The interior of Angélique’s and Carole’s floor, I notice, shows the same lack of vital exuberance. Everything is clean, white, sober. An African mask and a huge pot with a Texan cactus are the sole decoration items. I don’t mind; overloaded spaces are not my cup of tea, either.
My sister briskly walks down the corridor. She gasps when she discovers the huge boxes behind me. “What’s that? For Christ’s sake?”
Emma starts to bounce around again. “You brought me a gift, tonton? Did you? Huh? Did you? Say this is for me, please! Please!”
“All right, all right, Emma,” I laugh, “this is absolutely for you.”
“Yooo-hoooo!” she cheers. “You saw that, Mom? You saw that huge gift tonton brought me? We’ll open it at once, won’t we, tonton?” Jiggling impatiently, she glances at me from under her long, soft eyelashes. “Won’t we?”
“Marc!” Angélique shoots me a fake-reproachful look. “It isn’t her birthday? Haven’t I told you?”
“Hi to you, too, little sister!” I kiss her. “You did, as a matter of fact, but I wanted to bring a small surprise for my favourite niece.”
“We don’t have the same definition of ‘small’? And you, princess? If you don’t stop fidgeting around, Uncle Marc will take his gift back with him, you hear me?”
“But Mom…”
“Emma! We talked about this? Like, only a minute ago?” Angélique gives her a stern stare. “Now you go back to the living room—without…”
The girl yodels and dashes down the corridor, an excited fluffy cloud in pink.
“…running? Jesus, she doesn’t listen to anything I say? I wonder whom she takes after…” Angélique shakes her head.
“No ideas?” I tease her.
“Marc? I haven’t been like that?”
“Worse, little sister. Worse! Guess why I’m a complete wreck today!”
—78—
Angélique’s kitchen turns out to be modern and warm. White sobriety prevails here, too. No trinkets, nothing superfluous, no sentimentality. Yet it feels cosy somehow.
We form a harmonious triangle, Carole storing the champagne in the fridge, Angélique filling a vase with water, me leaning against the doorframe and watching them. Emma hasn’t followed us, but from the living room comes the sound of cardboard being violently torn apart—Sritch! Sratch! Then, my niece screams at the top of her lungs, “Tonton! You promised you’d help me!”—Sratch!
“Coming, honey. Just a sec, okay?”
Tiny, muted voice, “Okay.”
“She’s too much sometimes,” Carole says fondly. “Looking after her is a full-time job, I can tell you.”
“Well, if it gets too much, ask Angélique to track down Eva,” I propose.
“Who’s that?” Carole asks.
“Stiff sulker bitch from Norway. Used to take care of us back in the 80s,” I inform her.
“Oh my God—Eva? I remember her? Absolutely? Dumb chick who hated kids and loathed France?” Angélique adds.
“Yep, that’s her.”
“I wonder what has become of her? What was her last name?”
“Mengele probably,” I say. “Considering how joyful she was back then, I’m sure she’s topped herself off with cyanide pills by now.”
“What was it? You know, what she’d always be yelling?” Angélique giggles.
“Don’t! Run!” we both shout at the same time, trying to imitate Eva’s accent. Loud laughter follows.
Carole laughs with us. Then she steps forward and hugs me. “Oh Marc! How good to see you!”
Her emotional move makes me feel uneasy. To create a diversion, I sniff and coo, “Wow, girls, that smells fabulous! What have you prepared, huh?”
“Wait and see.” Carole smiles broadly.
“Tontooooon!” My niece’s patience seems to have expired.
“You’d better join her,” Carole says and pushes me gently towards the kitchen door. “Go and unwrap Emma’s gift. We won’t be long, just some last-minute preparations. Enjoy your niece—if she gives you a breather, that is.”
—77—
After the first course, the two young women disappear in the kitchen again to finish the main course. In the meantime, Emma and I assemble the wigwam.
“Do you like it?” I ask her when the red thingy finally stands in a corner of the living room. To me, it looks somehow obscene, with the long tunnel protruding from the tent. And I still don’t like that stupidly strict and mouthless kitty.
“It’s precious,” Emma whispers, however. “Can we go in?”
“Yes, of course. In fact, I was hoping you’d invite me,” I say. “Ladies first, then.”
We crawl through the tunnel and settle down in the tent, which surrounds us like a welcoming womb. Even though I doubt I was very welcome in my mother’s womb, to be honest. Whatever. The light of the living room lamps is filtered by the fabric and vaguely glows in a reddish tone. I feel sheltered, protected, secure.
“What are you going to make of this place?” I want to know. “And it needs a name, you know? What are you going to call it?”
“Why, the Kitty-Castle!” Emma answers, and that sounds pretty much like “Duh!” Then, she crawls out again. She comes back with a pink quilt, two dolls, and a teddy bear. She spreads the quilt in a corner. “This will be your new home,” she tells the toys with a serious face. “Now, you’d better behave, all right? We’ve got a guest…” She shoots me a sideways glance to ensure I’ve heard her.
I nod and try to give the toys a stern yet dignified stare.
That makes her giggle, “You pull a face like mom when she’s about to scold me,” she says.
“Do I?” I caress Emma’s hair. “Know what? I’m glad you like the Kitty-Castle!”
Emma sits down at last, leaning against my side, contentedly contemplating her arrangement, the quilt, the teddy bear, the dolls.
Then, she turns to face me. “Tonton?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Can I ask you something?” She snuggles closer, her huge eyes drilling into me.
“Of course, doll. What is it?”
“They always say my moms are bikes,” Emma whispers conspiratorially.
I guess she wants to share a Big Secret with me and feel honoured somehow. “Who says that, honey?” I ask and slide my arm over her frail shoulders.
“Well, those kids in kindergarten. They say we’re not a real family cos I got no daddy at home. Then they laugh and say my moms are bikes.”
“They’re just being stupid. Of course, you’re a real family. And of course, you got a daddy. I’m sure your mom explained it.”
“Of course. I know I got a dad.” Emma pulls away to stare at me. She seems almost cross that I don’t get her point. “Everybody’s got a dad! I know they’re stupid, too. Especially Maëwa and Damien. But what I wanna know—why do they say mom and mommy are bikes?”
“Oh. That. I’m not sure, dear.” It’s silly, but I don’t want to explain how those kids got it wrong. I don’t want to define the word “dykes.” That’s something Angélique and Carole will have to take care of. I make a mental note to tell them as soon as Emma has gone to bed. “And what do you reply when they say that?” I enquire instead.
“Oh, you know,” Emma shrugs. All of a sudden, she has lost interest in the whole conversation. “I tell them my dad is a superhero, and he has to remain hidden, ’cos otherwise he’d lose his super-powers. I tell them they’re silly little kids. I tell them they’re just by-products whereas I am my mothers’ lovechild. That shuts them up, normally.”
“Atta girl,” I say, stifling a laugh. Sometimes she uses words I wouldn’t have thought she knew. And I wonder how on earth she came up with that peculiar scenario about her biological father. A superhero, indeed. That’s rich.
—76—
A balmy
and lascivious night pants in through the open windows like a randy voyeur. Angélique has put Emma to bed some time ago, despite the girl’s protests. The three of us are now lounging in a special, Ashram-like corner where I’m more lying than sitting. It’s a special corner I haven’t seen before. In fact, the living room is a huge, L-shaped space. But the short end of that L has remained hidden behind two rows of opaque yet fluffy white curtains that section it off from the rest. And that’s where we’ve retreated once we were alone.
It’s unlike anything you would expect after seeing the rest of Angélique’s and Carole’s place, which is functional, in straight and simple lines, white with sparse touches of decoration. This feels almost unreal, beyond worldly worries, something out of a maharajah’s palace, half reminding me of a harem. There are those fluffy white curtains hanging all around us, rippling in the unnaturally warm May breeze. The walls they conceal back out of existence. There’s a massive, dark brown Malaysian coffee table standing on curved elephant legs in the centre of the fairy space. In one corner, a slim, Asian chest of drawers with an enigmatically smiling fat Buddha statue on top. All around the coffee table, Moroccan pouffes and low sofas and cushions. Incense, the remains of the spicy food, and the acrid fragrance of Carole’s cigarillo waft through the air. The dim shine of Oriental lanterns sheds a shy, orange light.
First, Angélique asks a lot of questions about my life. Although I’m dodging most of them, she keeps going on, probing and digging with an insistence she normally doesn’t show. It’s almost as if she wanted to make sure I’m fine.
But I don’t like to talk about myself. I share some innocent anecdotes about Djerba, but most of the time, I drown my embarrassment in champagne.
Once my sister’s cross-examination is over, I feel rather out of it, barely capable of following the rest of the conversation. I manage to enquire politely about her novel. Angélique, for reasons beyond me, fancies herself to be a writer. I’ve lost count of the number of novels she has started to write, however. If not consistent, she is persistent at least.
This time, her work in progress is titled “The House of Questions.” As far as I can judge—I’m not really listening—the plot is vaguely based on her life. She also claims to have found a publisher, but I’m not alarmed. Like all her other writing projects, this will be a stillborn baby. This isn’t the first time, either, that a possible publisher shows interest in her work, even though I doubt he’ll get anything publishable in the near future.
Anyway. I guess Angélique should get used to finding fewer and fewer publishers willing to release one of her books if, by miracle, she finishes it. Father is dead, after all, so the probability of his family name being a best-selling argument becomes lower and lower. I don’t question my sister’s talent, but let’s face it: if you’re a president’s illegitimate daughter, say, or related to a former Secretary of State for Foreign Trade, you’ll find it easier to get a publishing deal than if you’re a nobody.
After that, Carole starts talking about her job, I think. Angélique just nods, caressing her lover’s neck all the while.
“… the crisis, and then we had that damn scandal,” Carole muses. “I’m sure you heard about it in the news. Nearly lost my job over that one, did you know that, Marc?”
“Angélique told me,” I answer, wondering if I should ask for another bottle of bubbly. I presume that would be impolite right now, so I just finger my empty glass.
“My company could do with new input, you see,” Carole says. “New ideas, new people from various backgrounds who breathe new life into our processes. Someone with connections, for instance, someone who knows the right people in the right places… that person could make good money right now…’
“And if you brought in such a person? That would certainly improve your career, honey, wouldn’t it?” Angelique throws in, gazing lovingly at her Significant Other.
“Yes, it would, absolutely.”
“Uh-huh…,” is all I have to offer.
“No need to be an expert in pharmaceutical matters, either,” Carole says, prisoner of her train of thought. “We’ve got enough experts as it is. No, it’s the connections that count. Someone who knows about public relations could ask for a handsome salary, if you know what I mean.”
“Anybody would kill to get such a job?” Angélique agrees.
“I fact, I was thinking of someone who’s at ease at dinners, parties, cocktails, informal lunches.”
“No real work involved, in other words? No attachments either?” A strange expectancy makes Angélique’s voice tremble. “Sort of a socialite consultant, you know?”
“M-hm, I see,” I murmur, absentminded. Why do they bother me with this stuff? I’m thirsty.
“I think even travel could be part of the deal,” Carole says. She sounds enthusiastic, as if she were a sports angler throwing a prized game fish into the river. “I know for certain that is. I talked about it with the CEO’s assistants.”
“Always so busy,” I say, my speech already slurred. “Always ambitious, always looking ahead, always moving on and forwards, aren’t you?”
Carole shrugs, slightly surprised. “You have to, nowadays. You stand still, you’re dead, career-wise.”
“So?” my sister asks with a strange emotion gleaming in her face.
Beg pardon? What was the question? Was there a question? Where? When?
And that look. Could it be hope I see in Angélique’s eyes? But she is hoping for what? I don’t understand what they want from me and idly wonder if it’s not just a trick of the dim lighting.
“So?” I repeat like a parrot. I really don’t know what the heck they’re talking about. But I can’t say it out loud.
I stand up. “So… gotta pee. An’ I’ll bring back ‘nother bottle, okay? If you ‘xcuse me for a sec…”
When I stumble away, in search of a bathroom, I sense that some sort of peak has been reached, and that from here on the road will go downhill. There’s a trace of tension and deception in the air; the atmosphere feels anticlimactic, subdued, almost frosty.
I’m not sure I understand. I’m not sure I want to understand.
And more than anything I need to have more champagne.
—75—
An hour later, oh, at least ’n hour later, the door closes on me, an’ I try to climb down the stairs. Rather relieved. Had the impression the girls were wary of me. Like I had made’em angry or somethin’. But why? When? What?
Mustave missed somethin’. Like, what…? Thinkin’ an’ tryin’ to find out but can’t. Am in no condition to think, no condition at all. There’s still somethin’, friggin somethin’ in the back of my mind, a word, a sentence—shit, somethin’. Vague, a loose thingie, like a thread in a maze that keeps eludin’ me as soon as I try to grab it. Haunts me like a ghost, though. A job? An offer? For whom?
And oh my God, I must be really pissed!
I hate this. This sloppy sensation drummin’ in my head: there’s, uhm, somethin’ I haven’t picked up in our conversation, okay? It’s not about Emma, sweet thing. It’s not about our invitation to visit our sister Raphaëlle next weekend, either. Raph, sista, huh…
Ah, that one! Whatta big surprise, can’t bu-lieve it! Seems Raphaëlle wantsa see us: me an’ Angélique. An’ Emma. Whatta weird idea, I say! Who woulda thought… But stranger things’ve happened. Seems Raph wantsa talk about our father’s will an’ shit. Seems she left several messages. On my bleedin’ answerin’ phone, Angélique’s said.
She did, Raphaëlle, she did. Call, I mean. Dunno why I didn’t call back. Escapes me. Can’t remember properly. Didn’t she leave a first message while I was doin’ that thing in Djerba? With, uh, whassername? Alessandra, yeah.
Have to sit down on the last step for a sec. Stairs turnin’ and stuff. Breathe deeply. Steady myself, head wobblin’. Shouldn’ta opened the last bottly of bubbly, I think.
/> Weird thing, that invitation, for a starter.
Gigglin’ ’cos all of a sudden, that Prodigy tune starts a-turnin’ in my head… for a starter… trouble starter… firestarter, twisted firestarter…
An’ this. Dinner with my sisser. ‘n’ Carole ‘n’ stuff. Never done before, like. Nice but weird, still. That, like, expectation floatin’ in the air. What they’re expectin’ anyway? From me of all people?
Hear ‘em upstairs cleanin’ up. Dishes bein’ put into the dishwasher ‘n’ a cling ‘n’ a clang ‘n’ I’m still gigglin’… filth infatuated, firestarter… Low voices, like, upstairs, murmurin’ and stuff ‘n’ firestarter…
Have I said somethin’? Don’t think so. Noooo… not me, the punkin’ instigator… But… have I? Without noticin’? Somethin’ that coulda hurt Carole’s feelin’s or what?
Dunno.
Oh, shit. So pissed…
Or is it somethin’ I, like, haven’t said?
Turnin’ and a-turnin’, and my head’s heavy, shit, fireshtuhtuh… shouldna drunk so many wottlies, bottlies o’ bubblies… cling clang… dearies, ‘n’ that lovie Emma, my Emma…
—74—
Mobile vibrating in my trouser pocket. Wakes me up. Need a moment to remember who and where I am. Then I pull out the mobile, a fussy affair.
It’s 3:30 in the morning. I must have been sleeping for two hours at least, slouched on the stairs. I notice someone must have put a pillow under my head. And I notice it’s a text message that has woken me up.
what are you still doing
at your dyke sister’s?
get out, otherwise…
I shake my head to get rid of a sudden uneasy feeling. But carefully, so as not to mess up the caboodle inside, brain cells, synapses, booze.
Around me, darkness. But through the half-open door of Jane’s living room, I see shy light spilling out into the corridor. Even if it’s embarrassing, I hope she has brought me the pillow. What a shame if Carole or my sister found me here on their steps, fast asleep, a snoring drunkard.
Slowly and shakily, I rise, one hand on the railing, picking up the pillow as well. Where shall I put it? What shall I do?
Ordinary Whore Page 7
