Touché. How does she know?
“I think you owe us an explanation.” Raphaëlle crosses her arms. “And it had better be a good one.”
—60—
One of the last times I talked with my father before he died. And that was some years ago. I had just visited the apartment that was going to become mine. The blonde real estate woman had shown me around, chirping about the apartment’s huge potential, and its square metres, and the fabulous luminosity. I had almost yawned with boredom before interrupting her mid-sentence, “Spare me. I take it.”
Once outside, I dialled my father’s phone number while walking down the Bassin de la Villette towards the métro station Jean Jaurès. “We need to talk,” I said when he answered.
“Who is it?”
“Your son Marc.”
“Oh.” Father’s baffled silence lasted only a minute. Then he pulled himself together. Maybe a secretary had entered his office. Anyway, he boomed with fake joviality, “Good to hear you, son. How do you do?”
“Let’s meet tomorrow,” I said. “After lunch. Two o’clock. At the Cité des Sciences, in front of La Géode.”
“Good heavens, you want to take me to an exhibition?” my father mock-joked.
“You’ll see. Tomorrow at two sharp.” I hung up.
When he arrived the next day, he seemed in control, as usual. Two tall bodyguards followed him. The three really looked the part. My father in a nondescript, creased grey suit; inoffensive, nodding to the passers-by he believed had recognised him. His security clowns in white shirts, black designer suits bulging with muscles. They were wearing expensive sunglasses on their noses. The three had more or less neutral facial expressions; my father adding some false heartiness, his guys purely brain-dead.
“Hi, Marc,” Father said, stretching out his right hand.
“Hi, Father,” I answered. Then, taking his hand, I pulled him into a hug, taking everybody by surprise. He stiffened, and his men moved closer, reeking of sudden stress and Kenzo.
Father had to wave them off, “It’s okay. This is my son.”
I patted his back, then hugged him tightly again, feeling his bulk against my torso.
“Now that’s a warm greeting.” Father disengaged himself very fast. I sensed his embarrassment.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” I murmured. “I just wanted to make sure you don’t have a tape recorder in your pockets. Now, send your goons away, will you?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I don’t want our conversation to be overheard. That’s why I’ve chosen these premises.” I gestured towards the huge, sparkling glass sphere in our backs. Then, I pointed to my ears; the Cabasse musical clock, I implied, would cover up what we had to say.
“All right,” Father shrugged. “Wait for me in the car, boys,” he told the two men.
They walked off reluctantly.
My father and I looked at each other. Our contorted reflections in the curved mirror panes behind us did the same.
“Now, what is it?” Father asked.
“I visited an apartment yesterday. And signed a sales agreement.”
“Good for you.” Father sat down on the stone balustrade. “You get settled at last. Now, what are you going you do with your life?” He didn’t sound interested; he might as well have asked me what weather I expected for the summer.
“What did you do with yours?” I snapped back. “Anyway, we’re not here to discuss my career. The apartment I’m going to buy is quite expensive. I need money. Your money.”
He didn’t ask, “How much.”
He didn’t ask, “What for?”
He didn’t say, “You must be joking.”
He simply nodded, then said, “No.”
That was my father. “No.” No needless questions asked.
“I think you will pay, though.” I smiled.
“What makes you think so?” my father smiled back. His smiles always had a dangerous edge, as if he were a viper ready to bite.
“Because I know certain things you might not want to be blabbed out,” I sneered. “Remember when I was ten, or eleven? When you took me to that château in Normandy? To see—umh, what’s the name of that old swine?”
“Alain de Rochefont,” my father whispered. He had blanched.
“Alain de Rochefont, that’s it! A ghastly weekend. It was raining all the time—remember? Of course, you didn’t spend a minute with me. You never did. And why should you? You found yourself a more pleasant pastime… some suffer, while others watch and enjoy.”
“Stop!” Father had to wipe his glistening forehead. “It’s not what you think…”
I pretended not to hear him. “Yeah, I guess that weekend didn’t turn out ghastly for all of us.”
“That’s a bluff,” Father almost groaned. “You can’t have…”
“Remember I visited you in your office, last year? You had to handle an emergency with one of your assistants, and while you were gone, I went through your desk. That’s when I found the photos… I didn’t know you had taken photos, but there they were, right before my eyes. I could’ve been disgusted, but you know what? I wasn’t. Not even surprised. I already knew the extent of your baseness.”
Father looked away. His voice sounded breathless, strangled, like a drowning man gasping for air. “It’s not what you think…,” he repeated. “How can you believe…?”
“Since when do you care about what I believe? I knew you were watching me in the château. The photos were just additional proof. Unnecessary but handy. You never realised I’d taken them? You never missed them?”
That’s when he said what I wanted to hear. “How much?”
—59—
Raphaëlle’s steely gaze burns like shame on my cheeks. I see her open her mouth again as if to add something. But she thinks better of it. Her eyes turn black and cold.
Angélique, on the other hand, remains half-hidden in the shadows beyond the reach of chandelier light. She hasn’t uttered a word, which stings somehow. By remaining silent, she expresses almost louder than her sister how much she disapproves of me.
Both of them send out strong, negative vibes that hit me like heat waves and make my skin prickle. I see the blood-red aura of their anger. I smell the sweaty odour of their uneasiness. I taste the sour-acrid flavour of their resentment.
“All right then.” I wave my hand in surrender. “You’re right. I talked Father into buying me that apartment…” I stop. Do I want to tell them about my conversation with Father? All things considered, I don’t. The reason why my father agreed to pay is none of their business. And I don’t see why I should justify my actions, anyway. “Do we really have to go into this?” I ask. “I mean, it’s all in the past now. I tried and succeeded. Only that once. You both know him. Knew him…”
“You won’t wiggle your precious ass out of it like that,” Raphaëlle answers sharply. “You blackmailed him, didn’t you?”
“We… we talked, and…”
“Come on. We all know he kept sea urchins in his wallet to protect his moolah. So, tell us why you benefitted from his sudden generosity.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“If your apartment has devoured our inheritance, it is our business!”
I breathe deeply. The vision of her computer screen pops up in my head. All those emails concerning me. Her secret plotting behind my back. Her ‘mom’-ing our mother. Her making alliances with Angélique. The career she cares about, all of a sudden.
Fuck it. Both of them owe me an explanation, not the other way around!
“Why don’t you two go first?” I snap. “What are you up to? Where did you get your information from? Maître Chambard, the sleazy creep?”
“Don’t you try and turn the tide,” Raphaëlle barks.
I interrupt her. “Surprise, sister dearest! Some of
your preciously kept secrets have leaked out, too. I know all about your new career, for a start. Which proves how vital it is to have information from people one can trust…” With that, I look pointedly at Angélique, implying that she sold her sister. Success is always about dividing one’s enemies. It’s a nasty trick, but maybe it will make them fly off the handle and give themselves away.
Two heads turn to stare at me at once. Both girls lean forward, eyes sparkling, noses trembling. I decide to rub it in, cooing to Angélique, “Thank you, by the way.”
The girls glare at each other now. In silence. The grandfather clocks in the nearest rooms tick-tock-tick-tock more precious seconds away. A log cracks. The world keeps turning in slow motion.
“You… you make me sick. Both of you.” Raphaëlle tries to fight back her tears, but they almost choke her before flowing down her cheeks. I notice that they start to get soft and a tad chubby, her cheeks; I discover wrinkles around her eyes. My sister, who hasn’t changed for such a long time. Here and now, with tears dropping down on the white damask tablecloth, I seem to see her for the first time not the way she exists in my memories, but the way she really is. Vulnerable, living, someone with needs and longings and hobbies and interests and a life. A life of her own. A life made of seconds, minutes, hours, weeks I can’t imagine, can’t touch, can’t feel, see, or live.
The silent moment doesn’t last. Raphaëlle pulls herself together in no time. She gulps, holds out her hand, looks Angélique in the eyes and asks, “Is he right? Or is this a bluff? Just tell me, little sis. I’ll believe you.”
They’ve really ganged up on me. There’s nothing I can do about it. I won’t get any answers either. All I can do is give in.
I jump up, grab the two black appointment books, and push my chair back so violently that it falls to the ground with a bang. “Okay, you two. You make me lose my time with your bullshit. When you’ve calmed down, call me. Right now, I’m off. Ciao!”
I hasten out of the room.
Raphaëlle yells, “Don’t you dare leave! You owe us a bunch of answers, you hear me?”
I walk faster, not bothering to go upstairs where my stuff is. Never mind my underwear, my socks, my tees; never mind the little, black travelling bag I rather liked, never mind, never mind. I can always buy another little, black travelling bag. Never mind the things I leave in the upstairs bathroom, too, the shower gel, the toothbrush, the cologne… never mind, never mind, those are things I can repurchase.
I’m running now.
Someone else comes running after me—I hear fast footsteps behind me in the corridor. When I open the front door, I hear Raphaëlle scream, “Come back, you fucking coward!”
It takes courage to act like a coward.
I hurtle down the oval stairs, two steps at a time, and keep running, the trees of the driveway rushing by, the gravel crunching under my feet. While I’m moving down the lane, I take out my mobile, praying for network coverage.
I’m lucky. Three bars out of five.
Immediately, my mobile beeps four times. New text messages, probably more obscure warnings.
Running and panting, I open the phone app and scroll down until I find the phone number of the local taxi company I’ve saved when we came here this morning. I push Dial, running, running, the blackness around me is moist and fresh, I smell the young, wet lawn, the thousand damp fragrances of the forest, the spring promises.
I keep running, holding the mobile to my ear.
And the rain streams over me, and the wind blows, and the gravel crunches under my feet.
Part Five | Ordinary Bodies
—58—
we know where
you are, we know
what you’re doing.
The air conditioning purrs in my back as I glance at the text message. My eyes sting, a shiver travels up my spine. Since I fled Normandy and my sisters, this must be the twentieth message of that sort. Vague but vaguely menacing all the same.
With a sigh I slip my mobile back into the breast pocket of my jacket and focus on the present situation. “I’m Marc Forgeron,” I say. “A room must have been booked for me.”
The receptionist is a thickset guy, almost bald but for some oily strands of hair combed across the top of his head. He ogles me from head to toe before his face curls into a slimy smile. “Yes, I’ve been informed of your arrival. Let me show you to your room.” His English is faultless, his facial expression sleek and polite, his words remain neutral. Yet, something bothers me. The suggestive tone perhaps? Even if “suggestive” might be an overreaction of my imagination.
The receptionist leaves his place behind the counter and places a dank hand on my elbow with a bit too much familiarity. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay in Hiçbiryerde,” he says, pressing upon my arm. He doesn’t release it for a full second, which makes me understand that, tired or not, I haven’t imagined anything. His innuendo couldn’t be clearer if he had winked at me.
My stare turns into a glower.
The receptionist doesn’t notice. He lets go of my arm at last and turns towards a door behind the reception desk. “Erkan!” he barks. “Erkan!”
A black-haired boy in a red livery slips out.
Barely looking at him, the receptionist lifts his chin and points at my luggage with a disdainful twist of his hand. The youngster bows, joins us, and lifts up my suitcases. His face remains blank, his gaze fixed on his shoes. The air conditioning in my back is still huffing and murmuring ominous messages.
With an unctuous smile, the receptionist turns back to me. “Please follow me, sir.”
We proceed towards the bay windows and step out on the huge and empty terrace of a restaurant, the muggy heat immediately coating us like a film. I expected bright sunshine; but apparently, I don’t deserve sunshine. An ashen haze veils the sky and stretches like cellophane over the country. Diffuse, wadded light filters through, bedimming what little colours remain. Lush plants grow around the terrace, but in these conditions, they look grey and dull. Palm trees, pines, plane-trees, rose bushes, rhododendrons, bougainvillea, all sad and motionless, waiting for something to happen, for some kind of upheaval, for a downpour to refresh the atmosphere perhaps. Or for the world to die in a sigh of relief.
After three steps, I feel like a jugged piece of meat. My clothes stick to my skin. Fortunately, I didn’t take off my jacket. Therefore, my transpiration remains invisible. The receptionist, wiggling his broad ass in front of me, is less fortunate; little by little, dark patches appear on his blue shirt.
Behind a rosebush, a sixtyish man in an expensive suit is sitting at one of the empty tables, holding a cigarillo as thin as his moustache in one hand. He gazes at us, deems us unworthy of his curiosity, and goes back to leafing through the latest edition of the Hürriyet.
On the other side of the terrace, I glimpse a swimming pool and a bar. On first sight, both look empty, too. Then I discover a couple lying on two deckchairs. A woman, a man. They’re so obviously German that I’m sure no one ever asks them to show their passports when they travel abroad. They must be retired, both have blondish-greyish hair, and wear serious clothes—shorts and polo shirts—as well as serious faces. They look tidy, clean, almost statutory. The missus is reading Brigitte; her husband, the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. Although they don’t lift their heads, I can’t shake off the impression that they’re observing me.
The concrete path we follow runs in odd curves through the perfectly kept garden. “It’s a bit of a walk,” the receptionist explains. “Mister Zenkin asked for you two to be housed in the dependency. Which is handy as you won’t be interrupted during your—,” he turns around and puts a lewd stress on his next words, “—work sessions.”
I don’t react. I’m hot, terribly hot, and I’m tired. All night long, I’ve been kicking my heels at the airport. Murat called me at the last minute, which is why I couldn’t get a dire
ct flight. I had to accept a stopover in Rome. Once I got there, it was 11:00 p.m. A young Alitalia employee told me they had problems with the connecting flights and had re-scheduled mine for this morning. She apologised, handed me a couple of vouchers for food and beverages, and led me to the VIP lounge, where she left me to my own, sad devices.
I tried to read, tried to sleep. But I spent most of my time observing the star-spangled night sky above Fiumicino through the bay windows, an activity I found abominably boring. Now and then, I paced up and down the soulless lounge, turning in circles like a tiger in its cage, my thoughts turning in circles, too.
No surprise that I’m so weary now. I never wanted to mull over things so much. Jane and my family provided serious ground for thought, however; that’s why I accepted Murat’s invitation without hesitating. I wanted, no, I needed a breather so as not to go bonkers. I shouldn’t have counted on Alitalia to help me, though.
We leave the concrete path and reach a low building. “Has Mister Zenkin arrived?” I want to know.
“Not yet. We expect him this evening. He asked me to tell you that he’ll… summon you as soon as he needs you,” the receptionist says. “In the meantime—do you need anything?”
“No,” I answer in a dry tone. “Just, you know, do your job. Show me to my room, for a start. That’s all I want.”
My attitude hits home. The man’s sleek obsequiousness cracks, and I catch a glimpse of irritation when he says, “Very well, sir. This way, sir. Your room is upstairs. Follow me.”
—57—
After a cold shower, I don black shorts and a black singlet. The air conditioning purrs a vibrating melody of its own, birds are chirping outside, and in the distance, I hear an old 80s hit: “I like Chopin…” Watching myself in the mirror, I flex the muscles of my left arm, then my right. I had better do some sports this week. One has to maintain one’s work assets, after all.
I take a can of soda from the minibar. Then I rummage through the breast pocket of my jacket and take out my mobile, trying to persuade myself that I need to know how late it is.
Almost noon. An icon is blinking, too. I must have received several new text messages while showering.
Ordinary Whore Page 11
