The Suitors (8 page)

Her theatrically sinister delivery tickled Frédéric and me so much we couldn’t help laughing. To hear Gay talking about the price of public transportation was simply bizarre, because she was a great lady. An elderly one, now, but still lovely: she was tall, thin, and had
such
class! Like Ava Gardner in a Hollywood film, she always seemed ready to grab the spotlight, even first thing in the morning in her champagne-colored satin dressing gown and matching mules with Popsicle, her Maltese bichon, on her lap.

She wasn’t the type to sit around mulling over her memories, so no one ever asked her about her life. Except me, and the one time I did ask her I learned she’d had her share of tragedies. She had started out in life as an adventuress, at least so I imagined, by reinventing herself with a new name, Gay. That career had ended in the camps, however, a part of her life she never mentioned. After that, she’d collected husbands, the last of which, Lord Wallingford, had brought her into society and left her a widow.

Frédéric and I were still laughing when my mother—who has always been peeved by our complicity—asked me loudly about Marie.

“And your sister, when does she get here?”

“At five. On EasyJet, actually. With the Braissants.”

When she pretended to be momentarily confused, I added, “You know, Laetitia and Bernard Braissant, friends of hers …”

“What is it they do again?”

“They work in the media, communications.”

“Oh, yes, television, or something along those lines,” she replied with a shrug of disgust.

“Well, let’s say public relations for her and journalism for him.”

“How awful! When I think that your father and I had managed until now to avoid having any journalists in this house …”

Her comment was all the more unfair since our parents hadn’t raised the slightest objection when Marie and I had gone over our guest list with them. And Marie had been particularly careful to reassure them about the exclusively political nature of the Braissants’ professional interests, because she knew how much they distrusted journalists. Besides, Marie and I thought largely as our parents did, since we considered journalists incapable of loyalty to anyone once they smelled a possible scoop, and they were often disinclined to respect the boundary between what was fair game or not—that famous “off the record” they flung all over the place to create a climate of confidence they would betray the first chance they got,
overwhelmed by the desire to release an exclusive report or write the breaking story.

Our parents had often told us: If you’re a public figure, it’s impossible to be friends with a journalist. How can you ask a friend to put feelings before professional interest? Besides, such discretion represents a sacrifice so exorbitant that you’ll wind up paying for it ten times over. The proof? Allow a journalist “friend” to write an article about you: afraid of being accused of concocting a puff piece, the writer will come down harder on you than anyone else. And it’s always possible that the critique, based on intimate knowledge of your life, will wind up being too painfully intimate by far.

My mother, however, had picked the wrong target, because if any one of our guests was open to her accusation, it was surely Jean-Michel Destret. Marie and I really did think it hopelessly vulgar to chase after notoriety the way he seemed to do, waltzing delightedly across television sets and through photo sessions on his way to the ghastly stardom of the VIP: a catchall category comprising the likes of sarcastic old novelists, decrepit social butterflies giddy with gratitude for a photo in the advertising section, and empty-headed pundits pontificating at full blast in televised debates. So if either Marie or I took an interest in this Destret, his deplorable taste for publicity
would require prompt correction, because the Duchess of Windsor’s “You can never be too thin or too rich” paled in importance, in our eyes, before the wisdom of “You can never stay too far away from the press.”

Fortunately, my father chose to make his appearance at that moment, nipping my mother’s growing ill humor in the bud.

“Good morning, everyone!” he cried cheerily, then gave me a kiss.

Raising an eyebrow in my direction, he asked how I was doing, to which I replied with a demure flutter of eyelashes and a smile. He must have sensed that I’d be well advised to cede center stage to my mother, leaving her to reign uncontested over her husband and guests, so I sat back, and a child once again, let the grown-ups do the talking.

My father couldn’t keep quiet for long about his passion for art. For a good part of the night, three Renaissance paintings had kept him awake, lost in the contemplation of color slides sent to him by Sotheby’s, which he quickly showed us with greedy zeal.

There was a Cranach the Elder (1472–1553) titled
Young Woman Holding Grapes and Apples
; a Titian (1485/90–1576),
Mary Magdalene Repentant
; and
Descent into Limbo
by Andrea Mantegna (1430–1506).

His enthusiasm was touching.

“So, you’re tempted by all three?” Gay asked him.

“Oh, no! I’d love that, but it’s impossible. Besides, I’m not really captivated by the Mantegna. It’s superb, but the subject is quite austere. And it’s simply too expensive.”

“But it’s tiny! 38.8 by 42.3 centimeters, that’s eensy-weensy!” cackled Frédéric, holding the Ecktachrome up to the light. “Me, I’d go for the Cranach, and what do you know, it’s a steal at only one and a half million!”

“Yes, but the Cranach’s 81.5 by 55 centimeters: it’s smaller than the Titian estimated at four to six million dollars, which measures 119 by 98.5 centimeters. And that comes to, per square centimeter …”

“You sound like a couple of accountants!” exclaimed my mother. “It’s shocking!”

My mother was not really shocked at all by these trivial comments and was herself often quite blunt when speaking of artworks, which were all the less sacred in her eyes because we lived among them. My father was the collector and scholar of the family, a man who studied art history for several hours a day, but my mother wanted to remind us that she had a good eye, too. And it was true that through her familiarity with the works coveted or purchased by my father, and by visiting assiduously all the museums in the
world and observing dealers in art and antiques at their trades, my mother had acquired such expertise that she rarely erred in her evaluation of a canvas. As on the day when she had appalled a well-known dealer in New York who was showing us a Caravaggio.

“Actually, it should be cut in two! Because the infant Jesus lighting up the picture is sublime, as is the angel in the bloodred robe whirling above him. But the entire right side is a botch …”

And she was right, because carbon 14 dating revealed that the right side of the painting was speckled with pentimenti and overpainting.

“I’m with Frédéric, I’m leaning toward the Cranach,” announced my father. “Especially since it’s the gentlest, most civilized version of a subject he used several times. In general the young woman holds a severed head, whether it’s Judith with the head of Holofernes, or Salome with John the Baptist’s, or Jael with Sisera’s.”

Henri and Polyséna Démazure, wearing varied shades of blue, now made their entrance into the loggia to such spectacular effect that everyone suddenly realized we were all dressed in blue, except for Gay, who was in yellow.

“What happened?” Frédéric asked her in mock dismay. “You didn’t receive the bulletin informing us that blue was the color of the day?”

After a courteous little laugh, Polyséna hurried to revive the conversation about art, eager to take advantage of this chance to mention the beautiful book she was working on, in which photographs of current celebrities—actors, politicians, singers, sports icons, and TV stars—were paired with their doubles from the past, immortalized in famous portraits dating from the quattrocento. James Gandolfini, lead actor in
The Sopranos
, revealed a striking resemblance to the Doge Giovanni Mocenigo, as painted by Gentile Bellini, while Sonia Rikyel seemed to have inspired Otto Dix’s portrait of the dancer Anita Berber.

“I suppose Cate Blanchett corresponds all by herself to a number of Holbein portraits,” observed Gay.

“And Nicole Kidman might find herself as a beauty with rippling red hair by Dante Gabriel Rossetti,” added my mother.

I saw my father’s face cloud faintly with annoyance. Cate Blanchett and Nicole Kidman meant little to him in comparison to the grandmasters of painting, about whom, on the contrary, he could hold forth forever, but he preferred to keep quiet rather than offend Polyséna.

“Well, Laure,” said Frédéric brightly. “It’s high time to get a move on! You promised to drive me into town, remember?”

Like many fun people who disdain to conform to modern life, Frédéric had no idea how to drive. Surprised for a moment, then grateful for the diversion, I was about to reply when my mother beat me to it.

“Don’t be silly!” she told Frédéric. “Roland, the chauffeur, will take you. And if it’s to buy your
Paris-Turf
, I don’t see why you can’t ask Roberto to get it for you.”

“Flokie, darling,” said Frédéric, rising to kiss her hand, “you’re a sweetheart, tried and true, but I absolutely need Laure for my little jaunt because I’m going hunting for a present for her
birthday
, which—as you know—is only a few days away.”

Mollified by this logical explanation for Frédéric’s desire for my company, my mother let us go.

“Just give me time to call my son,” I told him.

“Fine, come get me in my room when you’re done—I know it might take some time …”

And he was right. I missed my son so much when he was with his father that I could bear the separation only by breaking it up with phone dates, replacing “See you next month” with “Till tomorrow” or “Talk to you later.” And he missed me. He was only seven, and he needed me. But his moods varied, and that day, busy getting ready for some fishing with his father, he barely said
hello. I felt hurt, but relieved as well, because that meant he was happy.

“So, what’s the form?” said Frédéric after we’d settled in with our coffee on the terrace of the Hôtel du Cap.

He always came on like a punter checking bloodlines when asking about the pedigree of one of my lovers or a guest at L’Agapanthe.

“Jean-Michel Destret? But haven’t you seen his picture? It’s in all the newspapers.”

“You mean the one who looks like the class nerd with his hair parted on the side?”

“Exactly.”

“Hoo boy! Are we in for some fun. Who’s he for, you or Marie?”

“Whoever gets the first hit—we’re going to play it by ear.”

“Like flipping a coin?”

“That’s great, laugh at me! You know what I mean … and by the way, this is the first time you haven’t told me that a guy isn’t good enough for me.”

“I’m on my best behavior, just for you! I’m keeping my beady eye on the sugar daddy prize.”

“Hey, real sugar daddies are old, so if you don’t mind, I’d rather call this a blind date.”

“Blind date? I’m good with that! See how nice I’m being?”

I have always confided in Frédéric about my love life and always been able to count on him whenever I wanted to go AWOL or hit the hottest underground club of the moment.

“I think that’s a stupid idea,” he usually told me, “but I’ll totally support you in whatever stupid idea goes through your head.”

And he meant it, like the year when I had a crush on French movie star Daniel Auteuil. I went on and on about him to Frédéric (who knew him a little), asking what he was like and if there was a chance that he might like me. I always got the same answer.

“You’re pissing me off with your Daniel Auteuil!”

Until my birthday. I was blowing out my candles when he handed me the phone with a mischievous look. “Call for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Some guy named Auteuil, I think,” he told me, casual as you please, when he’d been pestering the actor relentlessly to please call me up and invite me out for coffee.

My mother had a strange look on her face when we got back from Juan-les-Pins shortly after noon.

“Flokie, what’s wrong?” said Frédéric.

“It’s Roberto. He fell. I’m afraid he’s broken his hip. Roland and Pauline just left with him in the ambulance.”

“Oh, shit, the poor man! Is there anything you want me to do?” I asked her.

“Yes. If you could find me a new head butler, that would be a big help, because with our guests already here and now your friends arriving …”

“I’ll take care of it,” I promised quickly, refusing to respond to her insinuation, although I figured that at this rate, my guests—a definite thorn in her side—would soon be held responsible for tripping up Roberto.

“And what about Roberto? Would you like—”

“I’ll handle that,” she answered brusquely.

On that point, I had complete confidence in her. She was fantastic in difficult situations. I knew that she would reassure Roberto, pay all his expenses, and have him cared for by the best specialists, even if it meant moving him to another hospital.