that she would not be able to resist it and would end up sprawling on it. The best bed in the world. A bed that would reconcile its medicinal effects with its hedonistic implications. He found the idea amusing for a moment, just long enough to realize that Loraine already had – but God knew where – a bed of her very own.
*
The bar must have been carved of ancient oak. The patina of the wood beneath his fingers and its warm mellow colour made him feel like drinking something in the same register. There was a whole colour chart up on the wall, rows and rows, so many unfamiliar bottles which deserved to become familiar. Nicolas did not have enough of his life left to try them all, classify them and study them like an encyclopedist, writing the great book of intoxication, a book that the academies would hail as a classic, while he waited to be given a chair at the Sorbonne.
“What can I get you?”
“Something strong. What would you advise? What would you drink?”
“I hardly ever drink when I’m working, and never in the afternoon.”
“What’s that reddish bottle with the white label?”
“Southern Comfort, a rather syrupy bourbon. Personally, I find it too sweet, it gets to the liver pretty quickly. If you like bourbon, I can offer you one of the best, I’ve still got a case that complies with American standards, from when it was legal here.”
Nicolas looked at his watch: ten past three. Time went so quickly, life did too.
“Watch out, though, it’s quoted as 50.5% vol.”
“Let me have a taste.”
He had eventually found his present. The idea had come to him on the escalator, in amongst all those people. He felt like having this drink, the one the barman was now about to give him, and had gone straight to the men’s accessories department where he had been shown three different flasks. He chose the medium-sized one which was slightly curved to fit comfortably in a breast pocket, covered with black leather and with the stopper attached to the neck. The capacity seemed about right to him, just enough to give you a dose of courage if you were lost in the woods, or to help you hang on if you were stuck in a lift – a couple of alibis to justify the gift. Now, he had happiness within his grasp in his inside pocket, and unhappiness too; all that for just 140 francs. Mme Lemarié had nothing to be too horrified about.
“It takes the roof off your mouth, this stuff of yours, but you get used to it.”
He said this to reassure the barman when he was, in fact, on fire. His chest was about to explode, he could not breathe, and then he managed a sigh. And it was that sigh which released everything else: his breathing calmed down, his shoulders dropped, his heart settled back into its rhythm, a private smile sketched itself on his face and his imagination began to stray. Only the really important things became important again, everything else was forgotten: the dross, the complications, the prevaricating, the pointless anxieties, the assorted misunderstandings, the time wasted when he should have been getting on with living.
“Can you fill this up for me?” he asked, brandishing his flask.
“A christening?”
“You could say.”
“What would you like to run on?”
“On four-star. Vodka. You wouldn’t have that bourbon’s Polish cousin?”
“The advantage with flasks is that the action itself is discreet, but it’s your breath that gives you away. Those quick swigs of vodka can be detected. I’ve got an eau-de-vie which might help you get past the worst of it without anyone knowing. Would you like to try it?”
“No, I’d rather it was a surprise.”
The day was really getting started, everything that had gone before had just been lethargy, now what really mattered was becoming clear and, with it, a certainty: he really was the ungrateful wretch he had always feared! How could he have forgotten Mme Zabel! He put the flask in his pocket, downed another Wild Turkey in one and went back to the department store to rectify the situation.
Fire!
*
“The pleasure’s all mine, Madame Zabel. We should always know what we owe and who we owe it to. What would have happened if my appointment had been with the person in that office there?”
“My colleague would have given you the same information I did, and she would be the one holding a magnificent Hermès scarf today, and she would probably say she can’t accept it, which is what I’m going to have to do.”
“This isn’t corruption, Madame Zabel, it’s gratitude! And, anyway, this ochre yellow is exactly your colour. You can’t refuse it.”
Mme Zabel looked at him in helpless silence.
Despite the 50.5% vol. fuelling the spontaneous combustion of his generosity, Nicolas could sense a hint of anxiety behind his benefactor’s amused smile. If she thought he was drunk, that would ruin his good mood and his very sincere gratitude towards her. But he actually was well and truly drunk, a little too much for his liking.
“Please, Madame Zabel . . . accept it . . .”
“Don’t look at me like that with those dark eyes, Monsieur Gredzinski, you’ll make me give in.”
“And about time!”
His diction was out of danger, his breath above suspicion.
“While I’m here, Madame Zabel, I wanted to talk to you about an idea which could be turned into a proper project, if you felt it was worth it. I should tell you that, for some time, I’ve been waking up in the arms of the most beautiful woman.”
She raised a questioning eyebrow.
“But, you see, we don’t always wake at the same time because the beauty in question slips away at dawn, shrouded in mystery, while I recover from a feverish and generously oiled night. You see, she does everything she can to avoid waking me and, despite the fact that I’d like to hold her in my arms one last time before she leaves, I’m grateful to her for it. I should tell you that ever since I was tiny, I’ve woken up in a flash, I just have to open my eyes and bang! that’s it, I’m wide awake, wound up like a spring, it’s terrible. I’m not one of those lucky people, like you perhaps, who can go straight back to sleep.”
“I have been known to.”
“You should recognize how lucky you are. People like me don’t ever half sleep, have a little interlude dozing or take a quick nap. For worriers like me it’s as if a blast of reality hits you the minute you regain consciousness, and then the countdown starts, you only have two or three minutes left before all the symptoms wake up too. The first intelligible thought is inevitably pessimistic and gets worse by the second; you suddenly remember you live on this lowly earth, this place built by other people but which you’ve never tried to change, that the day is going to be as bad as you feared and you’re going to have to grin and bear it until the evening. You feel almost guilty for lying in Morpheus’s arms and, damn him, he won’t open those arms again until you’ve crossed your daily vale of tears. So picture the universal problem of unsynchronized mornings; she needs to be ready for her 6 o’clock start, he’s recovering after working late into the night. There are endless scenarios involving millions of people who share a bed with someone but can’t get up at the same time as them. How do you avoid hearing the other person’s alarm clock? How do you stay asleep yourself? It’s as simple as that! Someone in this noble establishment must have thought about it. Don’t tell me I’m the first! Because if I am, I’d like to suggest a very light wrist watch with a vibrating function which pulses with just enough pressure to wake the one without disturbing the other. I’ve thought of everything. Would you like some more details?”
*
His promotion within the Group had changed nothing in the aperitif club’s routine. They had all congratulated him effusively; Marcheschi told him it was his duty to offer them cham
pagne, and had made a point of treating them to a second bottle. Soon it had become accepted fact, and no one mentioned it any more. The get-togethers went on into the onset of autumn; a table next to the pinball machine had taken over from the terrace, and the pastis had given way to wine. Only the time and the main topic of conversation – which José called the “set meal” – did not change. The Group was a soap opera bristling with characters, with an episode broadcast every day; there was probably no one who knew how it would end. The only theme that might challenge it was Marcheschi himself, his life and his life’s work.
“I must tell you about someone very dear to me,” he said, “the formidable Rémi Schach. He’s a mysterious investor who’s put the wind up the Stock Exchange. Does anyone know him?”
They could all see it was a loaded question and said nothing.
“I wouldn’t expect you to, I wasn’t allowed to divulge his existence before today. Three months ago I was given instructions to launch a takeover bid for the Autoniels channel which, as well as the Group, also interested Dietrich in Cologne and . . .”
Nicolas had already stopped listening; at least Marcheschi’s escapades had the advantage of making Loraine appear at the table, invisible and always smiling, sometimes naked, silent but there. He remained silent as well and kept himself happy letting his imagination recreate her from top to toe: from the impeccable bridge of her nose; the faint shadows under her eyes, which added an indefinable nuance to their blue; to her hair, which fell in curls over her ears. Fine tuned down to the least detail, she would cross her arms as if to imitate him, and the two of them would stay like that for minutes at a time, devouring each other with their eyes. There was nothing that could draw Nicolas from his daydreaming then, apart from Marcheschi himself with his booming voice.
“. . . and if the Parena Group won the day, it’s all thanks to the providential Rémi Schach, the ghost partner, who is none other than an anagram of . . .?”
“Marcheschi!” said Régine to pip the others to the post.
“Are you allowed to do that?”
“In the world of finance pseudonyms are actually encouraged.”
Once again Marcheschi had proved to the others that he was both there at the table and also moving in different spheres from theirs, that there was something extraordinary about his life, and that his job was not – as all of theirs were – a tedious daily inevitability.
“What’s it like having a double identity?” asked José.
“It’s triple! When I’m bored with making money for the Group, I log on to the Internet to play a game called Unreal Tournament. Last week, I had the honour of being included in the list of the thousand best scorers in the world, under my nom de guerre, Slaughter.”
Nicolas was puzzled. He wondered what this story of multiple identities meant to him; Loraine reappeared to refresh his memory and to smile back at him. Marcheschi must have sensed that the irritating Gredzinski was about to speak, so he started to stare at him as if throwing down a challenge.
Nicolas picked it up.
“In Paris in 1658, a polemicist by the name of Louis de Montalte crossed swords with the Jesuits while correcting the frequent re-editions of his text, the Provinciales, which was considered the century’s biggest success by the bookshops. At exactly the same time, the young Amos Dettonville invented what we now call ‘integral calculus’. Meanwhile, one Salomon de Tultie, a philosopher, was making notes for a colossal portrait on the human condition and how it relates to God: Les Pensées. The three are one and the same person, whom we know better under the name Blaise Pascal. His three pseudonyms are all anagrams of what was a key phrase to him: Lom ton Dieu est la.* To him, a text, an idea or a principle belonged to everyone, he wouldn’t have contemplated claiming paternity with his name. He felt happier disappearing behind fictitious identities. That’s the sort of man he was, Pascal.”
He stopped talking.
Far away on the esplanade, an apparition of Loraine – proud of what he had said – was waving to him to join her as soon as possible.
*
When they did not sleep at the hotel, she would disappear as they came out of the Lynn without Nicolas knowing which direction she went. She did not even utter a banal I must get home, which would not have revealed anything but would still have created an awkwardness. Then he just had to wait until they were back in room 318, where he did whatever came to mind, letting his imagination run wild – no one could have envisaged so much freedom in such a small space. They taught each other manoeuvres that the other did not know or dared not use, they rolled bottles over the floor to pass them to each other, played games to see who could throw cards the closest to the wall, dreamed up novel fantasies for themselves, deciphered haikus, licked each other’s skin streaming with every alcohol in the world, called up a thousand genies, or slept, for hours and hours, peacefully, intertwined, in the very depths of oblivion.
“Pass me the crisps.”
“You’re regressing to your childhood, my poor girl.”
“I wasn’t allowed them when I was little.”
There again he did not know how to interpret such a trivial response. Had she been very poor as a child or was she the daughter of an inflexible dietician?
It was half past one in the morning, she still had on matching apricot-coloured bra and knickers, and they were nibbling on a few bits and pieces, having not had any supper.
“Do you want to know exactly when I really fell in love with you?”
He raised his eyebrows to encourage her.
“It was in this room, on the third or fourth night.”
“I must have made you come like you never had before.”
“Not at all. We were watching TV. It was 3 o’clock in the morning, and we were watching ice-skating championships live from the States.”
“Don’t remember it at all.”
“At one point, one of the girls slipped and landed in the most ridiculous position. The poor thing got up as if nothing had happened and carried right on to the end, like they all do. At that precise moment, viewers fall into three categories. The first, which must be the biggest, are those who can’t wait to see it in slow motion. They’ve seen this girl crashing down and there’s something incredibly exciting about it which makes them want to see the terrible moment again. They’re usually waiting to see the dismal scores and the close-up of the girl, who can’t believe it’s happened; they’re often rewarded with a few tears.”
The covers had rolled onto the floor, the room was steeped in shadows and their clothes were strewn around the colossal bed on which the sheets were still fresh. Loraine was lying on her stomach, motionless, with her arms down by her sides to soothe a slight backache that had not let up all day. Nicolas was in grey boxer shorts, sitting on the bed with one hand on a cold glass and the other on his girlfriend’s calves.
“The second category would be the people who generally feel sorry for the poor girl. They give a little cry both times they see the fall. Oh, poor thing . . . ! They watch her compassionately, but perhaps there’s something secret hidden beneath the compassion, something too shameful to mention . . . but delicious; they won’t ever know about it themselves.”
He leant over for a moment to kiss Loraine’s ankle and to nibble her toes without interrupting what she was saying.
“Then there’s a third category, who are extremely rare, and you’re one of them. When they played it back in slow motion, I saw you look away sharply. You absolutely didn’t want to see it again. Too painful. I don’t know what you were thinking about, perhaps about the real tragedy for the girl, the months or years of arduous training, then that tiny terrible moment in front of millions of pairs of eyes. You didn’t want to add yours to them. A moment later, I was in love.”
He smiled vaguely, shrugged his shoulders to show he was embarrassed, and looked away again. The anecdote did not pinpoint anything in particular for him, he had never thought of himself as being in a particular category when watchi
ng skating championships; at best he saw himself as one of those who took a keen interest in the way the girls’ little skirts rippled as they moved, but he did not remember the fall in question. And yet Loraine was right on this point: without being any better or worse than the next person, Nicolas avoided the spectacle of other people’s distress.
“They’re ridiculously small, these packets of crisps,” she said.
“Like the shots of vodka, it’s all on the same scale.”
“Come and give me a hug.”
“I love that little apricot-coloured set, I think it’s very . . .”
Another frenetic whirl of activity veered rapidly towards cannibalism.
Loraine had said in love.
He had in his arms a woman who was in love with him.
He tried to understand the words, what they were hiding, their implications. He found delicious synonyms for them and took another swig of vodka. Still lying on her stomach, Loraine grabbed the remote control, switched on the television, cut the sound and found something worth watching: ducks flying in a V formation over a large lake. Nicolas tried to remember the last woman who had admitted to him that she was in love; he had to go back a long way. Such a difficult time in his life that he chose to cut short the reminiscing and bite Loraine’s thigh to provoke renewed hostilities. Making love with her was one of the few things in the world which was natural, self-evident. The spontaneity of their bodies, the way they belonged to each other, appropriated each other, needed no thought or comment. He had not dreamed of a single gesture which he had not gone on to realize, he had not once regretted a situation that he must have been the only person on earth to have imagined, or attempted one manoeuvre that she had blocked. Their fantasy had no choice but to follow them. Some nights, like that night, it ran on ahead of them and kept them awake until dawn.
He picked up his little black notebook to write:
Beware of other people’s wisdom. Nothing has any meaning. Everything contradicts itself, even eternal truths. No one can know where you’re going because you don’t even know yourself. The complicated paths you take may seem unclear – they are, but make sure no one turns you away from them.