“Grazie,” he says.
“Prego,” she replies.
Malvina is upstairs, still asleep. She has no inkling of the events that unfurled after she snuggled into the large white bed. Once her breathing became regular, Nicolas retreated to the safety of the toilet, where he felt sheltered enough behind the locked door to check his BlackBerry. He first looked at his Facebook page. The elusive Alex Brunel had posted another photo. There was Nicolas, unmistakably Nicolas, sitting at the bar, facing Giancarlo. He had been photographed from behind, from the higher terrace, but he was recognizable; one long black sideburn could be glimpsed, and the square shoulders in the dark green jacket. Two hundred and ninety-six friends had already “liked” it. Nicolas did not read the comments. The photo filled him with dread. He hated being stalked. Last year, a disturbed young person had e-mailed him numerous photographs of herself naked, her body covered with dozens of his books in different editions. When he had not responded, she managed to secure his home address, and he had found her lurking around rue du Laos. There had been nothing amiable about the way she glared at him from afar. Recently, a middle-aged man wrote to him several times to politely declare he was going to throw acid in Nicolas’s face at the next book signing. These isolated episodes had been dealt with by Alice Dor and the police, but they had made Nicolas nervous. Nicolas nearly deleted the photo from his timeline. He toyed with the idea of blocking Alex Brunel, so that he or she could no longer post on his wall. But for the moment, there had been no threats from Alex Brunel. Nicolas had tiptoed back to the bedroom. All was quiet. He looked out to the balcony. A beautiful night. Maybe he should order limoncello? The room-service waiter would awaken Malvina. Earlier on, she hadn’t wanted to go on making love. She explained she was still feeling queasy, that she needed sleep. What about a dash to the bar? He left the room, closed the door in silence, and ran to the bar like a bat out of hell. Giancarlo welcomed him with a broad smile and handed him an icy shot of limoncello. Nicolas swallowed it in one go. It felt marvelous. He had another. It felt even better. The bar was empty, apart from a group of people farther off, near the pool. They were smoking, laughing, and dancing. Nicolas glanced up at the restaurant terrace to see if the mysterious Alex Brunel was waiting stealthily in the shadows, brandishing a smartphone to take another picture, but there was no one to be seen. Nicolas decided to call François, who had never gotten back to him. It was midnight, and François had a family now, a wife and kids (Nicolas could never remember their names), but he could not put it off any longer. After a couple of rings, François’s taped voice was heard, that serious and earnest voice Nicolas missed. “You’ve reached François Morin. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Thank you.” Nicolas left a long-winded, clumsy monologue. He tried to be witty, like in the old days, and failed. He hung up, feeling miserable. After a third limoncello, a desperate recklessness filtering through him, Nicolas called his mother’s mobile for the fifth time that day. Answering machine. No one at the rue Rollin, either. Why was she not at home at nearly one in the morning? Why was her mobile turned off? This was unlike his mother. What if something had happened? When he at last looked away from his phone, the blond American actor was standing next to him, swaying slightly on unsteady feet.
“Howdy,” the actor drawled, clapping him on the shoulder. “What about a refill, dude?”
Before Nicolas had time to draw breath, the actor was already ordering Caïpiroskas from Giancarlo. There was nothing else to do but drink. Nicolas could not face the idea of the silent bedroom and the sleeping Malvina. The evening had been a disappointment. The Rolex incident had left a bad taste in his mouth. No harm in a couple of drinks. He still had two days to enjoy at the Gallo Nero. Why not drink a part of the night away? No one was there to tell him not to. What was the actor whining about? His marital problems? His waning career? Whatever it was, it sounded as if it was coming from far away, muffled, distorted, like from the end of an endless tunnel. Nicolas nodded and drank. The American did all the talking and just as much drinking. The night deepened. Under the bittersweet coating of sugar and lemon, Nicolas felt the vodka permeating through him, heating his limbs, softening edges, drawing a fuzzy cobweb over his vision. He watched the group of people dance and sing while the American rambled on. It seemed that the same music played repeatedly: “Hotel California,” by the Eagles. Nicolas heard a warning signal in his head when he nearly tumbled off his stool. Delphine’s voice echoed in his mind. Nicolas. You’re drunk. Again. He ignored both the signal and Delphine’s voice and drank on. The rest of the bar episode was a blur, until Cassia Carper turned up in her electrifying dress and shoes. She had a phone glued to her ear. Who could she be talking to at this time of night, using that voice, so low, so throaty? She ordered champagne, and sipped it alone, standing up at the bar, next to him, still talking, but Nicolas noticed she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, her glance trailing back to him again and again. Every time he looked at her shoes, it gave him a thrill. Then, somehow, there had been Cassia Carper’s hand on his leg as she leaned over to sign her bill, her white hand and its red nails, splayed out on his knee, deliberately, like a possessive starfish, and he had felt the warmth of her palm and fingers seep through his jeans. The chain of events had become confusing. The American actor vanished. Nicolas found himself with a glass of champagne in his hand and Cassia Carper’s tongue in his mouth. How long that situation lasted, he could not tell. By the time Nicolas got back to his room, it was three in the morning. He could not walk straight. His magnetic card was not working or he was too inebriated to use it properly. He fumbled about in the dark for a long moment. Just as he was about to give up and fall asleep on the threshold, the door clicked open, and he went straight to the bathroom, as quietly as possible, but every noise he made resonated thunderously, at least in his head. He stripped with difficulty, stepped into the shower, and turned the cold water on full blast. He felt better. He dried himself off and drank thirstily from the tap. Then he looked at his BlackBerry. There was a little blue spotted signal on the screen. A BBM. From Sabina. He locked the bathroom door. There was hardly a chance Malvina would wake up now, but he wanted to play it safe.
There were no words in Sabina’s message, just a photo. The photo was so unreal that Nicolas had to peer at it several times in disbelief. Was he imagining things? Was he that intoxicated? He stared as hard as he could. No, he wasn’t imagining anything. There were Sabina’s thighs, opened wide to the mesmerizing triangle, a tangle of honey tendrils, and two fingers dipped in the sweet pink wetness.
“Would you like some more tea, Signor Kolt?”
The waitress smiles at him again. Nicolas nods and watches the hot liquid filling his cup. He knew he could not keep that photo. It was too dangerous. So he had looked at it for a long time, crouching on the marble floor of the bathroom. If only he’d still had his iPhone, he could have zoomed in for a savory close-up, which the BlackBerry did not manage so well. The flashing red light had announced a new BBM from Sabina. “Your turn.”
Nicolas discovered, dismayed, that the act of photographing one’s genitals and obtaining a satisfactory result was not an easy deed. The Caïpiroskas and champagne had not helped, either. At first, Nicolas was able to capture only his hip bone or his belly button, but finally he got the angle right. His penis resembled an unappetizing undercooked hot dog. His scrotum had the wrinkled aspect of purple-hued cabbage. There was no way he could send those pictures to Sabina. After what seemed hours, he managed a shot of his waning erection and sent it off, convinced Sabina had no doubt fallen asleep. But her answer appeared immediately. “Make yourself come. I will do the same.” It did not take him long, and he did think of her, and of the pink intimacy on his BlackBerry, although the memory of Cassia Carper’s slippery tongue sped things up.
Nicolas finishes his breakfast and goes down to the sea. He has the bathing area to himself, and the staff is delighted to welcome the first customer. The ballet of the chair, the pa
rasol, the towel, the newspaper, and the fruit juice ensues. He gives in to it. He is then left alone, except for a nearby waiter hovering at his beck and call.
Nicolas observes the loveliness of the scene around him, the clarity of the water, the silvery fish, the boats zooming along the horizon, far away. He strides to the water edge, takes off his bathrobe, and dives straight in. For a short while, he swims fiercely, kicking into the cool sea. Not a trace of a hangover. His mind is crystal clear and his limbs tingle with energy. What a pity those two assets cannot be used for writing the book. He turns around, treading water, observing the ocher villa perched on the rocky hill, the gray cliff, the quiet beach area. He has never been afraid of the sea, although his father most probably drowned in the Atlantic Ocean. Nicolas has not been back to Biarritz since his father died, and of that, of going back there, he is afraid. He has turned down several invitations to book signings in Biarritz and in the area because he cannot face laying eyes on the Côte des Basques and the Villa Belza, the very spot where he saw his father’s black sail for the last time.
Nicolas flips over to his back, returning to the shore. He flings his arms backward, slicing the water vigorously, legs pumping. His hand encounters a mound of flesh and the top of his skull jolts against something soft. A gurgle is heard. He turns around, faced with a goggled white sea lion wearing a flowery plastic cap. The sea lion quivers with indignation.
Dagmar Hunoldt.
His heart nearly stops.
“I’m so sorry…,” Nicolas mumbles. He feels his cheeks burn through the wetness.
Dagmar Hunoldt coughs, splutters, and chokes for a few endless moments. Nicolas reaches out to grab her forearm, as the sea is deep, and they both have to swim in order to keep to the surface. Her alabaster flesh feels surprisingly firm under his fingers.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Fine, thank you,” she wheezes in that deep voice he recalls from TV and radio interviews.
“Would you like to rest, out of the water?”
“No, no,” she tuts, “I’m fine. Just watch where you swim, young man.”
She has a faint accent, which is impossible to trace.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters again. “I thought I was alone.”
She seems to have regained her composure and glances at him through her steamed-up goggles.
“Well, you are not alone.”
“I’m very sorry.”
Nicolas has said he’s sorry three times. Dagmar Hunoldt says nothing in return. Perhaps he should exclaim right now, joyfully, Oh, hello! How nice to see you! But she glares at him in such a manner, he does not dare. She has not recognized him. But maybe with his hair wet, he looks different?
A waiter calls to them from the beach area. He wants to know if the signora is all right.
“Va bene, grazie,” Dagmar Hunoldt shouts back, flashing her terrifying white smile. Nicolas remembers reading somewhere that she speaks seven languages. Her origins are mysterious. She has Danish or Norwegian blood, but also a zest of Hungarian heritage. Some Austrian or German ancestry, as well. She is now swimming away, an energetic breaststroke that propels her out in the distance. Should he follow her? Get out of the water? He decides to swim on as well, keeping her in his line of vision. Perhaps later, when she takes off her goggles, she’ll laugh and say, Oh, it’s you! Nicolas Kolt! He could suggest a coffee; they would have it together, up on the terrace. They could then talk, quietly, just the two of them. He doesn’t dare think of Alice and how he would be betraying her just by listening to Dagmar Hunoldt. He concentrates only on the moment, on the astonishing coincidence (but is it truly a coincidence?) of being here with her, Dagmar Hunoldt, the most powerful woman in the publishing industry.
He is nervous; he has to admit it. She does have that effect on people, and the fact that she has not recognized him makes it worse. He has heard through the grapevine that she has, or had, a drinking problem, a fact that is usually hushed up, but he has listened to tales of her passing out at restaurants and then being carted back home by a faithful friend. He also remembers the scandal that took place at the Frankfurt Book Fair when she turned up at the Hessischer Hof bar late one night with a young girl on her arm. A girl young enough to be her granddaughter, he was told, as he was not there to witness the scene, but he had heard the story so often, it now felt like he had truly been there. A lissome beauty in a black velvet dress. Even at such a late hour, the bar was packed with important figures of the international literary circle. For a while, Dagmar Hunoldt had cajoled the young girl, stroking her hair, her naked elbows, her hands in what had been mistaken at first for motherly attention, until she had tipped the girl’s face to hers and had kissed her on the mouth in a hungry, unequivocal manner that had electrified the entire bar. Dagmar Hunoldt was notorious for her appetite concerning men, men of all ages, men of all milieus. It was murmured she had two husbands in two separate countries, that she had a son, now in his forties, and a daughter who was not much younger, and there were even grandchildren in a big European city, to whom she devoted much of her time. The Hessischer Hof bar episode had made it clear to the publishing intelligentsia that Dagmar Hunoldt also enjoyed women.
Nicolas reflects upon all this as he swims behind her, observing the roll of her massive white shoulders under the water. Should he be relaxed, jovial, casual? Or polite, discreet, reserved? His stomach hurts, as it does with the cramps he usually gets before stressful TV interviews, and that he fully experienced when he had to pronounce a few words live on CNN after Robin Wright got her Oscar, and there he was on the red carpet, a forest of microphones thrust at him, and behind that red-eyed camera, the entire world.
Dagmar Hunoldt swims for over forty-five minutes, a fast and sure swimmer. She is surprisingly fit, he notices. When she finally hauls herself out of the water, Nicolas is relieved, as he was starting to feel tired. A waiter hands her a towel and she wraps it around her thick midriff, plucking the plastic cap off her head and the goggles off her eyes. Her legs are slimmer than he would have thought, firm and muscular. He can see a skein of blue-and-purple veins running up her thighs. Her hair is pure platinum. She walks to her deck chair and sits. There appears to be no one with her. The Swiss couple have come down, about to embark on their daily swim.
Nicolas walks up to her. “Are you all right?” He does not know whether to say “Mrs. Hunoldt” or “Dagmar,” and so, preferring neither, he decides to add nothing.
She peers up at him blankly.
“I bumped into you in the water…,” he stammers, pointing to the sea.
“Oh!” She smiles. “Yes, you did. I’m fine. Thank you.”
She turns away.
Nicolas is baffled. She has not recognized him and she dismissed him as if he were a mere bellboy. How could she not know who he is? It’s preposterous. It’s surreal.
An idea slowly dawns on him. Maybe she is doing this on purpose. Treating him like a vulgus pecum. Perhaps this is part of her secret plan. Dagmar Hunoldt does nothing the usual way. She is not like any other publisher. She abides by her own rules.
“Would you like a drink?” Nicolas says suddenly.
She frowns. “What kind of drink?”
“Any kind of drink. Cappuccino, tea, champagne.”
“Champagne? At this hour?”
“Yes,” he replies, grinning. “At this hour.”
She looks at him closely at last, taking him in, the muscular chest and arms, still glistening with seawater, the flat, tanned stomach, its lower part darkened by tiny swirls of body hair.
“Well, why not?” She shrugs.
“What would you like?”
“I’ll have what you have.”
“A Bellini?”
She nods appraisingly. Nicolas orders two Bellinis. He drags a nearby chair over, pulling it next to her, and sits. She has put her panama hat on. She bears a resemblance to Glenn Close, the actress. The pale skin, the hooked nose, the deep-set eyes. He wonders what she must have looked
like when young. Too massive to ever be pretty. Yet he has to admit there is something darkly attractive about Dagmar Hunoldt.
The Bellinis are brought to them.
“Santé,” says Nicolas, clicking his glass to hers.
He decides to wait for her to speak. There is no urgency, after all. If she has come here for him, then she must know how to go about her business. He feels curious, expectant, but he is not going to ask any questions. He must be patient.
Nicolas Kolt and Dagmar Hunoldt sip their Bellinis without a word. Around them, the beach area fills up. The Swiss couple have changed into new bathing suits. The Belgian family (with a low-profile and puffy-faced mother) orders coffee and fruit juice. Alessandra and her mother sunbathe. The gay couple peruse Kindle and iPad.
None of the guests have any idea of the importance of what may happen next, thinks Nicolas. Nicolas marvels at the originality of Dagmar Hunoldt’s approach. She is like a huge white spider, spinning her web from a faraway corner, gently reeling him in, and yet she has not even breathed a word. He waits, tremulous, his Bellini almost finished. His glass is tarnished with specks of peach. The alcohol has gone to his head, but it is an enjoyable, giddying sensation. His legs tremble with excitement. He wants the moment to last. He enjoys the strong pressure of the sun on his back, the salty breeze, and Dagmar Hunoldt’s overwhelming presence. Just by lowering his eyes, he can glimpse her wrist, thickset and sturdy, and one square, powerful hand. A fascinating hand. She wears a golden signet ring on her middle finger. The hand that has signed contracts for life-changing books. The hand that has plucked authors out of obscurity and transformed them into golden-haloed superstars. The hand that rules the literary world, that bends it to its will. What will her first words be? What if she gets straight to the point, going for the jugular? No, she is too subtle for that. She will not play it frontal. The more the minutes tick by, the more Nicolas is convinced of that. She will want it to be a lengthy matter; she will want to relish the conversation, like a gourmet meal.