Nicolas starts to send a BBM to Sabina. A soft feminine voice is heard above him. He looks up, squinting against the sun, annoyed at the interruption.
“Excuse me, you are Nicolas Kolt, are you not?”
The accent is pure Italian. She is in her late thirties, wearing a floppy hat, dark glasses.
He nods once.
“I just want to thank you for your book.… You must have so many people telling you that, but … I just wanted to tell you.… It’s a lovely book.… It helped me during a black moment of my life.… I have a family secret, too, and reading Margaux’s story was … very helpful.…”
He nods again. “Thank you.”
“Alessandra,” she simpers.
“Thank you, Alessandra.”
He smiles, but it is a tight smile, the one he uses when he wants to be left alone, when he does not want to answer any more questions (especially this one: What are you working on now?) but, all the while, is refraining from hurting the other person’s feelings. She goes away and he sighs with relief. In the beginning, it was a thrill being recognized. When he took the metro, people’s eyes lingered on him longer than necessary, and he could see them whispering to one another, “Isn’t that the writer?” It had happened all at once, after the big photo shoots came out in Paris Match, after the prime-time TV shows, after the posters in bookstores. All of a sudden, his face had gone public—his gray eyes, his long sideburns, his square chin, his boyish grin. And then it started happening outside France. The only way to remain incognito was to cover his head with a baseball cap. Had he been unnecessarily callous to that fan? There might come a day in the near future, especially if there was no new book, when he would no longer be recognized. To remove the unpleasantness of that thought from his mind, Nicolas sends a BBM to Sabina. “Tell me what you are doing now. Tell me exactly.” He is aware of the danger, of his foolishness, but he does it all the same. He has not seen Sabina since the first time he laid eyes on her, last April in Berlin, but he has been exchanging countless BBMs with her since then. At first, the tone was friendly, laid-back. And then one evening in May, when he was in Alsace for a book festival, the messages slipped into something else. Cordial still, but decidedly sexual. Since then, Nicolas has become wary about his exchanges with Sabina when Malvina is around. Sabina answers him immediately, always, as if she is waiting just for that, for him to contact her. When he reads “Sabina is writing a message” on the screen, his pulse quickens and he feels an erection stirring underneath his bathing suit.
“Nicolas Kolt has a ‘thing’ for older women,” French Elle wrote last year in a long feature. He had not denied it to the journalist, a peach-skinned creature in her twenties. Yes, he had always fancied the mature woman; yes, he had had a long love affair with a woman who was nine years older than he was; yes, Margaux Dansor was his idea of perfection at forty-eight; yes, Robin Wright embodied her brilliantly. He did not tell the young journalist about Granville, but he knew well enough that what had happened on the beach with Véronique and Nathalie when he was seventeen had no doubt sharpened his inclination.
Sabina’s BBM comes through. “I will tell you exactly. I want to take you in my mouth.” His heart pumps crazily.
Nicolas decides to go for another swim fast, before his erection becomes embarrassing. The satiny touch of the water on his loins is delicious. He is alone in the sea, and he revels in this privilege. The heat is fierce now, shimmering and hazy. Most of the guests have gone up to the pool restaurant. He swims until his shoulders and legs ache, until he is out of breath. He sits for a while on the edge of the concrete slab, feeling the sun sizzle the salty water off his body. He thinks about Sabina’s BBM and cannot help grinning. Well, he’s not doing any harm, is he? Neither is she, right? Nobody is getting hurt.
Speedboats are bringing clients in for lunch at the Gallo Nero. They roar up to the impressive yachts and sailboats anchored in the bay, collect passengers, and come back. Nicolas watches as they arrive. A patrician family steps ashore. Probably wealthy Romans or Florentines. Regal grandparents, elegant mother and father, a tribe of well-groomed children, girls in flowery smock dresses, ribbons in their hair, boys with crisp shirts and Bermuda shorts. They look like they are posing for Vanity Fair. Later, another boat brings in two sisters, breathtakingly beautiful, one clutching a bag that is the distinctive blue of a famous New Yorker jeweler, and the other the leash to a clumsy, joyful Labrador who nearly tumbles into the sea (this makes Nicolas chuckle). Both sisters wear huge sunglasses, and their hair is tied back in artfully disarrayed chignons. Their small square faces remind him of Natalie Portman. They leap ashore, nimble and graceful, laughing at the dog’s antics.
Nicolas tears himself away from the dreamy contemplation of the lovely sisters and makes his way back to the room. It is coming up on two o’clock. In the cool penumbra, Malvina is stretched out on the bed, fast asleep. He puts a careful hand on her forehead. It feels clammy but not hot. There is nothing left for him to do but to go have lunch.
He is ushered to the same table he had at breakfast, and notices that the French are once again on his left. The husband is eating with marked appetite, wolfing down pasta. He has been playing tennis and has not changed. His face is red and sweaty, his white polo damp under the armpits. Madame, head wrapped in an ungainly turban, makes deft, deadly swipes with her fork at her prosciutto, her jaw working. They do not exchange one word. On Nicolas’s right, the brunette with the gorgeous bosom eats her bruschetta alone. The Belgian family, gregarious and jolly, order more chilled white wine. The Swiss couple peck at their salads and nod at him when he looks their way. He nods back. From where he is sitting, he has a perfect view of the entire terrace, yet he is partially hidden behind a parasol. Alessandra, his fan, lunching with an older version of herself, certainly her mother, cannot see him, and he is thankful. The Vanity Fair family, at least ten of them, appears overly affectionate with one another. They eat, drink, and kiss one another with loud smacks during the entire meal. He watches, eating his granceola club sandwich. But when the Natalie Portman sisters arrive, he has to put the sandwich down, they are so riveting. They must be twins; they are identical, down to their Cape Cod Hermès watches. The Labrador sits at their feet, panting. A server brings it some water, which it laps up noisily. Nicolas strains his ears to catch what language the sisters are conversing in.
“If you lean any farther, you’ll fall off your chair, pal,” says a nasal masculine voice.
Startled, Nicolas turns around. A hunched man in his late forties is standing there, wearing a crumpled T-shirt and faded jeans, holding a glass of rosé. He looks decidedly familiar, and with a shock, Nicolas realizes it is Nelson Novézan, the Franco-British novelist and Goncourt Prize winner. They have met several times—on TV shows, at literary events. Nicolas is surprised Novézan actually acknowledged him. His surliness is notorious.
“How you doing, pal?” Novézan drawls, staggering to the empty seat in front of Nicolas and dropping himself into it. He seems drunk. He lights a cigarette and holds it between his middle and ring fingers, a trademark gesture of his.
“Fine,” says Nicolas, amused. From close-up, Novézan’s skin is blotchy and unhealthy-looking. His hair shines with grease, as if he has not washed it for weeks.
“On holiday, are you, pal?”
“No, I’m here writing my book,” says Nicolas.
“Really? Me, too.” Novézan yawns, revealing unappetizing yellowed teeth. “Writing in the lap of luxury. I’m so happy with my work. Coming along fine. This is by far my best novel. It will be out next year. You’ll see, it will be huge. My publisher is thrilled. So am I.” He clicks his fingers at a passing waiter and motions for some more rosé. “Been here before, pal?”
“Nope, first time.”
A flash of the yellow teeth. “Thought so. Marvelous place. Otto is a friend of mine. The director, you know. I get the same room year after year. The one with the best view. Splendid. That’s the fucking brilliant part of b
eing a best-selling author. Right?”
Nicolas nods, giving him the same tight smile he gave Alessandra.
The rosé comes.
“They’re always turning up their noses at me because I’m not ordering some fancy Italian wine.” Novézan pours himself a glass with an unsteady hand.
“How old are you, pal?”
“Twenty-nine,” answers Nicolas.
A short grunt. “What the hell do you know about life, at twenty-nine?”
“How old are you?” retorts Nicolas, point-blank, longing to kick those stained teeth in.
A shrug. “Old enough to know better.”
He smokes in silence while Nicolas scrutinizes him. Over the past ten years, this man has published four books. The last two were big best-sellers in Europe and in America. Nicolas has read them all. During his struggling khâgne years, Novézan fascinated him. The man was now an arrogant literary legend. The more famous he became, the ruder he was to journalists and readers. His novels were misogynistic, crude, and beautifully written. People either loved his work or hated it. No one was indifferent to it. Recently, Nicolas saw Novézan at a book fair in Switzerland, where, in the foulest mood, he publicly insulted his assistant because the taxi she had ordered for him was late. Nicolas recalls how the woman remained calm, and yet she was quivering from head to toe while Novézan ranted and raged, spewing four-letter words in her direction for all to hear.
“Clever move, that little book of yours,” Novézan mutters, slurping down the rosé.
“What do you mean?”
Another yawn. “Well, drawing on that passport episode. I mean, the idea was out there, hanging in front of our noses. Look at me, French father born abroad, English mum, me born in Paris.… It could have happened to me.” Nicolas says nothing, revolted by what the man is insinuating. “I mean, the seed was there, pal, for all French citizens faced with having to prove their nationality because of that absurd new law. You went out there and you wrote it. Clever move. Did it sell well in the end, your little book?”
“Reasonably well,” says Nicolas in an even voice, realizing that at last he has the upper hand, and inwardly writhing at “your little book.”
“Like what?” drawls Novézan, carelessly rising to the bait.
Nicolas pauses before the coup de grâce. His eyes linger over the lovely sisters, then travel up to the ocher house where Malvina sleeps.
“Thirty million worldwide,” he says quietly.
That shuts Novézan up for a couple of minutes. Nicolas feels the spurt of triumph within him wither away. How despicable of him to flaunt his sale figures. Who is he trying to impress? The aging, fatigued, vain author sitting in front of him?
“Are you here alone?” he asks Novézan politely.
“Can’t get any writing done if there’s a woman in my room. So I text, and she comes running.” Novézan makes an explicit, vulgar gesture with his mouth and hands.
Nicolas cannot help smiling. He stands, putting his cap back on his head. “I’m off for a swim. Want to come?”
Novézan waves him off. “No thanks. Going back to work, pal. Lots more to write. Such an inspiring place! My juices are flowing. How about yours?”
Nicolas ignores that last question. Novézan rises as well, reeling on shaky, skinny legs. They part, clapping each other on the back like old buddies. Before Nicolas gets into the elevator, he checks his BlackBerry. To his surprise, and annoyance, there is a photo of him posted on his Facebook page. A photo taken this very morning from up near the pool. The fan’s name is Alex Brunel. The profile picture is a Granny Smith apple, which gives him no inkling of what he or she looks like. Alex Brunel’s page is a private one, no access. Luckily, there is no mention of where this photo was taken. Four hundred and forty-five people have already “liked” it. This has happened to him before. Fans see him in the bus, in the metro—which he has never stopped taking, despite his newfound fame—discreetly click away with their phones, and then publish the photo on his wall, as a tribute. It’s never bothered him till today. He looks at the photo closely. A telltale black-and-white parasol is in view. A person who really wanted to find out where he was could put two and two together. There is nothing he can do. He can almost hear Delphine’s voice: This is the price you have to pay, Nicolas; and this is what you wanted, isn’t it? He scrolls down to read the comments. “Mmh, sexy.” “Gorgeous.” “Hey, Nicolas, take me with you!” “Italy or Greece?” “Way to go!” No one mentions the Gallo Nero, thankfully. He could delete the photo, but Alex Brunel, whoever he or she may be, might be offended. He or she might even post other photos of him. He has learned to be careful with his fans. Angry fans are bad news. He checks his Twitter feed. No mention of his Italian escapade by his followers. He looks up his own name, just to be on the safe side. Nothing. He does not do that often, nor does he Google his name much anymore. He used to, in the beginning. It was secretly thrilling to discover all those blogs and Web sites mentioning his work, then the movie. But for every dozen positive remarks, there were the few negative ones. The ones that hurt. On Twitter once, some influential Web journalist had Tweeted, “Stop telling us to read that awful Nicolas Kolt shit. Why does this guy sell so many books?” That had been Retweeted hundreds of times.
When he gets down to the beach, he sees Malvina waiting for him. Her cheeks seem pinker. He asks how she is. She says she threw up, felt terrible for a while, but is fine now. Probably a stomach bug. He lies down next to her and holds her hand. He tells her about Nelson Novézan and their conversation. He mimes Novézan’s famous sneer, his cocked eyebrow, the way he holds his cigarette.
“You should have posted that on Twitter,” she says, grinning. “With a photo of him.”
“I’m taking a Twitter break,” says Nicolas. And then he adds cruelly, “He looks like an old dog.”
Malvina asks if he saw the new picture on his Facebook page. She checked it out on her iPhone. Nicolas frowns and admits he is not happy about it. He is craving privacy. He wants time for himself, time for them, three days of peace. Three days of sun.
“I wonder who posted that photo,” whispers Malvina.
Nicolas whispers back, “I don’t care,” and kisses her glossy hair.
It is less hot now; the long shadows of the afternoon creep slowly along the concrete beach. They are served tea, cantucci, and slices of melon. An Asian couple in their fifties are installed nearby. The man is bald, Buddha-like, with a flashy orange bathing suit and an ostentatious Cartier Pasha. The woman is pale, her hair a perfect black helmet. She wears a long blue kimono. They nod and smile to the staff, who bow and smile back. Nicolas catches them murmuring “Mr. Wong” at the end of each sentence. Mr. Wong must be very important; he is certainly getting a lot of attention. Mrs. Wong cannot stand a single ray of sunshine on her skin, so two parasols are joined above her by the complying attendants, who give her just as much “Mrs. Wong” until a grinning, head-shaking Mr. Wong says, “No no! Not Mrs. Wong! No no! Miss Ming!” Mr. Wong and Miss Ming then smile and nod to everyone next to them, including Nicolas and Malvina, who smile back.
Nicolas notices more newcomers. Two young men of his age, although one could be a little older, already in his thirties. One is long and thin, geeky-looking, short blond hair, John Lennon glasses, plunged into his iPad. The other is tanned, smooth-skinned, and hairless. They both wear the same watch. Gay? American? Canadian? They, too, nod and smile at Mr. Wong and Miss Ming, then look at each other and giggle. Malvina finds them cute. A little farther off, the Swiss play chess. The Belgians are back. Father and son go for a swim, mother reads on, and daughter steadfastly tans, eyes closed.
Nicolas can see the Belgian mother has gotten to the end of his book, probably the part when Margaux decides to go to San Rocco di Camogli to find out who her father’s family was. She knew nothing about them, down to their name, Zeccherio. Nicolas is reminded of the shock he felt when he saw his father’s real name for the first time in 2006. He had been to the town hall of the
fifth arrondissement with his livret de famille and his birth certificate because his passport had expired. Renewing it was usually a quick deal for any French citizen. A couple of weeks at the most. An unpleasant surprise awaited him. The woman behind the counter said to him, “I’m afraid we cannot renew your passport, Monsieur Duhamel. Your mother was born in Belgium, and your father in Russia.”
Nicolas had stared at her blankly. “So?”