“Cushions?” marveled Marie.
“Yes,” insisted Gay, producing a ripped-up cushion as prime evidence before praising Alvin’s courage, and our guest was the hero of the hour until we all gathered to watch the evening news.
“Well, you know what Noël Coward said: ‘Television is for appearing on, not looking at!’ ” exclaimed Frédéric, as we took our places in the library to see if the announcer on the evening news would follow through by using the word “agapanthus” as he’d promised to do at lunch.
“Yes, but since Coward was a model of distinction only for English grocers’ wives in the 1950s, who cares?” shot back Gay, just when the opening credits appeared for the newscast.
“I bet you five to one he’ll stick ‘agapanthe’ in the beginning to get it out of the way!” said Charles.
“Well, I’d be surprised if he managed to find a spot for it in the social policy or foreign slots,” drawled Laszlo.
“Oh, you,” Gay said teasingly to Laszlo, “I think you weren’t too pleased with the impression he made on Flokie!”
Had we ever all watched television together? I wondered, enjoying the silly informality of a moment that nobody would have imagined possible among such a serious and accomplished crowd, having decided already to ignore Alvin who was scandalized that a so-called journalist would play games like this with his broadcast.
“Our bees—are they the victims of disease or poison? That is the question preoccupying certain scientists, who are studying a phenomenon that is troubling apiculturists and numerous ecologists, economists, and other experts because of the economical and ecological importance of the bee as a pollinating agent. Indeed, if there were no more bees to buzz around our agapanthus …”
“Hooray!” we shouted.
After which my mother, gauging the extent of Gay’s inebriation, sent Marie to the kitchen to say that we would be happy to sit down early to dinner.
ORIGINAL MENU
Coquilles Saint-Jacques
with Onions on a Bed of Mâche
Veal Cutlets Pojarski
Salad and Cheeses
Chocolate Profiteroles
REVISED MENU
Blood Orange and Olive Oil Soup with Green Olives
Sheets of Pressed Fish Skin
Melon Caviar
Quinoa Glazed with Duck Foie Gras
Shrimp au Naturel
Iberian Ham Confit with Spider Crab Cantonese Style
Oyster Foam with Smoked Bacon
White Asparagus Eggs
Potato Gnocchi in Consommé
Cheese Popcorn
Parmesan Marshmallow
Fried Lime Thai Ice Cream
VEGETARIAN MENU
Sesame Tofu Tidbits
Avocado Terrine
Creamed Cauliflower Soup
Asparagus Tagliatelle
Chocolate Floating Island
My mother was in such good humor that she had finally decided to seat Charles on her right, and she had indulged my father by placing him between Vanessa and Georgina. As it happened, she needed her good humor, because our dinner had nothing to do with the menu she’d ordered. The chef, an adept of Spanish molecular gastronomy, had decided to dazzle us by serving a few samples of his signature dishes in porcelain spoons, delicacies that were solemnly announced and explained to us by the butler as if we’d been in a gastro restaurant. This made conversation impossible, so none of us managed a peep beyond the occasional vague “how interesting!”—until Georgina burst out with, “Oh, for a nice roast chicken with oven-browned potatoes!”
Her exclamation triggered an avalanche of passionate culinary desires.
“A piping-hot, crusty gratin dauphinois! Or how about a meltingly tender leg of lamb?… Me, I just love boeuf Bourguignon and frogs’ legs … Well, my favorite is a savory pot-au-feu … Oh, no, I prefer a blanquette de veau … And a good old chicken stew?… Don’t all shout, please; I vote for a spicy andouillette sausage!… For me, duck confit, and coq au vin … My personal weakness? Spring lamb casserole … What about poached eggs in red wine sauce? You’re forgetting oeufs en meurette!… Yes, but in that case, why not include a juicy boudin aux pommes? The apples are so perfect in the pork sausage …”
Jean-Claude tried to reconcile us all. “The paradox is that one cannot find such dishes anywhere nowadays, except in restaurants patronized by rich Americans, places like L’Ami Louis or Le Voltaire, which luckily have never changed their décor. ”
“Speaking of rich Americans,” added Alvin, “you know they are often patrons of the arts, philanthropists …”
“Yes, and so generous, I find that impressive,” said my father.
Odon could not help favoring us with some of his encyclopedic knowledge gleaned, in this case, he informed us, from a book by Bill Clinton: “Did you know that in the Jewish tradition, tzedakah, charity, is an obligation that should entail the donation of at least ten percent of one’s income? Islam as well requires zakat, which corresponds to two and a half percent of one’s income, and sadaqah, a voluntary donation from well-to-do Muslims, who are morally obliged to give generously. As for Christians, they are supposed to give ten percent of their income to the church and to love their neighbors as themselves.”
“Without forgetting the Buddhists,” added Alvin. “They believe that giving to others is an essential step on the path to illumination.”
“I find it surprising,” continued Odon, “that no one has thought to write a history of philanthropy in the United States since the Civil War. These donors are, in their way, very Greek, because in ancient Greece, the wealthy citizens would meet to divide up cultural expenses and thus relieve some pressure on their city-states.”
Then he went on to describe the Clark Library in Los Angeles, where William Andrews Clark had commissioned ceilings crowded with naked ephebes without anyone batting an eye. Thus inspired, my father evoked the Sapphic ceilings of the Fondation Singer-Polignac, and the dining room of the French Senate, where diners break bread under some truly imposing asses. He then voiced his amazement that no one ever shows much reaction to the insane eroticism of artworks, as if time or the artistic setting had desensitized any sensual effect.
Alvin returned to the charge, however, emphasizing the Buddhist tenet that the practice of charity is essential, “because whether we’re religious or not, we all live in an interdependent world. And our survival is linked to an understanding that our collective humanity is more important than our differences.”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but I soon found out.
“I’m involved with a foundation that finances marine expeditions to study the deep ocean and evaluate the condition of the planet. The foundation also builds solar housing and educational programs to make schoolchildren aware of ecological problems …”
I then realized that Alvin had come to L’Agapanthe only for that, to put the bite on us. Which wasn’t surprising. Because everywhere in the world, foundations and organizations draw up lists of potential donors for museums, opera houses, botanic gardens, châteaux, schools, universities, hospitals, or to provide assistance to disadvantaged children, the dying, the victims of war, of AIDS, hunger, sexual crimes, genetic diseases … And they ask all their donors to spread the word, to proselytize creatively to recruit new benefactors. In that way, hunting the rich had become an activity that expands exponentially. And it was only to be expected that any encounter among wealthy individuals might turn into an ambush. In short, the charity business was a reality we had learned to deal with. Which did not mean that my parents, discreet and generous donors, were not occasionally taken by surprise, as when I would see them returning somewhat disappointed from a dinner they had looked forward to with pleasure only to report, “Actually, they just wanted to put the touch on us.”
And was I disappointed as well to see Alvin make such use of an invitation to visit some wealthy strangers? Mind you, I hadn’t invited him just for the hell of it. And the least one could say w
as that saving the planet was a lot more legitimate cause than my husband hunting. But beyond that, I was not happy at having inadvertently allowed my father to be hit up in his own house, and by one of my guests, for a cause in which he was not particularly interested. So I tried to get him out of this awkward position.
“I don’t believe in humanitarianism,” I announced loudly.
“What?” gasped my father. “That’s preposterous! Whatever do you mean by that?”
“Well, I don’t believe in altruism, in the idea of generosity …”
“How can you say such a thing! So we’re supposed to just throw up our hands?”
“Unless we consider the idea from the angle of egoism …”
“Meaning?”
“Look at it this way: looking after other people, supporting any aid organization at all, is a good way to help oneself, to give meaning to one’s life, or to lick one’s own wounds. It’s a form of egoism, but a more constructive one than shopping or drugs.”
“Then by your reckoning, Bill Gates is a titan of egoism! Because with a fortune estimated at fifty billion dollars, he has become the biggest benefactor in the world, endowing his foundation with almost thirty billion dollars of his own money. But I’m not sure that a fellow who has decided to give away in his lifetime ninety-five percent of his fortune to help the needy should be called an egoist.”
“You’re right,” I admitted.
Not only had I lost the argument, but my provocative remarks produced exactly the opposite effect from what I had intended! For my father then invited Alvin to discuss his cause in private.
“Let’s talk about this in the living room, shall we?” said my father, as we all left the table.
The evening dragged on, and I was feeling morose, because that ill-advised exchange with my father had upset me just as much as had my discovery of Alvin’s hidden agenda. I was watching Georgina recruit Marie for a game of cards when it occurred to me that I hadn’t really seen my sister all weekend. Had she made herself scarce to leave me a free hand with Alvin? Or had she been avoiding me so as not to confess how stupid she thought my plan was? Unless … our connection was fading. It was the first time that I had seriously doubted not only our relationship but the power of L’Agapanthe, too, which until then had so fostered our togetherness that I’d come to believe it was the very source of our bond.
“Come see me in my room before you go to bed,” I told Marie before heading upstairs myself.
I did not want to draw any conclusions about the failure of our husband hunting unless Marie was with me, because I felt that thinking about the future alone in my room would mean risking a future lived without her. Hardly had I climbed into bed, though, when I fell into a sleep so deep that I barely heard Marie gently peek into my room later that night.
I awoke at dawn and found my parents in conference in the loggia.
“We’ve found a buyer for the house,” my father told me straight out.
Was it the effect of his news, or my surprise at hearing it that way? I felt like a sailor on the high seas, hit out of nowhere by a rogue wave.
“Who is it?” I asked, trying to master my reeling emotions.
“A sort of club for the rich.”
“What?”
“A real estate company, organized as a private club, that buys properties it maintains and staffs for its clients, people of means who are no longer content, it seems, to have a house on the seashore, for example. They also want a castle in England, an apartment in New York, a pied-à-terre in Paris, a chalet in Gstaad, an island in the Seychelles, as well as yachts and private planes and—”
I didn’t let him finish. “But why are you selling the house if you’re not in any financial trouble?”
“Because it’s becoming impossible to keep it. It no longer makes sense! It’s terribly expensive to run, and the taxes are horrific. And then, you can see for yourself, everything has changed. We don’t even know who our neighbors are anymore. Their dogs attack us! It’s getting harder to find decent personnel—just look at the new chef. Try to understand: it has become so complicated to manage a monster of a house like this that from now on, the proud owner is likely to be a company!”
He was right. The way we lived there, L’Agapanthe was a memory of times gone by, a dream we were trying to keep alive against all reason, protecting it from time like a dike holding back the ocean, but our house was doomed to disappear.
“But what will you do during the summer holidays?”
“We’ll go on cruises, and I’m looking forward to them.”
The guests were slowly drifting into the loggia. On the horizon, the sea was flecked with whitecaps.
“Oh, no! It’s awful! Did you see what happened?” exclaimed Frédéric, who then read us an article in the Nice-Matin: “ ‘While emergency personnel were preparing to approach the baby fin whale that had wound up just off a beach in Fréjus, the misguided attempts of a crowd of sunbathers prevented the dying animal from being rescued …’ ”
“People are so desperately dumb,” Georgina said, sighing.
“ ‘… Toward the end of a trying day, the marine mammal ended up in the cove of La Galiote, at Saint-Aygulf, where it had been trailed by two inflatable dinghies carrying firemen, Mike Ridell (coordinator of the rescue effort), and Véronique Vienet, the veterinarian of the Alpes-Maritime Fire Brigade. The site had seemed ideal, allowing the rescuers to keep the stricken animal afloat in the shallow water while the veterinarian examined, fed, and cared for the whale until the floating sling arrived. Human stupidity, however, then intervened. A woman suddenly shouted, “We have to push it back out,” and dozens of people approached the young fin whale to move it out to deeper water. The creature fled in a panic toward a breakwater, colliding with it, and mass hysteria ensued. Someone shouted, “I have a bit of its skin,” and others threw a policeman into the water when he tried to keep them from going out on the breakwater. “We’re still in shock,” said a disgusted and discouraged Mike Ridell.’ ”
“Really, that’s unbelievable! I’ve never liked crowds, they scare me,” observed Jean-Claude.
Frédéric continued reading.
“ ‘ “They were out of control. You cannot manage a crowd of over two thousand people, there might have been serious injuries,” added Véronique Vienet, stunned not only by the attitude of the vacationers, who thought they were helping yet made things worse, but also by a glancing blow to her head from the tail of the baby whale, whose chances for survival, now that it has been frightened back out to sea, are almost gone. “He’s weak, and has lost a terrific amount of weight,” the veterinarian observed soberly. “When I first saw him, he weighed between seven and eight tons, but now he’s down to only three or four.” The would-be rescuers, including three injured firemen who’d been manhandled by the crowd, were saddened by what had happened. “They were like hooligans at a soccer match. Everyone wanted to get in on it and bring back a trophy.” The vacationers, in their attempt to help, have probably signed the young whale’s death warrant.’ ”
The departure of Nicolas, Vanessa, and Alvin occupied us for the rest of the morning, since we had to exchange money for them because they had only dollars and wished to leave tips for the staff. This persuaded me that they were the only ones among our guests who had thought to do this and were thus the only ones to show kindness and good manners. Then we had to track down Anagan, who’d gone for a swim in the bay, and one of Vanessa’s dresses, which had accidentally been placed in Astrid’s closet, and watch our three travelers say good-bye to the entire household.
After which, Marie and I finally rendezvoused in my room, where we decided to cheat a little on our departing flight schedule so that we two could have lunch together at the Hôtel du Cap before taking the plane. So we told our parents we had to leave the house slightly earlier than planned, and after saying good-bye to them, Marie and I took a tour of the house. Everything was back to normal in the kitchen, where our own chef had returned an
d the menu was once more to our taste. Like the rest of L’Agapanthe, which seemed so unchanging. I thought about the end of a love affair, about how we make love with someone without realizing that it’s for the last time, because nothing tells us solemnly that this moment will never come again, a moment we often try in vain to recall later on, when the affair is over.
Frédéric came to find me before I left.
“You know, your idea about chasing after suitors?” I said to him. “Idiotic!”
“I don’t happen to agree,” he replied. “Have you ever heard the story of the goat? A fellow goes to see his rabbi to complain. ‘I live in a one-room apartment with my wife and our two children, we’ve no room to turn around, it’s awful!’ So the rabbi says to him, ‘Get a goat, and come back to see me in a month.’ The guy returns a month later and says, ‘Well, I’m living in sheer hell! Why the devil did you tell me to get a goat?’ And the rabbi replies, ‘Nu, because once you’ve gotten rid of the goat, you’ll be able to enjoy what you have.’ ”
I stared blankly at Frédéric.
“You mean to tell me that’s why you suggested the plan to me? So that it would turn into a fiasco and give me time to get used to the idea that the house was going to be sold? I can’t believe it.”
The road to Eden-Roc
July 20, 1987
I am ten years old. A tedious road, unappealing, paved like a city street. I have to watch my step, be careful not to fall and twist my ankle or skin my knees or elbows, because I’m clumsy and the road is full of bumps and potholes.
The Suitors Page 23
