The Other Story

  As he placed the box in his mother’ desk and put his damp shoes back on, Nicolas slowly began to see what he had to do in order to understand who his father was, and where Fiodor Koltchine had come from.

  NICOLAS LEAVES THE ROOM quietly at dawn, when the sun starts to diffuse its golden rays through the curtains. He has not slept, even for a few minutes. His entire body aches and his head throbs painfully. The thought of Malvina’s pregnancy disturbs him to such an extent, it feels like a hangover, which is not the case, even if he did spend most of the night in the bar. He had been too appalled to get drunk. How had he let himself get into this situation? Nicolas wants to bang his head against a wall. He was convinced Malvina was on the Pill. He had even seen her take it before she went to bed. He had asked her once, in the beginning of their relationship, last year, whether she was taking it, because he hated using condoms, and she had replied, yes, she was. He had never doubted her word. Had she forgotten to take it? Had she wanted to do this, to become pregnant with his child? Had she done this to trap him? He remembers how her eyes shone with that strange gleam when she had said, rapturously, the pregnancy test in her hand, that she was going to have his child. His child.

  He walks down to the beach area. There is no one in sight. It is far too early. There are no deck chairs, no parasols. He sits on the edge of the concrete slab, his feet dangling in the water, and watches the sea. She cannot have this child. It would ruin both their lives. It would ruin the child’s life.

  His head in his hands, he goes over the events of last night. After the doctor left, Malvina cried with joy, hugging him with all her might. He was too stunned to utter a word. She had called her mother, and he went to stand by the window, shaking. The conversation went on and on. She cooed and giggled ecstatically. He stood there, a rigid statue, horrified. She finally hung up.

  “My darling love,” she whispered beseechingly, “come to me.”

  He said firmly, “Malvina, we need to talk.”

  She frowned. “Don’t ruin this lovely moment.”

  “We need to talk, now,” he insisted, trembling, hearing the anger distort his voice. “This can’t wait.”

  She got up from the bed and wound her arms around his neck.

  “We’ll talk in the morning, okay? We don’t need to talk now, do we?”

  He sighed with exasperation. “We need to talk right now, Malvina. This can’t go on. I’m not going to sit here and not talk about it.”

  He tried to pry her clinging arms off his neck. She backed away and stared at him, narrowing her eyes.

  “Why are you so furious? This is such good news!”

  “Good news?” he nearly screamed. “What the fuck?”

  “This baby is the best thing that’s happened to you, Nicolas Kolt.”

  And with that, she disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the water running.

  “Malvina!” he shouted, rattling the door. She had locked it.

  The anger erupted. He could not spend another minute with her in this room. He grabbed his BlackBerry, some cash, and, for some unexplainable reason, the Hamilton Khaki watch, then left, slamming the door. He was so incensed that he did not nod back to the gay couple and the Swiss couple, who were on their way to the bar for predinner drinks. He did not see them. He saw nothing, except how he had been duped. He went to stand on the terrace near the pool. Luckily, there were only a few people there. He sat down on a chair and felt his thighs tremble. What was it? Fear? Rage? Perhaps both. A waiter came to ask him if he wanted something to drink, and he shook his head wordlessly. There was only one person he wanted to talk to right now. There was only one person who could understand him and listen to him. Delphine. He pressed the speed-dial key linked to her name. He imagined her, looking down at her phone, seeing his name flash on her screen. She did not pick up. He got her voice mail, and the sound of her voice still made his heart flutter. He left no message.

  Nicolas sat there, shivering with despair. Then the screen lit up and her name appeared. She was calling him back. He fumbled to take the call.

  “Sorry about that, Nicolas. Phone was at the bottom of my bag, as usual!”

  He was so overjoyed to hear her, he nearly choked.

  “Delphine…”

  “I read that Taillefer article this morning. Ouch.”

  “Yeah. I read parts of it. Not the whole thing.”

  “Don’t read the whole thing. Where are you?”

  “In Italy. And you?”

  “In Normandy. With a friend. How’s the book coming along?”

  He paused, then said, “It’s not.”

  She waited for him to speak. She knew how to do that. How he missed her sense of timing.

  “Malvina is pregnant.”

  She said carefully, “Was this planned?”

  “No!” shouted Nicolas. “No, of course not!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know!” he almost wept. “She’s overjoyed. She wanted this. I was conned. I’m such an idiot.”

  “You need to talk to her.”

  “She won’t listen! She thinks this is the best thing that’s happened to her! She’s fucking overjoyed!”

  Delphine kept her calm. “You must be feeling miserable. But let me ask you this. You’re not going to like it, but I must ask you all the same.”

  “Go ahead,” said Nicolas.

  “Are you sure this is your child?”

  He was shocked.

  “Well, there is no way of knowing, of course, but I do think so. She is faithful; at least I think she is.”

  “You may want to think about a paternity test.”

  Nicolas laughed grimly.

  “Delphine, you don’t get it. I do not want her to have that child. I’m not going to wait till the child is born to check if it’s mine.”

  “So you don’t want this baby at all?”

  “No!” he shrieked, beside himself with anger. “I do not want this baby. At all!”

  He became aware that the people behind him were staring. He turned away from them.

  “Why?” she asked in her calm, quiet tone.

  “Why?” he echoed, lowering his voice. How could he tell her? Would she find him even more pathetic? Of course she was going to find him pathetic. He was totally pathetic. Is there a man standing next to her? he wondered. Some guy who’s eavesdropping on all this? At the end of the conversation, the guy would question her. She would sigh and say, “That was my ex, the writer.” Normandy, she had said. He imagined one of those old-fashioned, charming hotels in Trouville, or Cabourg, an antiquated room with a balcony and a view of the gray-blue sea. At this hour, they were getting ready for drinks downstairs, and Delphine was wearing that green dress he loved, the one that set off her auburn hair and white skin.…

  As he was still not answering, Delphine went on gently: “Do you love Malvina, Nicolas?”

  “No,” he said, immediately. “No, I don’t love her.” He yearned to say, I love you. You. You. I have never stopped loving you. Delphine. You. I have not stopped thinking of you. I miss you so much, it is killing me. He did not say those words, but it seemed to him they had been uttered all the same, and that somehow she heard them as they lingered, unspoken and omnipresent, hanging in the silence between them.

  “Then you must tell her,” said Delphine. “You must tell her that there is no future with her and this baby. You must tell her now.”

  Now, as he looks out to sea, Nicolas thinks of Delphine’s words, her advice about telling Malvina. It is now Sunday morning, and they are to leave tonight at six o’clock. A car is picking them up to take them to the airport. He has all day, their last day, to talk to her. After his conversation last night with Delphine, Nicolas paced up and down the terrace, his hands clenched. Going back to the room was out of the question. Having dinner with Malvina was, as well. But where could he go? He was locked up in a golden-caged prison of luxury with the elegant guests who were now arriving at the bar in yet another procession
of designer dresses and jewels. He did not want to say hello to any of them, so he looked away, to the sea, to freedom. He did not care if Dagmar Hunoldt was there, somewhere behind him; tonight, he had nothing to say to her. Tonight, he had no patience. Dr. Gheza, in a resplendent white blazer, asked him if everything was all right and if Signorina Voss was better. Nicolas replied, unsmiling, that yes, thank you, she was better. Dr. Gheza announced, with a Chesire cat–like grin, that tonight was Samba Night, an exclusive concert for the happy few, with a Brazilian band coming to play just for them. He was very much hoping that Signor Kolt and Signorina Voss would join in the fun. Before Dr. Gheza could add another word, Nicolas cleared his throat, muttered, “Excuse me,” and promptly walked away from the bar, to the dismay of Alessandra and her mother. He wandered into the lobby, trying to give a purpose to his step, and sat down despondently on one of the sofas, picking up a magazine and leafing through it without seeing it. What was he going to do with himself this evening? The last person he wanted to see or to speak to was Malvina. Yet how could he get away from her for a couple of hours? They were on an island. He was stuck. He did not even want to check his BlackBerry, which lay in his pocket, ignored. The woman behind the reception desk smiled at him. Her name tag read Serafina. An idea came to him. He leaped to his feet. He asked Serafina if there was any chance he could dine somewhere else than at the Gallo Nero. She replied, still smiling, that of course that was possible. A boat could take him anywhere he wished along the island’s coast. There were some charming restaurants on the other side, only thirty minutes away. Should she make reservations for him? No, no, he said, delighted to hear this. No reservations. When was the driver free? Serafina said that Davide was at his disposal and ready when he was. Nicolas was overjoyed. Where should he meet Davide? At the pontoon, she told him, thinking that Signor Kolt really did have the most magnificent smile. He thanked her and then went straight to the James Bond elevator. He could hear the Brazilian band starting up with “Mas Que Nada.” Who cared? He was escaping. He chuckled with glee. Down at the pier, a tall young man his age, wearing a black jacket, awaited.

  “Buona sera, Signor Kolt,” said the young man, giving a polite little bow. “Sono Davide.”

  Nicolas smiled back, thrilled, and stepped into the glossy black Riva, feeling his spirits soar. The boat headed out to sea, motor growling in a throaty crescendo. Nicolas stood next to Davide, shoulder to shoulder. The wind whipped his hair and seawater sprayed over his face. He glanced back at the Gallo Nero, at the glittering lights of the terrace shining out to them, and he felt like a bird set free, breathing heady whiffs of sea air. Davide asked him where he wanted to go, shouting to be heard, and Nicolas shouted back, he had no idea, Davide should choose for him, a simple place to eat and drink. “Somewhere uncomplicated,” he yelled. “Somewhere not like back there.” He gestured toward the receding Gallo Nero. Davide nodded, and Nicolas felt the camaraderie between them; he felt that somehow Davide understood that he needed to get away, even if Davide had no idea what Nicolas was running away from—a pregnant girlfriend and an overdose of luxury. He was glad that he had not had time to change for dinner, that he was still wearing his bathing suit under his shorts, his black Gap T-shirt, and his Converse sneakers. He looked like any other twenty-nine-year-old guy on a summer evening.

  Davide drove on swiftly, the boat rising and falling, sometimes landing with a jerky bump, which made Nicolas careen into him, and he had to steady himself, which made them both smile, sharing that unspoken boyish complicity that warmed his heart, and then Davide let Nicolas put his hands on the wheel, and he felt the exhilarating vibrations of the motor filter up through his palms. Around them, the shadows grew as the sun backed down behind the hill, the water deepened into a blackish blue, and the hot air was suddenly laced with cooler strands. Davide slowed down, approaching a small town with a high circle of faded pink and blue houses. Nicolas made out a large, quaint villa with a crumbling facade, a leafy garden, and an arbor with tables and chairs beneath it. Davide pointed to the villa. “Villa Stella,” he said. “Very nice. You will like it.” Then he handed him a card with a number on it. Nicolas was to call him when he wished to return to the hotel. Nicolas thanked him. Before he got to the wrought-iron gates, he sent a text message to Malvina. “We really need to talk. Gone somewhere else to think things over. Back later.” Then he pocketed the phone and Davide’s card.

  He was seated under the arbor at a large table with other customers. It was a noisy, joyful crowd, with young children, but that did not bother him tonight. The families were Italian. There were no tourists. A teenaged girl, who spoke little French or English, smiled at him shyly as she offered him a glass of white wine. She explained there was a set menu. Gnocchi to begin with, and then fish. She couldn’t say what the fish was, but she assured him it was very good. Nicolas was delighted. He sat back, sipped the wine, which was chilled and dry, the way he liked it, and looked around him. A large fig tree sent its enticing perfume his way. Through its green luxuriance, he could glimpse a silvery moon. He watched the Italian families laugh and be merry. He watched the young girl serve the dishes with careful yet awkward gestures, which made her all the more touching. The meal he ate at the Villa Stella was one of the best he’d ever had in his life. It was simple, rustic food, lovingly prepared by some buxom mamma in the kitchen, a faded apron tied round her ample hips, dyed black hair drawn back in a bun. It brought back his Ligurean summer with François. He loved the fact that the table surface felt a little greasy, that there were still crumbs from the previous customer’s meal, that the noise level was deafening. This was the Italy he preferred, the real Italy, nothing to do with the antiseptic perfection of the Gallo Nero. He did not feel lonely as he sat there, drawing a sensual pleasure from each slow mouthful. He did not think of Malvina, of the baby. He did not think of Laurence Taillefer’s article, of his mother and Ed, of Dagmar Hunoldt. He did not think of Delphine, of Alice Dor. He did not think about the nonexistent novel he had been lying about for so long.

  He laid the Hamilton Khaki on the table in front of him and thought of his father, Fiodor Koltchine, and how he would have done anything in his power, how he would have invoked any god, succumbed to any voodoo, risked any occult pact in order to summon his father to his table at the Villa Stella tonight.

  AS HE SPENT HIS days hunched in front of his computer, not writing, surfing relentlessly, feeling woolly-brained and lethargic, Nicolas became obsessed with the writing processes of other authors—living authors, dead authors, best-selling ones, lesser-known ones, French, British, Indian, Spanish, Italian, Canadian, Turkish, American authors, any authors. He scoured the Internet for details on how they wrote. Many, it seemed, were inspired by events, conversations, or other books. And once the idea took form, how did they actually write their novels? Nicolas thirsted for each and every element of information. How long did it take? Did they write notes? Did they research? Did they plan an outline? Was it detailed? Or did they simply sit down and write, like he had written The Envelope? Nicolas learned that Russell Banks did not enjoy writing fiction on his computer, as it cramped his flow. He wrote his first drafts by hand, with a rough outline to map his way. Nelson Novézan admitted that writing was such an agonizing business that he needed alcohol, drugs, and sex to get on with it and locked himself up in five-star hotel rooms. Margaret Atwood, who Tweeted as much as Nicolas did, printed out her chapters and stacked them on the floor, changing their order when she needed to. When she got an idea for a novel, she had to write it down on the first scrap of paper she could find, even if it was a paper napkin. He discovered that Orhan Pamuk also wrote by hand, following a structured plot he doggedly stuck to. Michael Ondaatje literally clipped and pasted entire paper paragraphs into multilayered notebooks. Kazuo Ishiguro edited ruthlessly, cutting out parts that were over a hundred pages long. Jean d’Ormesson did the same, salvaging a mere three pages out of three hundred one summer. Katherine Pancol wore a pen around her neck to jot down idea
s, ate chocolate and sipped tea while she worked. William Faulkner drank whiskey. F. Scott Fitzgerald drank too much. W. H. Auden swallowed Benzedrine. Charles Baudelaire had to wrap his aching head in strips of cloth dipped in sedative water. Emile Zola wrote best at Médan, his country home by the Seine. Daphne du Maurier found her inspiration at Menabilly, her Cornwall estate, where she wrote in a gardener’s hut under the trees in order to get away from her children. Ernest Hemingway delivered five hundred words a day, every day. Ian McEwan, one thousand words. Tom Wolfe, eighteen hundred. Stephen King, two thousand. James Joyce needed one full day just to produce a couple of sentences. Georges Simenon wrote a novel every four months and found the names of his heroes in the phone book. Vladimir Nabokov wrote on index cards. Virginia Woolf, Victor Hugo, and Philip Roth wrote standing up. Truman Capote had to lie down with a coffee and a cigarette. Roald Dahl slid into a sleeping bag before sitting on his chair. Salman Rushdie wrote first thing in the morning, wearing his pajamas at the desk. Marcel Proust wrote in bed late at night. So did Mark Twain. Haruki Murakami started to write at 4:00 A.M. So did Amélie Nothomb, using a blue ballpoint pen. Anthony Trollope from 5:30 A.M. to 8:30 A.M. Amos Oz took a forty-five minute walk at 6:00 A.M and then got to work. Joyce Carol Oates preferred to write before breakfast. Toni Morrison wrote at dawn, in order to watch the sun come up. John Steinbeck puffed away at a pipe. Guillaume Musso listened to jazz. Dorothy Parker typed with two fingers. Serge Joncour wore earplugs and lifted dumbbells. Simone de Beauvoir wrote eight hours a day, pausing for lunch. Paul Auster, six hours. Emily Dickinson wrote on a tiny desk. Joanne Harris, in a stone shed built by her husband. Marc Levy, on a table made from an old door placed on trestles. The Brontë sisters, in their dining room. Nathalie Sarraute and Ismail Kadare, in cafés. P. D. James, in her kitchen. Jane Austen, in a room that had a squeaky door, which warned her of anyone’s arrival. Gustave Flaubert rewrote his sentences over and over again. Gabriel García Márquez could work only in familiar surroundings and never in hotels or on a borrowed typewriter. Annie Proulx started her stories by writing the ending first. Delphine de Vigan needed a long breather between two novels. Maupassant needed women; Cocteau, opium. Nicolas stopped researching. All the information he gleaned ended up depressing him. His feelings of inadequacy increased tenfold.