“Why is The Envelope told through Margaux’s eyes and not yours?” Chalais asked. Nicolas was prepared for that question, as well. However, he did not mind answering it for Chalais. He described how Margaux built a protective distance between his own story and hers. Yes, he could have created a guy of his age, he said, anticipating the next question, which Chalais acknowledged with a smile. Instead, he’d chosen a more convoluted path—a middle-aged woman as narrator. “Why Camogli and not Saint Petersburg?” Chalais asked. From another journalist, this question would have annoyed Nicolas, because he had heard it so often. But Chalais’s company was agreeable. Nicolas found himself enjoying the interview. That had not happened for a long time. Looking over his shoulder, Nicolas saw that Laurence Taillefer’s guest had arrived: a young woman whose face meant nothing to him. No doubt some writer Taillefer would make mincemeat out of.
Nicolas leaned forward, so that Chalais’s face was near his. He could see the spikes of the man’s eyelashes behind his glasses. He nibbled at the peanuts the waiter served them. Why Camogli—why should he be willing to describe the precise details of that intimate chemistry, the intricate tinkering that occurred somewhere in the recesses of his mind? Did writers really have to explain? Why should they give away their secret recipe?
Bertrand Chalais chuckled, but in a good-humored manner, and Nicolas felt he was not being judged. When the taping was aired a few days later, it was pleasant to listen to, with piano chords and the low murmur of Lutetia guests in the background. Bertrand Chalais then published a long interview of him in a popular weekend magazine. Nicolas was photographed on Victor Noir’s tomb, wearing a black suit and a tie. He gained more followers on Twitter, more friends on Facebook, and even more readers.
WHILE MALVINA TAKES THE elevator to the hotel terrace, Nicolas walks slowly up the stone steps, perplexed. He needs time to think. Why is Dagmar Hunoldt playing this game? At first, he was mystified. Now he is indignant.
When Nicolas gets to the terrace, still bemused, he sees the entire pool area has been requisitioned by a camera crew. Lighting material, drapes, reflectors, and clusters of large silver umbrellas are everywhere. A group of people is rushing backward and forward, yelling to one another and into their mobile phones. Others are busy typing on laptops and texting on smartphones. The peace and quiet of the Gallo Nero is shattered, but there is glamour hovering in the air. The women wear high heels; the men are suave, urbane. He remembers now: the photo shoot organized by Cassia Carper.
He decides to check his BlackBerry before Malvina sees him and pulls it out of his bathrobe pocket. One missed call. Someone whose number has a Belgian prefix has tried to reach him. No voice mail. When he calls back, he recognizes his aunt Roxane’s voice. He explains that he left her a message earlier on, as he had not been able to get ahold of his mother.
Roxane is a younger version of Emma, with the same splendid complexion and misty eyes. She also has the same dry humor.
“You mean you have no idea where your mother is?” she says.
“Nope.”
“Ha,” she says, exhaling. “Well, then it’s worse than I thought.”
Nicolas does not understand what she is driving at. He does not find her amusing.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
Another sigh. Roxane says, “Look, I don’t know how to say it, but this will come as a shock.”
Nicolas feels a twinge of fear. Is this one of those life-twisting moments he will always remember? Is his mother ill? Cancer, or something equally horrible? Could it be that Emma hasn’t dared tell him? And that he’s forgotten to ask? That must be it. That must be why Roxane is acting strange. His legs feel weak.
“Just tell me, will you?” he barks down into phone.
“When is the last time you saw Emma?” Roxane asks.
“I can’t remember,” says Nicolas glumly. “Maybe last month. Or in May.”
Silence. Finally, she says, “And all of a sudden you’re worried?”
What is Roxane getting at? He asks, “Are you being critical because I haven’t been in touch with her?”
“Absolutely.”
Nicolas bites his lip.
“I know,” he mumbles. “It’s my fault. I’ve been busy. With this book to write, and … everything,” he adds lamely.
“So busy writing that you can’t check on your mother, see how she is, take her out to dinner, to lunch, on a trip?”
“Roxane. Please. Stop it.”
“No, I won’t stop it, Nicolas. I haven’t seen you for a while. I mean in real life, because we all see you in magazines, on TV; we all hear you on the radio.…” Nicolas winces at the irony she unleashes upon him with apparent glee. “I wish I could say this to your face, but I’ll do it just as well on the phone. I’m glad for your marvelous success, but I’m very sorry for you. I hope you will one day wake up and realize what a vain, stupid person you have become. Good-bye.”
The line goes dead. Nicolas stands there, rooted to the spot, his phone still stuck to his ear. He can hear Roxane’s voice ringing in his head. The sting of those words: vain, stupid person. How dare she speak to him like that! Who does she think she is? He should have said something; he should have interrupted her, put his foot down. Beneath the surface of annoyance and hurt pride lurks dread. He still does not know where his mother is, what’s wrong with her. He should have dropped by to see her, invited her for a meal. Has it been over a month? Maybe even two? He now sees, as he looks out in despair at the blue of the water, how his mother has always been there for him. He has taken this for granted. He has never done anything for her apart from buying her a Rolex for her fiftieth birthday. What a letdown he has been. How selfish. Here he is, reveling in the self-satisfying spiral of his success, more obsessed with being recognized when he enters a restaurant than worried about his mother’s health. He suddenly remembers a funeral he attended last year—for the mother of a friend of his. At the end of the Mass, his friend had read a heartbreaking letter to his dead mother in a low, broken voice. He explained how he had never bothered to know his mother better, that he now realized mothers were not immortal, that they were not there forever to care for their children. And he had never cared for her. Nicolas recalls the final sentences of the letter, when his friend, nearly sobbing, had described her death as the final misunderstanding of their nonrelationship, and that he, breathless and lost, felt he was running after the train that was taking her away forever, and that it was too late. Nicolas grips the railing hard. He closes his eyes. He must speak to Emma as soon as possible. He must find out how she is.
“Hey you!” shrieks a childish voice, startling him. “What’s wrong? Are you gonna be sick, or what?”
He glances down at a small boy, perhaps six or seven, although he isn’t good with ages. The boy is dressed in black and has long golden hair. He could be mistaken for a girl, save for the square jaw and thick neck.
“Nothing’s wrong,” says Nicolas, looking around for the child’s parents. Apart from the feverish photo assistants preparing the shoot, he sees no one who could resemble the boy’s mother or father.
The kid has clear green irises with tiny pupils. He stares up at Nicolas fixedly.
“What are you doing?” the child says in the same whining voice. “Are you gonna throw up?”
Nicolas has little patience with children and little experience of them. Why do people persist in bringing their offspring to places like these, havens of serenity? Kids should be banned from luxury hotels.
“What’s your name?”
“None of your business,” the child whimpers. “You’re rude.”
“Where’s your mother?” asks Nicolas, moving toward the terrace, where he sees Malvina waiting for him at a table.
“Stop asking questions!” shouts the kid, following him like an annoying gnat. Nicolas longs to shake him off, but he does not dare.
“Get lost,” snarls Nicolas.
A frumpy woman appears from nowhere. Blond, with buckte
eth and a sunburned nose, she is in her mid-forties.
“Is Damian being a pain? I’m frightfully sorry.” She has a strong British accent.
Nicolas shrugs.
“I’m not too good with kids.”
“I understand,” she answers good-naturedly. “Damian can be rather daunting.”
The boy has now rushed to the other side of the pool, both arms raised in a frightening salute. He hovers around the photo assistants, hopping up and down, red in the face, screaming. They stare down at him, appalled.
“Oh dear.” The mother sighs. “I must go rescue those people.”
“Good luck,” says Nicolas. He guesses she is a single mother who had the child late in life and is bringing him up alone. She should have taken him to a place where he could play with kids his own age.
Malvina drinks tea, lost in her iPhone. He sits down next to her. He toys with telling her about Roxane and Dagmar, his two grievances of the moment, and decides against it. What could she do to help? Nothing. The terrace is full of guests watching the developments of the photo shoot. Dr. Gheza, having coffee at the bar, waves to them, a short, quick wave, which Nicolas returns. The Belgian family is enjoying a snack. Do they eat all day long? The gay couple are playing backgammon. Alessandra and her mother are writing postcards. Nicolas looks to see if Dagmar Hunoldt is sitting somewhere around the back, but she isn’t. Mr. Wong and Miss Ming, resplendent in matching pink silk kimonos, nod to all. The Swiss couple are probably still in the water. The French couple, no doubt at tennis and the spa. The buxom brunette, perhaps still in bed. Has Nelson Novézan left? There are new faces Nicolas has not seen before: a group of Americans, some Italians, and an elegant German couple, who are sitting at the next table. Malvina has a disenchanted expression, accompanied by stony silence, which heralds trouble.
“Everything all right?” Nicolas asks.
She frowns. “No. But you’re far too busy to care.”
He does all he can to remain calm, biting down hard on his bottom teeth, clenching his jaws together. She deserves the same treatment as Damian. The boy, he sees, is being told off by his mother a little farther off. Before Malvina can summon words, which, Nicolas knows, can be just as unpleasant as Roxane’s diatribe, whispers and murmurs are heard. Three models have appeared, wearing lingerie, perched on high heels, with a flock of hairdressers and makeup artists in attendance. Long-legged, long-haired, and, Nicolas notes with pleasure, not too gaunt. Two brunettes and one blonde. They laugh and joke with the assistants and makeup team, seemingly unaware that so many eyes are on them, feasting upon their youth, nudity, and beauty. Where do these girls come from? Nicolas wonders. From some sleepy small town in Oklahoma, or some remote Scandinavian island?
“At least close your mouth. You’re drooling,” snaps Malvina.
“What is wrong with you?” he asks.
She sighs. “I haven’t felt well since we got here.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor,” he replies, trying with all his might not to stare at one of the brunettes, whose lacy thong barely covers her pelvis.
“Maybe,” Malvina murmurs. “Oh, and by the way, there’s another photo of you by Alex Brunel on your Facebook wall.”
“What!” he exclaims.
Malvina hands him her iPhone. The photo was taken early this morning, while he was having breakfast alone. It has been “liked” hundreds of times.
“Shit,” he hisses.
Who is Alex Brunel? Nicolas had only noticed the Swiss couple near him during breakfast. Could Alex Brunel be one of them? There was also the smiling, friendly waitress. Music blares, making them all jump. An old Sheryl Crow song, with a loud guitar. The models start to dance, gyrating their slim hips to the beat, throwing their silky hair back across their shoulders, arms held up to the blue sky, to the blaze of the sun. Nicolas notices a small young man in their midst, holding a camera. He had mistaken him for an assistant, or a hairstylist, but he sees now that this is the photographer. A photographer who is his age, not a day over thirty. He is wearing low-slung, worn-out jeans and a red sleeveless T-shirt. Nicolas can’t see his face because of the camera, but he makes out a short mop of jet black hair. When the photographer puts the camera down, Nicolas discovers the skinny young man is a young woman. This makes him chuckle. A vintage Madonna hit is playing full blast. The three models dance as if they are in a nightclub. They sway together like fragile flowers in the wind, bending backward and forward, lips pouting, eyes half-closed, as if they are high. Even Damian, the little boy, watches in silence, transfixed. They are beautiful. The young photographer clicks away steadfastly, her legs bent, a comical smirk on her face as she works. Nicolas sees Cassia Carper standing behind one of the fashion stylists, surveying the scene with a studious expression, while one of her feet, enclosed in another heart-stopping sandal, twitches to the rhythm. Nicolas already knows how fabulous the photographs will look on the glossy paper of the magazine. Cassia Carper stares into the camera to check the shots with the young photographer. She has an eagle eye on every aspect of the session. Today, she is wearing a short white dress with no back. Her mouth is pink and shiny. She has not looked his way once. Did she really kiss him last night? Or was that part of an erotic dream? No, she did kiss him. He can still feel her tongue in his mouth, surprisingly clearly.
“Do you know that red-haired woman?” asks Malvina sharply.
Nicolas shrugs. “I think I met her at a cocktail party in Paris. Not sure.”
He orders some tea before Malvina can embark on any other questions. He is beginning to wonder whether this holiday is a mistake. Despite the loveliness of the setting, the weight of the nonexistent book bears down upon him with all its might. Did he really think he was going to get a book started this way? Who was he fooling?
“I need to get ahold of my mother,” Nicolas explains, so that Malvina won’t get started when she sees him handling his BlackBerry. “I don’t know where she is. I’m worried.”
His publicist’s number shows up on the screen. Why would Dita Dallard be calling him on a Saturday, in the middle of his holiday? She knows it’s best to e-mail him. She knows he doesn’t like being disturbed. If she is calling, then it is because it’s important. He enjoys working with Dita, a bright thirty-something girl with an impish smile, a curvaceous figure, and a fine sense of humor. When she started out with Nicolas, neither of them knew that The Envelope would be published all over the world, and that, as a result, the whole world would clamor for him. Dita began her career at Alice Dor Publications as an assistant four years ago, but when Hurricane Margaux started to blow, her initiative, ideas, and energy soon landed her the job as Nicolas Kolt’s personal publicist.
As soon as he hears her voice, Nicolas knows it is not good news. Dita never stalls. He appreciates that. She only has to say “Laurence Taillefer.”
“Tell me,” he says.
“I don’t think you should read her piece.”
“Is it that awful?”
“Yes.”
“It came out this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Has Alice read it?”
“Yes. She wants you to call her.”
Nicolas can see the page clearly, as if the article is spread out on the table in front of him. One full page, in a newspaper the whole of France reads on a weekend.
“Send it to me,” he says.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I have to learn to face this, Dita,” he replies.
She hesitates, then says, “Okay. Sending it now. Call me if you need me. Call Alice, or she’ll get worried. And remember, Laurence Taillefer never liked you. This is not a surprise.”
Nicolas mutters good-bye.
“What is it?” says Malvina.
He tries to smile. “A bad article.”
He recalls that the last time he laid eyes on the redoubtable, raven-haired Laurence Taillefer was during his interview with Bertrand Chalais last year at the Hôtel Lutetia. She rarely
interviewed authors, he learned. Her reviews decoded books, writers, publishing phenomena. She was capable of promoting an author to glory, or catapulting another to flames.
“Who cares about a bad article when you have millions of readers around the world?” says Malvina, reaching out to pat his hand.
She is right, of course. He should not even read it. Who cares, when so many people love his book, when it is still selling strong? But at this fragile, tricky moment of his life, he feels he has to know.
Dita sends the article by e-mail, and all he has to do is click on it.
“The ‘Nicolas Kolt’ Syndrome and Other Vanities,” by Laurence Taillefer.
He looks down to his BlackBerry, shielding it against the sun with his hand. He can no longer hear the music; he no longer sees the models, the young photographer, Cassia Carper in her white dress, the guests sitting around him, as if they are all in a theater, watching a show. He has eyes only for the words that are about to leap out at him with venom, and against which he does not know how to protect himself. Perhaps not reading the article is the only protection, he thinks, glancing up once to the blue of the sea, then down again. It is too late. He has started.
At first, the words do not make sense; they are jumbled, incoherent, and he has to go back to the beginning and take it slowly.
Nicolas Duhamel lost his passport in 2006. Because both his parents were born abroad, according to new governmental laws, he had to prove his French nationality, even if he was born in France. This gave him the idea for The Envelope, as the world now knows. In those less glorious days before publication stardom, Nicolas Duhamel was a struggling private tutor. One can imagine him teaching Plato or Nietzsche to young girls, the latter no doubt thunderstruck by his tenebrous good looks. That is the problem with “Nicolas Kolt.” He is easy to look at, and easy to read. Too easy? The Envelope is on everybody’s lips, in everyone’s hands. Why? Isn’t this due more to the ingenious, bludgeonlike marketing by his artful publishers around the world than to his talent? “Nicolas Kolt” has become an inescapable, unavoidable brand name. His rugged bad-boy features grace the covers of magazines, cologne bottles, ads for watches and sunglasses. “Nicolas Kolt” looks stunning on TV. He played a cameo part in the movie of his book, and his innumerable fans adored it. (If you don’t believe me, check his Facebook page.) “Nicolas Kolt” has become the cult writer of the famed Generation Y, the breed who thrives on cut, copy, and paste, on channel surfing, on social networking, on e-books and smartphones, on “likes,” “Retweets,” and “pokes,” on friends, fans, and followers, on vacuity and vanity. The Envelope is a less than average novel, for a first-time novelist. It is neither terribly good nor bad. It deals adequately enough with a dark family secret. It strikes the right chords. It is an efficient sob story your granny will love, and your young nephew might like, too. Why are we still enduring its success, three years later? Is this to do with Robin Wright’s Oscar? What is it about The Envelope that makes so many people read it? The answer is because “Nicolas Kolt” is like an easy lay. “Nicolas Kolt” is a success only because his publishers have decided he will be a success, and, sheeplike, masses follow. “Nicolas Kolt,” the best-selling international author, read from Stockholm to Seattle, adored by millions of followers around the world, is no writer. He is a product.