The Other Story (18 page)

There was another event in Nicolas’s new life as a best-selling author that had been a hit on Twitter. He was on his way back to Paris from Los Angeles after the Oscar ceremony. Magazines and Web sites were full of photos of him posing with Robin Wright, she in a scarlet dress, he in a black tuxedo. Nicolas boarded the plane with a business ticket, but when it was known that he was on board, he was upgraded to first class, where he found himself entirely alone. He had never flown first-class, and he marveled at the attention and comfort. The plane was delayed, and as Nicolas sat in lonely luxury in the first-class cabin, he Tweeted. Every five minutes, it seemed, a flight attendant offered him drinks, food, a magazine to read, a chocolate, a perfumed towelette to wash his hands. He Tweeted away, posting photos of the delicacies coming his way. During the long wait for takeoff, he was given a pair of elegant gray pajamas, slippers, and a vanity case. He asked a flight attendant where the toilets were, and she ushered him to a door toward the front of the aircraft. Once inside the small square space, Nicolas could not find the toilet. There was a plastic cushioned bench, which he poked and prodded at in vain. He peered over and under the sink, tapped at a paneled mirror, hoping a secret device might make the toilet spring forward. Nothing happened. He pressed on all the buttons he could see. Meanwhile, he Tweeted about his misfortune, making thousands of followers around the world roar with laughter. “Stranded in first-class toilet in plane. But no toilet to be seen. #help.” He hopped around the cabin, crimson-faced, wondering what to do. “Am I going to have to pee in the basin or what? #wtf. #firstclassnightmare.” When he emerged, defeated, telling the flight attendant he had not been able to operate the toilet, it was her turn to laugh. That was the changing cabin, she explained, grinning; the toilet was just on the left. He had opened the wrong door.

And then, of course, there was the presidential lunch. Last year, just after the Oscar, Nicolas had been invited to the Elysée Palace by the First Lady. When Dita phoned him with news of the invitation, he had at first thought it was a joke. Dita insisted that, no, this was no joke. The First Lady’s personal secretary had called her, and this was all real. So? Was he going to go, or not? Nicolas was wary of any political maneuver and the possible repercussions. He did not like to be branded, nor did he wish to reveal any political tendency. A political opinion was a private affair. He prudently asked Dita to find out who else had been invited. An hour later, she called back to announce that two other writers had been invited to an “informal literary lunch by the First Lady.” She gave him the names—a man and a woman. He knew both of them, but not well. They had met at book fairs and on TV shows. He was the youngest of the lot. Curiosity got the better of him. Nicolas told Dita that he would go. He had never been to the Elysée Palace. Such an offer may not happen again. On the given day, he turned up, wearing his customary black jeans and black T-shirt. As he crossed the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, two guards standing outside brandished stern palms and ordered that he remain on the other side of the street. He gave them his most winning Nicolas Kolt–like smile and wordlessly handed them a printed version of the e-mail confirmation he had received from the First Lady’s assistant. They apologized and led him to the entrance. A man wearing an impressive uniform, white gloves, and an intricate gold necklace ceremoniously held out a silver tray. Nicolas understood he was to give the man his identity card. He placed it on the tray. The tray disappeared. His card was a recent one, with the notation “Nicolas Duhamel, also known as ‘Nicolas Kolt’” on it. Another man appeared, this one wearing a gray suit. He handed the card back to Nicolas, beaming. “Monsieur Kolt, it is a pleasure to meet you. My wife loves your book. She cannot wait for the next one.” Nicolas followed him into the large square courtyard where, on TV, his entire life, he had seen presidents come and go along those steps, greeting other presidents. His hand itched for his BlackBerry, but he knew he could not take photographs or Tweet, which would be seen as rude and inappropriate. He had not mentioned this lunch to anyone except Alice Dor, who had gasped and smiled.

The two writers were already in the dining room when he was ushered in. The woman, in her fifties, wrote popular crime fiction, which had been adapted for television. She was wearing a fuchsia silk dress and too much lipstick. Writer number two, in his forties, was a platinum-haired trendy troublemaker who wrote nihilistic books about sex, literature, drugs, and himself. He wore oversized Harry Potter–like reading glasses and a prune-colored velvet jacket, on which a coat of dandruff was steadily forming. They greeted him with false affection and contrived smiles. From the windows, Nicolas could see the green lawns of the famous private gardens. After a short wait, the First Lady appeared, all dimples and friendliness. Nicolas had never met her. She was shorter than he had imagined, in spite of very high heels. Her lustrous hair was perfectly set. The lunch was strangely silent. Waiters passed the dishes in a fluid ballet. The First Lady did all the talking. It was as if she were having a conversation with herself. Fuchsia and Dandruff nodded and smiled. But no one else spoke. Were they too impressed? He longed to take photos of the silver cutlery, the monogrammed crystal glasses, the beautiful Limoges porcelain plates, from which countless presidents and their illustrious guests had eaten. When the dessert was served, a delicate fruit salad with meringues and a dark red raspberry sauce—which Nicolas concentrated on in order not to spill it over the immaculate embroidered tablecloth or himself—he sensed movement and glanced up. Dandruff and Fuchsia were on their feet, faces flushed. Nicolas realized with a shock that the president had entered the room. He stood up swiftly as well, towering over the president, a stocky man. Before he could say anything, the president was shaking his hand and asking everyone to sit down again. It was a surreal moment. Nicolas had to stop himself from staring at the president, whom he had never seen in the flesh. His eyes took in the president’s suit, his monogrammed, white shirt, his gold cuff links, his blue tie, his watch (a Scuderia Ventidue). Coffee was served, and all the while, the president talked. His wife acknowledged his every word with a nod of her head. The president’s monologue was political, in view of the presidential elections the following year. Dandruff fired a couple of polished remarks, eager to shine. At the end of their exchange, the president began to talk about social networks, an expression of disdain on his face, which sparked Nicolas’s interest. With a guffaw, the president revealed that he had recently met the CEO of Twitter and the CEO of Facebook. “Nice guys,” he called them, with a scornful smile, his upper lip contorting, “nice young guys in jeans and T-shirts” (forgetting that one of his guests was wearing precisely that attire), “nice guys who think they are kings of the world, but honestly,” the president went on, grimacing, “Twitter is Mickey Mouse saying hello to Donald Duck, and Facebook is Donald Duck saying hello back to Mickey Mouse, right?” Everyone roared with laughter. Nicolas laughed, too, because he felt he had to, because it was the thing to do in the present circumstances, but when the mirth died down, he regretted having joined in the fun. The Mickey and Donald sentence remained stuck in his head, and he could not stop thinking about it. As soon as he left the Elysée Palace, he Tweeted the phrase, quoting it with the president’s very recognizable initials. It attracted attention immediately. The buzz on Twitter grew. Journalists wrote to him, called him, or called Dita, who found herself swamped. Everyone wanted to know more. Where had Nicolas heard that phrase? Under what circumstances? Had he met the president? Meanwhile, his quote was Retweeted hundreds of times, on both sides of the Atlantic. Alice feared someone from the palace press corps might call and demand an explanation. But the Elysée remained silent. “‘Presidents should never invite writers to lunch,’ said Mickey Mouse to Donald Duck” was Nicolas’s final and popular Tweet about the matter.

Nicolas never Tweeted about the book he was pretending to write. But he was very loquacious about
The Envelope.
He had wanted to Tweet about the pride and incredulity of seeing his name on the printed page for the first time. He had corrected the galleys with the help of a sharp-eyed beauty named Rebecca, with whom, he learned, all authors from Alice Dor Publications were enamored, because she was quietly professional, dedicated to her work, and lovely to look at when she bent over the page, red pencil in hand, chestnut hair cascading down her back, sometimes revealing a white neck. Then he had been tempted to share the prospect of choosing the cover with Alice Dor and her talented artistic designer, Marie-Anne. Marie-Anne was worshiped by Alice Dor, Nicolas soon discovered. Marie-Anne had come up with the distinctive logo that symbolized the publishing company: two cherries with intertwined stems. There had been several cover possibilities, and he thought that perhaps he could show them to his followers. And, finally, he felt compelled to describe the unforgettable day he saw his debut novel for the first time in a bookstore, the pure joy of seeing it there, for all to read, offered, ready, full of promise. But he finally chose not to Tweet about any of it. That joy was his, and his alone. It was a past joy; no point going back to it. He remembered how he entered bookstores in a sort of trance, just to glimpse his book among all the others. If a person picked it up and read the back cover, he felt intense excitement. If they ended up buying it, he was overjoyed. At that point, when the press had not yet started writing about him, he could still stroll into bookstores without being recognized. He spent a long time in these establishments, pretending to be absorbed in some other work, spying on would-be readers. If his book was badly placed, he would surreptitiously put it back on the front piles so that it could be seen more easily. But as
The Envelope
slowly and surely gained readers and attention, Nicolas found that he no longer needed to replace the copies. They were already there, in towering stacks for all to see. He did not need to Tweet about those triumphant piles. His thousands of followers did that for him.

I
T IS NOW LUNCHTIME
at the Gallo Nero. Guests take their seats at the restaurant by the sparkling pool, protected from the greedy rays of the sun by soft beige parasols. Waiters serve food in the usual smooth routine. There are more new people, Nicolas notices. Two blond American women, anywhere between forty and sixty, with the bloated, tight features of recent plastic surgery and Botox overuse. They laugh with the harsh whinny of hyenas. “Oh my God,” whines one over and over again. “You gotta be kidding!” shrieks the other. Behind them is an Italian family, the identical version of the
Vanity Fair
tribe of yesterday, same allure, same glamour. The photo shoot has stopped for the moment. Those in the fashion group are nibbling snacks by the bar before they start shooting again in the late afternoon, when the heat will be less oppressive. Nelson Novézan lunches with his girlfriend, hunched over his plate, and orders more wine. His face is particularly puffy today.

Nicolas sits at “his” table with Malvina. He looks around at the other guests and wonders why they are all here today. It seems that no event, however horrendous, scandalous, or heinous, could ever alter the Gallo Nero’s supreme and insolent tranquility. Here, the sun rules, masterful, seconded by the sea and the sky in their ultimate blue glory.

Nicolas tells Malvina about the call to his mother, and how someone named Ed answered Emma’s phone. He tries to describe the embarrassment of the situation, the relief on learning she was not ill, and, all the while, the realization he had not been in touch for so long that he knew nothing about his mother’s life. He explains how Ed sounded disturbingly young, although, of course, he could be wrong; it was on the phone, and it is hard to judge a person’s age just by his voice. Malvina smiles. Nicolas resents her smile. He was expecting empathy.

Next to them, Mr. Wong and Miss Ming seem keen to start a conversation in halting English. This is the last thing Nicolas wants. Why can’t these people shut up and leave him alone? If they mention the new book, he will be tempted to throw them over the cliff. He is still stunned by the events of the morning: his surrealistic conversation with Dagmar Hunoldt; his aunt’s discomfiting harshness; the startling knowledge that his mother has a young lover and that she is with him on a boat in Saint-Tropez; the abominable article by Laurence Taillefer, which now feels like the aftereffects of a punch in the stomach.

The American face-lifted ladies continue to howl with laughter. Nicolas yearns to throttle them.

“You live Paris, yes?” squeaks Miss Ming, her moonlike face wobbling as she nods her head up and down. It is impossible to guess Miss Ming’s age. She looks like she is made out of porcelain.

“Yes, we do,” says Malvina, understanding that Nicolas is too preoccupied or uninterested to answer.

“Ah, Paris,” squeals Mr. Wong. “Very, very nice, Paris, yes!”

More nods and bobs of their shiny black heads.

“And you live in…?” asks Malvina politely.

Miss Ming pronounces a few unintelligible words. Malvina glances at Nicolas for help, but Nicolas is in that other world, where she knows she cannot enter. There is no point in speaking to him now. Unbeknownst to Malvina, Nicolas’s head is full of women. The women of his day: Alice’s expectations, Dagmar’s snub, Roxane’s causticity, Emma’s secrets, Laurence and her contempt. The women of his night: Malvina’s untroubled sleep, Sabina’s BBM, Cassia’s tongue. He wants to be anywhere on earth but here, now, trapped in this perfect blue luxuriousness with all the other rich, spoiled guests being pampered, waited on hand and foot. Perhaps the only comforting thought right now is of Sabina. Sabina, who set his loins on fire with text messages and photos. Sabina is the only solace he can take comfort in, at least mentally. The idea of her, or just thinking about the pink-and-golden triangle, brings him a sweet stab of secret pleasure.