The Other Story

  At this point, Nicolas looks up again and gazes at to sea.

  “Are you okay?” Malvina asks.

  He does not answer. He thinks of Alice Dor, who is waiting for his call. She would find the words to comfort him, one way or another, but he does not want to speak to her right now. He thinks of all the people he knows, reading the newspaper this morning over their breakfast tables; he thinks of those who will smile, or even laugh; he thinks of those who will be saddened; he thinks of his fans, of what will be written on his Facebook wall, on Twitter, in his e-mail; he thinks of those who won’t care, and he longs to be like them. He cannot bear reading the rest. He decides to skip a large chunk, scrolling down on his BlackBerry until he gets to the end.

  Nicolas Duhamel should distance himself from the frenzied social networking he’s been indulging in. Perhaps he should stop Tweeting once and for all. The question is, will “Nicolas Kolt” ever write a novel again? Will he surf forever on the wave of The Envelope’s success, fueled by avid publishers raking in the profits, until those good looks wilt and another writer product takes over? There will be no new book from “Nicolas Kolt.” He is too busy preening in the hundreds of mirrors held up to him.

  Nicolas gets up, dizzy. He finds he cannot speak. There is a stark truth in the article that hits home, even if Laurence Taillefer laid it on thick. He feels weak. His mouth is dry. A pit punctures his stomach. He walks to the side of the terrace overlooking the sea, heedless of the music, the models, the chatter. Malvina follows him, her hand on his back. They stand there in silence for a while, staring out to the blueness. He thinks of Laurence Taillefer writing. He imagines her in her office, wherever that may be, hunched over her computer, choosing the cruelest words, the ones with the sharpest bite. Does she smile when she writes her articles? When she wrote this one? He should post something on Twitter, on Facebook, anticipating the reactions. The last thing he wants is his readers’ pity. Nicolas feels hot in his bathrobe, and he yearns for the cool water. Another swim might revive his spirits. But what if he bumps into Dagmar Hunoldt again? He could not endure another repudiation, not in his present state.

  “You said you wanted to call your mother,” suggests Malvina gently.

  She is right: That is what he should do. Get ahold of Emma. Keep calling until he hears her voice. He walks a little farther off, so that he can be alone. He still feels dazed, as if someone has hit him on the head. He calls his mother’s mobile. He expects to get voice mail, and is startled when a man’s voice is heard.

  “Hullo?” says Nicolas.

  “Yes?” replies the stranger.

  “I must have made a mistake.… I’m looking for Emma Duhamel.”

  “This is her phone,” the stranger replies politely.

  Who is this guy? Nicolas wonders. Why is he answering my mother’s mobile? His heart misses a beat. What if Emma is in the hospital and this man is a doctor? A doctor with bad news.

  Stuttering, he says, “Is … is Emma Duhamel around?”

  The stranger clears his throat.

  “And you are?”

  “I’m her son.”

  “Her son?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  There is a silence. Nicolas hears music, very faintly.

  “Hullo?”

  “I’m still here,” says the stranger.

  “Is my mother okay?”

  “She’s fine, yes, just fine.”

  Is Nicolas imagining things, or is the man on the other end smiling?

  “Who are you?” he asks. “Her doctor?”

  “What? No!”

  “Well, who are you?”

  Silence. Then he says, “I’m Ed.”

  Nicolas says nothing. Who the hell is Ed? A friend? A student?

  “Your mother is still asleep.”

  His mother, still asleep at noon? She, who always stated that the early bird catches the worm?

  “I see,” he says aimlessly.

  “I’ll tell her you called.”

  “Thank you, Ed. Where are you, if I may ask?”

  “Sure. In Saint-Tropez.”

  Nicolas nearly drops the phone.

  “In Saint-Tropez?” he echoes.

  “Yes. Staying with friends. On a boat.”

  “I see,” says Nicolas again, bewildered. “On a boat?”

  “Indeed,” says Ed. “A very nice boat.”

  Ed has a young, friendly voice.

  “And you are … a friend of my mother?” Nicolas asks tentatively.

  Another silence. Music in the background, and the hum of other voices. Emma still asleep at noon. A disturbing image wafts his way: an unmade bed, rumpled sheets, bare skin, an intimacy he does not want to see.

  Ed laughs, not an unpleasant laugh, but it grates in Nicolas’s ear. Then he simply says, “Um … I’m her boyfriend.”

  THE ENVELOPE WAS READ by people of all ages, of all nationalities, of all backgrounds, people who had nothing in common except his book. Nicolas began to meet and know his readers when he traveled, but he also met them virtually through Facebook and Twitter. He found it quicker, more practical, to interact with them by way of the social networks. However, that was also time-consuming, he had to admit. He became engrossed in the process. He seemed to be perpetually bent over his phone. He even slept with it by his pillow. It irked his entourage. His mother often asked him, with a weary sigh, if she had to follow him on Twitter in order to get him to answer her. Alice Dor complained that even during their lunches, he had to peek at his phone. Lara teased him about the number of Tweets he posted every day. “No wonder you still haven’t finished your book,” she taunted. He did admit to her he was hooked, to such an extent that whenever he tried to write, he disabled the Internet connection and left his phone in another room. This never lasted. He inevitably went back online, like an alcoholic reaches for another glass and hates himself for it. He needed to cure his addiction. He knew programs existed to help people like him get over it. Everyone, these days, seemed to have an eye on their texts, their e-mails, on their Facebook pages, on their Twitter feeds. Couples dined in restaurants, eating in silence, face-to-face, each riveted to a phone. Even during funerals, weddings, movies, Nicolas noticed people glancing down at their phones. Those who deliberately did not have mobiles or computers were a mystery to him. Did they live in the Dark Ages? But now, as he was faced with the increasingly worrying chasm of his intellectual inertia, he began to wonder if maybe those people were right in removing themselves from the never-ending, hypnotizing enticement of being online. Was Internet overuse slowing brains down? Had his been addled? Nicolas had opened a Facebook page before he became famous, when he was still Nicolas Duhamel, but he had to close it down when Hurricane Margaux started to blow, simply because Nicolas Duhamel no longer existed. The new Nicolas Kolt fan page immediately attracted thousands of readers.

  Online, his readers prepared surprises for him. He was entranced to discover one day that “Margaux Dansor” had befriended him on Facebook. Whoever had created that profile page knew his character as well as he did. There was Margaux, exactly as she was described in his novel. He never found out who had imagined the online Margaux, and it did not matter. He enjoyed interacting with his heroine. Many readers thought Margaux truly existed, and that Nicolas had put her in his book after he’d met her. He let some of them believe that. It amused him.

  Nicolas used social networks because he liked to share, he told journalists. He liked to communicate, and he reveled in the feedback, not merely because it was often appraising but also because it was a challenge. His Tweets were never inane. He thought carefully about what he Tweeted, tailoring those 140 characters to perfection, using a wry humor his followers hungered for. He Retweeted breaking news, pleased to be the first one to do so, the first one who seized the information as it fleeted past, and passed it on. He answered his reader’s questions as best as he could. Some of those dialogues became famous, and journalists brought them up during interviews.

 
The Assen episode was often mentioned. Nicolas’s Dutch publisher, Marije Gert, had coerced him, despite his exhaustion, into accepting an event in a town named Assen, near Amsterdam. She had assured him that the drive would take under two hours, a good meal awaited them, the entire event would not last too long, his numerous fans were waiting for him with intense anticipation, and, most important, he would be back at the Ambassade Hotel before midnight, as he had an eight o’clock plane the next morning to Oslo for the rest of his book tour. Nicolas had accepted. But the supposedly swift drive out to Assen turned out differently. They got caught in rush-hour traffic jams and slowed down by construction, while monsoonlike rains poured down from the black sky. Marije, who was driving, hardly dared look across at her author, who was sprawled out in the front seat on her right, concentrating on his BlackBerry. They inched along the wet, jammed highway in silence. The drive took over four excruciating hours. What Marije never knew at the time was that Nicolas was Tweeting it all. He Tweeted about his fatigue, her cautious driving (chin to the wheel), the sluggish traffic, the rain, his painfully full bladder, his stomach rumbling with hunger, his growing reluctance to attend the event. He Tweeted descriptions of objects left in Marije’s car by her children and husband (a skateboard, a tie, a map, a Barbie doll). He Tweeted about his exasperation, his impatience, his helplessness. One Tweet in particular created an incredible buzz: “This feels like when you know her orgasm is not going to happen for a very very long time. #drivetoassen.” By the time they finally arrived, the event had been canceled. Everyone had gone home. Nicolas was too tired to be angry or disappointed. He slept all the way back to Amsterdam.

  There was another event in Nicolas’s new life as a best-selling author that had been a hit on Twitter. He was on his way back to Paris from Los Angeles after the Oscar ceremony. Magazines and Web sites were full of photos of him posing with Robin Wright, she in a scarlet dress, he in a black tuxedo. Nicolas boarded the plane with a business ticket, but when it was known that he was on board, he was upgraded to first class, where he found himself entirely alone. He had never flown first-class, and he marveled at the attention and comfort. The plane was delayed, and as Nicolas sat in lonely luxury in the first-class cabin, he Tweeted. Every five minutes, it seemed, a flight attendant offered him drinks, food, a magazine to read, a chocolate, a perfumed towelette to wash his hands. He Tweeted away, posting photos of the delicacies coming his way. During the long wait for takeoff, he was given a pair of elegant gray pajamas, slippers, and a vanity case. He asked a flight attendant where the toilets were, and she ushered him to a door toward the front of the aircraft. Once inside the small square space, Nicolas could not find the toilet. There was a plastic cushioned bench, which he poked and prodded at in vain. He peered over and under the sink, tapped at a paneled mirror, hoping a secret device might make the toilet spring forward. Nothing happened. He pressed on all the buttons he could see. Meanwhile, he Tweeted about his misfortune, making thousands of followers around the world roar with laughter. “Stranded in first-class toilet in plane. But no toilet to be seen. #help.” He hopped around the cabin, crimson-faced, wondering what to do. “Am I going to have to pee in the basin or what? #wtf. #firstclassnightmare.” When he emerged, defeated, telling the flight attendant he had not been able to operate the toilet, it was her turn to laugh. That was the changing cabin, she explained, grinning; the toilet was just on the left. He had opened the wrong door.

  And then, of course, there was the presidential lunch. Last year, just after the Oscar, Nicolas had been invited to the Elysée Palace by the First Lady. When Dita phoned him with news of the invitation, he had at first thought it was a joke. Dita insisted that, no, this was no joke. The First Lady’s personal secretary had called her, and this was all real. So? Was he going to go, or not? Nicolas was wary of any political maneuver and the possible repercussions. He did not like to be branded, nor did he wish to reveal any political tendency. A political opinion was a private affair. He prudently asked Dita to find out who else had been invited. An hour later, she called back to announce that two other writers had been invited to an “informal literary lunch by the First Lady.” She gave him the names—a man and a woman. He knew both of them, but not well. They had met at book fairs and on TV shows. He was the youngest of the lot. Curiosity got the better of him. Nicolas told Dita that he would go. He had never been to the Elysée Palace. Such an offer may not happen again. On the given day, he turned up, wearing his customary black jeans and black T-shirt. As he crossed the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, two guards standing outside brandished stern palms and ordered that he remain on the other side of the street. He gave them his most winning Nicolas Kolt–like smile and wordlessly handed them a printed version of the e-mail confirmation he had received from the First Lady’s assistant. They apologized and led him to the entrance. A man wearing an impressive uniform, white gloves, and an intricate gold necklace ceremoniously held out a silver tray. Nicolas understood he was to give the man his identity card. He placed it on the tray. The tray disappeared. His card was a recent one, with the notation “Nicolas Duhamel, also known as ‘Nicolas Kolt’” on it. Another man appeared, this one wearing a gray suit. He handed the card back to Nicolas, beaming. “Monsieur Kolt, it is a pleasure to meet you. My wife loves your book. She cannot wait for the next one.” Nicolas followed him into the large square courtyard where, on TV, his entire life, he had seen presidents come and go along those steps, greeting other presidents. His hand itched for his BlackBerry, but he knew he could not take photographs or Tweet, which would be seen as rude and inappropriate. He had not mentioned this lunch to anyone except Alice Dor, who had gasped and smiled.

  The two writers were already in the dining room when he was ushered in. The woman, in her fifties, wrote popular crime fiction, which had been adapted for television. She was wearing a fuchsia silk dress and too much lipstick. Writer number two, in his forties, was a platinum-haired trendy troublemaker who wrote nihilistic books about sex, literature, drugs, and himself. He wore oversized Harry Potter–like reading glasses and a prune-colored velvet jacket, on which a coat of dandruff was steadily forming. They greeted him with false affection and contrived smiles. From the windows, Nicolas could see the green lawns of the famous private gardens. After a short wait, the First Lady appeared, all dimples and friendliness. Nicolas had never met her. She was shorter than he had imagined, in spite of very high heels. Her lustrous hair was perfectly set. The lunch was strangely silent. Waiters passed the dishes in a fluid ballet. The First Lady did all the talking. It was as if she were having a conversation with herself. Fuchsia and Dandruff nodded and smiled. But no one else spoke. Were they too impressed? He longed to take photos of the silver cutlery, the monogrammed crystal glasses, the beautiful Limoges porcelain plates, from which countless presidents and their illustrious guests had eaten. When the dessert was served, a delicate fruit salad with meringues and a dark red raspberry sauce—which Nicolas concentrated on in order not to spill it over the immaculate embroidered tablecloth or himself—he sensed movement and glanced up. Dandruff and Fuchsia were on their feet, faces flushed. Nicolas realized with a shock that the president had entered the room. He stood up swiftly as well, towering over the president, a stocky man. Before he could say anything, the president was shaking his hand and asking everyone to sit down again. It was a surreal moment. Nicolas had to stop himself from staring at the president, whom he had never seen in the flesh. His eyes took in the president’s suit, his monogrammed, white shirt, his gold cuff links, his blue tie, his watch (a Scuderia Ventidue). Coffee was served, and all the while, the president talked. His wife acknowledged his every word with a nod of her head. The president’s monologue was political, in view of the presidential elections the following year. Dandruff fired a couple of polished remarks, eager to shine. At the end of their exchange, the president began to talk about social networks, an expression of disdain on his face, which sparked Nicolas’s interest. With a guffaw, the president revealed that h
e had recently met the CEO of Twitter and the CEO of Facebook. “Nice guys,” he called them, with a scornful smile, his upper lip contorting, “nice young guys in jeans and T-shirts” (forgetting that one of his guests was wearing precisely that attire), “nice guys who think they are kings of the world, but honestly,” the president went on, grimacing, “Twitter is Mickey Mouse saying hello to Donald Duck, and Facebook is Donald Duck saying hello back to Mickey Mouse, right?” Everyone roared with laughter. Nicolas laughed, too, because he felt he had to, because it was the thing to do in the present circumstances, but when the mirth died down, he regretted having joined in the fun. The Mickey and Donald sentence remained stuck in his head, and he could not stop thinking about it. As soon as he left the Elysée Palace, he Tweeted the phrase, quoting it with the president’s very recognizable initials. It attracted attention immediately. The buzz on Twitter grew. Journalists wrote to him, called him, or called Dita, who found herself swamped. Everyone wanted to know more. Where had Nicolas heard that phrase? Under what circumstances? Had he met the president? Meanwhile, his quote was Retweeted hundreds of times, on both sides of the Atlantic. Alice feared someone from the palace press corps might call and demand an explanation. But the Elysée remained silent. “‘Presidents should never invite writers to lunch,’ said Mickey Mouse to Donald Duck” was Nicolas’s final and popular Tweet about the matter.