When we finally sat down at the pantry table with a cheese plate and some olives de Nice, I got straight to the point.
“He’s a total disaster, isn’t he, this Jean-Michel Destret.”
“That’s for sure,” Marie replied morosely, “since I don’t like him any more than you do.”
“Mind you,” I admitted, “the least we can say is that he doesn’t much care for us, either. He only has eyes for our dear mother.”
“Yup, it’s a complete flop! Even a fiasco—he seems scared stiff of you. I was watching him at the table. But I didn’t do too much better after dinner when I tried to thaw him out.”
“Yes, I caught your number as the modest and meritorious interpreter: ‘I get by rather well, although my linguistic repertoire is nothing out of the ordinary, since I grew up speaking French and English, then added Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian as backups …’ ”
“That’s it, dump all over me!”
“No, no, you were right to play the good little girl, seeing as my low-cut-and-liberated shrink persona flipped him right out!”
“Except that I flopped just like you did.”
“Right,” I agreed, “but now let’s think. What do we want? What are we looking for? How far are we willing to go? We really didn’t consider things properly when we became involved in this whole business.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen, Jean-Michel Destret has done us a huge favor by taking a pass on us instead of making a pass at us. I mean, imagine, a clunker like that! We’re not really going to turn into high-class anything-goes whores just to bag a total sucker! We have to like the guy a little bit, right?”
“Yes, okay, but what is it you’re expecting from this guy? Give me just one or two vital qualities, no more, because the whole Prince Charming thing is really useless here.”
“Hold on. We are not going to sacrifice our romantic dreams in order to save the house!”
“Oh, enough already. But you’re right. So?”
“He has to be nice,” I began.
“Wait: that’s your prime requirement?”
“Precisely. Nice, and intelligent.”
“Even if he’s crummy looking? I couldn’t handle that.”
“Even if he’s crummy looking, absolutely. I’ve got nothing against ugly people. I even think they’re in at the moment—look at all those glamorous actresses with homely guys. Plus, remember, I already did my bit when I married a real looker. That was enough for me.”
“Well, okay, I’ve already had serious exposure to gorgeous lovers and I’m still eager for more, I can tell you!”
“That, we can talk about later. Oh, one last quality,” I added. “He has to be entertaining.”
“Entertaining? You mean funny?”
“No, more like lighthearted, open to imagination and gaiety.”
“It’s my turn, said Marie eagerly. “Me, I’d like him to be handsome, fantasmic, and prefer me above all other women.”
“Fantasmic? Meaning?”
“Seductive, charismatic.”
“In other words, that he’s a fabulous success, like a movie star or a business whiz, or that he’s magnetic in a sexy way?”
“Why not the best of both worlds?” Marie asked brightly.
“Ah, I see. Well, I have to tell you, we’re not there yet, not by a long shot. So now what do we do?”
“About what?”
“We’re not going to overexert ourselves, are we? Either we fall in love, at least a teensy bit, or it’s no go?”
“That works for me.”
My sister and I had obviously only skimmed the surface of the problem. The deeper truth was that I had been avoiding tackling the thorny subject of men ever since my divorce. I agreed with all my single friends who had looked around without finding anyone seriously desirable, and I had taken up their mantra: “Where are all the men?” As far as I was concerned, the answer was “Wyoming!”—and only half in jest, because on a trip there I’d seen lots of men who seemed completely well-adjusted, perfectly happy with their horses, their cowboy duds, and their outdoor life right where they were—so that was the end of that.
I used to say that I loved men but not unconditionally. I wanted them to be, in descending order of importance: nice, intelligent, ready to be happy, forgiving of themselves and others, generous, and wise. They had to have no fear of women, be virile, fond of making love but at the same time past the frolicking-with-bimbos stage. I’m demanding, I know. Especially since they had to be successful in their careers; otherwise they were bitter or limited in their outlook on life. They couldn’t be hungry for power and honors, however, because too many of such men feel empty inside, buffeted by anxiety, and seek to fill that void with the trappings of greatness. And they often bring home the habits of their workplace, namely, their bullying mistreatment of others. No matter how seductive and successful they appear, they are hollow promises, because they are immature, lacking in humanity, and care only for themselves.
It was also true that I had buried my romantic aspirations in the absolute love I devoted to my son. And I was so fulfilled by him, so involved in the care I took of him, so captivated by the act of nourishing him, watching over him, loving him, that my sexual desire had largely disappeared and I no longer wanted to find someone else. I had had a few affairs, of course, but had even let go of the idea of romantic love, which now seemed like an illusion, a preoccupation for those who had no children, no one close to them to cherish and love. In short, I was no longer available.
Saturday, 9:00 a.m.
The next morning, my son sounded sad on the telephone. He missed me, found time hanging heavily without me. How I longed to take him in my arms! But I could only murmur words I hoped would comfort him, and pause to listen, gauging their effect on his mood. When his unhappiness crashed over me like a wave, I would hold my breath and bite my lips to keep silent, waiting for the moment when I could regain the upper hand before he got too carried away with sobbing. Then I would speak confidently to him, with growing intensity, as if I were turning up the volume on a radio. I’d lighten my tone with a hint of playfulness before affecting a gruff severity intended to induce him eventually to laugh. Only then could I manage to breathe normally, wiping away the tears I’d held back until that moment. And we’d joke around a little, to my relief, before I hung up, completely drained.
Then my reflexes as hostess kicked in, and I took charge of the “sports program” for our guests, who seemed to need distractions, like children at a summer camp. I reserved a tennis court at the Hôtel du Cap to keep them occupied until eleven o’clock, when a boat would pick them up at our beach to take them waterskiing.
Relieved of the obligation to be seductive, Marie seemed more relaxed. And I reflected wryly that it hadn’t taken us long to disqualify Jean-Michel Destret. I couldn’t feel bad, though, about anything that allowed us to renew our bond as sisters, because our complicity was worth all the lovers in the world. Besides, we still had two weekends left in which to catch up.
Marie had invited Alain Gandouin for lunch. He was an accomplished technocrat, a graduate of some of the finest institutions of the Republic, and universally acknowledged to be brilliant. He had become the power behind the throne in France, an unofficial and redoubtable adviser to business moguls and the many politicians who valued his counsel. And this in spite of the abysmal failure of several business ventures he had run into the ground. His detractors had nicknamed him “Monkey Say, Monkey Don’t Do.” France is the only country in the world where a reverence for words confers so much authority on those who call themselves intellectuals—and express themselves with brio and erudition—that they are excused from everything else, including thinking straight, and allowed to intervene and say any old thing in public debates, which are dominated in the United States by pragmatic corporate chieftains and in Italy by art historians.
Marie was constantly running into Gandouin in the corridors of power, whereas my father, w
ho did not think much of him, kept him at a distance through courteous formalities. Although I had never met him, I knew something about him thanks to one of my patients, who worked for him and considered him a nightmare, against whom he defended himself with the help of his sessions with me, during which we sometimes wound up laughing maniacally. We’d wept tears of hilarity, for example, over Alain Gandouin’s description of the ideal consultant.
“The secret lies in telling the client what he wants to hear,” he’d explained to my patient. “But to do that, you must know how to listen, watch, and talk, all at the same time, so as to observe the effect of your words on your interlocutor. For example, you begin, ‘My friend, your company is too small to survive in the face of the competition out there. You are thus at a strategic crossroads. You must make a choice. Either you face the music and decide, in spite of the years of effort and energy you’ve put into your firm, to sell …’ And now, while still emitting sounds that can pass for words, you study your client carefully, scrutinizing the slightest quiver of his body and face. And if you detect a tiny tightening of the jaw, a sign of protest, you segue immediately into ‘… and that’s the solution most of my colleagues would doubtless recommend to you.’ There you pause, to make your slowness seem solemn and thoughtful, before continuing: ‘The way I see it, such a solution takes the easy way out, and I do not advise you to embrace it. You have the mettle and ambitions of a major player: give yourself the opportunity to show what you can do in a bigger arena. And let me remind you that I already have in place, twenty-four/seven, research groups that ferret out the kind of acquisitions that will raise you to the level of the market leaders.’ If, however, your client welcomes your initial allusion to the sale of his firm with a hint of a smile, or reveals a furtive flicker of relief, your pitch should be: ‘And although most of my colleagues, taking the usual tack in such situations, would advise you not to sell, evoking the years of effort and energy you’ve devoted to this company, my personal opinion is that on the contrary, the solution is to sell. A courageous, I would even say ambitious choice …’ ”
So we’d thought it hardly surprising both that this high-flying power player was so popular and that at the same time, since he’d never had any business ideas or even any idea what business is, he nevertheless gave bad and sometimes even catastrophic advice. Besides, the stories about him were legion. A particular favorite, set in a company where everybody relished their anecdotes about his sliminess, was the tale of how he had somehow extorted obedience from a lackey forced to alert him every time the big boss went to the bathroom, so that Gandouin could pretend to run into him there by chance. And there was the time when he finally decided to unveil the results of weeks of five-hours-a-day private English lessons, and showed off with an American client.
“Yes, I understand you perfectly,” he’d said. “You want to focus on the business, you want to focus on the contract.”
A reasonable statement, except that his accent was so bad that what he’d really said was, “Yes, I understand you perfectly. You want to fuck us on the business, you want to fuck us on the contract,” and that had created a diplomatic incident of no small consequence.
But I couldn’t share all these delights with my sister, unfortunately; my profession was indeed a weird one, obliging me as it did to keep quiet outside my office about what went on inside it. Sometimes I even ran into patients out in the “real world” whom I scrupulously pretended not to recognize, leaving them free to react as they wished. At the same time, I met strangers about whom I sometimes knew every detail of their lives, character, or sexual proclivities, information revealed to me by their spouses, children, colleagues, employers, or competitors.
Luncheon, Saturday, July 15
MENU
Stuffed Baby Vegetables
Melons, Figs, Prosciutto
Pasta Salad with Chicken and Pignoli
Crab Parisienne
Curried Lamb
Waldorf Salad
Tomato and French Green Bean Salad
Cheeses
Coeur à la Crème with Berries
Marie and I went back on duty with our guests only at lunchtime, in the loggia, where the view now featured an ocean liner that had appeared on the horizon, visible through the scattered parasol pines, like a toy set down on a shelf. Four round tables had been set up along the edge of the terrace. This was an almost daily occurrence, because many people considered lunch at L’Agapanthe an obligatory part of their stay in the Midi. Like the most fashionable restaurants, we were thus forced to turn people away, and for the same reasons: because it was one of the places to visit, where one met well-known or interesting personalities, and lunch here was something to boast about back in Paris.
Often, however, we really didn’t know who was coming, because people we knew would call up to tell us they’d be bringing along however many houseguests they had at the moment, so we’d have to wait until the guests strolled into the loggia to discover who they were, like those flimsy little surprise gifts one used to find inside old-fashioned party favors.
Each household did, however, have its own brand of guests, which helped us out a little. One house might collect pretty girls; another, down-at-the-heels aristocrats or businessmen; a third would favor show people. And by ricochet, the habitués of those houses became in turn regulars at our luncheons, which wound up gathering together a breathtaking number of the most varied guests.
So we welcomed Alain Gandouin, whom Jean-Michel had sent his chauffeur to fetch at the Colombe d’Or in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, where he was staying, while our parents handled greeting their contingent of guests, among whom were the director of the Fondation Maeght; Maurice Saatchi and his novelist wife; Lord Hindlip, the former chairman of Christie’s; Karl Lagerfeld; Martha Stewart, and one of her friends, a world-famous chef whose Flemish name we didn’t recognize; along with François Sallois, a star in the firmament of fusion acquisitions, and his wife Héloise. My mother made all the introductions and discovered to her amazement that none of her daughters’ houseguests had ever heard of Martha Stewart.
“Heavens! But Oprah Winfrey, let’s say—surely that name rings a bell?” she said with gentle acidity to Laetitia Braissant, who was spending too much time simpering at my father for her taste. Whispering in my ear, she added, “The fine flower of the French intelligentsia? My eye! They’ve never left Paris, or what?”
Taking advantage of a lull in the cocktail chatter, Gérard announced—quietly this time, I’d seen to that—“Luncheon is served, Madame.” My mother swept a few people along into the winter dining room where, like ushers stationed along the red carpet at a film festival, attendants were posted at either end of the buffet to hand plates, napkins, and cutlery to the guests who would soon be hesitating before the profusion of dishes. And in spite of this bountiful spread, my mother (who would be content with a few leaves of lettuce and a morsel of cheese) still took my sister and me aside for her ritual admonition: “I’m afraid there won’t be enough, so wait until the guests have served themselves.” Which suited Marie and me just fine, given the terrible impression that always came over us, after about a day and a half at L’Agapanthe, of having done nothing but eat ever since our arrival. And it wasn’t simply our imaginations. On average, our guests gained from four to six pounds on each visit—as the scales in each guest bathroom obligingly pointed out to them—because it was nigh impossible to resist the excellence of the dishes prepared by the cooks and the outstanding wines that accompanied them.
My mother then undertook, from her usual table, to ensure the relaxed atmosphere of a festive luncheon in the Midi without sacrificing protocol or carefully orchestrated organization. She seated her guests as strictly as if she had set place cards on the tables, but she did so without seeming to, pretending to be suddenly inspired by whoever was returning from the buffet.
“Karl, I’m kidnapping you! Come and sit with Maurice Saatchi and me.” While striking up a conversation with her tablemates,
she called out playfully, “François! The girls are waiting for you at their table with Alain Gandouin!” And switching easily to English she burbled, “Martha, why don’t you go sit next to Edmond and Charles Hinley—I know they’d be delighted.”
She permitted her guests to dawdle and cruise around the buffet table at the beginning of the meal, to keep up the appropriate ambiance of cheerful freedom, but had them sit down as soon as possible, to be served at their tables by attendants who set the pace of the meal, so that it would not drag on interminably. Her guests were thus spared even the slightest discomfort inherent in buffets, which inspire trivial worries that would have nibbled away at their pleasure: “When should I get up, and what do I do with my dirty plate? I can’t very well be the only one going to get some dessert! How can I interrupt my neighbor to go get more to eat? Is the cheese out on the buffet yet?” Everyone was at liberty to savor the luxury of service worthy of a grand hotel, yet in a decidedly bohemian atmosphere—even if they were (as often happened) too impressed by the quality of the food and the number of servants and important guests to even notice this. And although I teased my mother relentlessly, I was grateful to her for the trouble she took, because her refinement, all the more subtle in that it went unnoticed, implied a sense of delicacy and nuance that I found touching. How many hostesses, adding thoughtfulness and discretion to luxury, still managed to turn it into elegance?
Alain Gandouin was fat, squat, and badly dressed. He had a pasty complexion, yellow teeth, and a habit of resting his elbows on the table with his hands at right angles and then stroking the outer rim of his ear with his pinkie or ring finger. Bernard Braissant seemed enchanted to see him again. He wasn’t important enough to have many chances of meeting him in Paris, probably, since his newspaper, which gave him the intoxicating illusion of intimacy with the major upheavals of the world by allowing him to take personally the liberation of a hostage or the election of a pope, was nevertheless of small circulation and not influential enough for Gandouin to bother taking an interest in him.
The Suitors Page 10
