The RER train ride to Nanterre had never looked so beautiful, nor had the trip from the center of Paris ever felt so short. I almost forgot about Louie and my equally disturbing harasser. I think I even smiled at my own reflection a few times like an idiot. I wondered if my happy bubble were contagious and if the other passengers could feel it. Maybe that was too much to ask . . .
Outside, the fading light bathed the gray buildings in flattering hues, and for once they looked beautiful to me.
I was in such a good mood I decided not to stop by the police station, as I had been promising myself I’d do for days, and I even forgot to go to the bakery for Mom’s treats. David’s proposition had erased all my worries and fears.
“It’s no big deal,” Maude welcomed me in her bathrobe. “I played grandma today and made a blanquette.”
Mom wasn’t old enough to be a grandmother, but her sickness made her look like one before her time, with her matte-gray complexion, wrinkles that seemed to deepen by the day, and an increasingly heavy step . . .
I felt uncomfortable at first being so happy in front of her, but then I couldn’t contain myself. With one hand, I idly stirred the veal ragout, whose smell of nutmeg and bay leaves tickled my nose. A purring Felicity seemed to share my joy and wove around my legs.
I tried to minimize the exciting opportunity David was offering, but my mom understood it was a big deal:
“How wonderful, darling! That’s wonderful!”
She pressed herself to my back and laced her weak arms around me. It almost felt like she was holding on to me for balance. I reached my free hand back and gave her a pat, keeping my eyes glued to the thick stew.
“Yeah, it is . . .”
“But . . . ?
“His help bothers me.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know, I’m twenty-three, and I just got out of school . . . and I’m going to have my own show, prime time, on one of the most watched channels in France. Do you realize what people are going to think?”
“Killer luck?” She smirked, convinced that was how young people these days talked.
“No . . . They’ll think somebody pulled some massive strings. And if I’m anything but excellent, I’ll be massacred.”
She pressed her cheek against my back like children do. Her voice was much smaller as she said:
“But you will be excellent, Elle. Period.”
“Mom.” I sighed, smiling. “You’re sweet, but believe me, in television, this kind of favor will come back to haunt me. The boss’s girlfriend gets the show. Everyone hates that: viewers, commentators . . . not to mention the other hosts who want the job. I know what it’s like.”
I brushed aside the thought of the text message rejection I’d received just a few hours before.
At that moment, I caught a whiff of my mother’s ever so reassuring rose perfume as it blended with the stew’s juices.
“Personally, I don’t believe in chance or luck,” she replied as firmly as she was still able. “If you get the show, let’s be clear, it’s because you deserve it.”
“Hmm . . .”
“Didn’t you say that Luc what’s-his-name really liked your demos?”
“Yes . . . Well, that’s what David says. But I think he was just trying to please his boss. From what I saw today, my fiancé isn’t exactly warm at work.”
“That’s not very nice,” she chastised gently.
Surprised at her critique, I turned to face her.
“Not nice? To David?”
“You could have more confidence in his judgment. After all, as you always say: he owns a very big television network. If he thinks you’re up to the job, I don’t see any reason not to believe him.”
Stunned, I stared at her for a moment on the verge of tears. Then I redirected my gaze through the open door to the living room. A collection of photographs of me sat atop the buffet. It was a kind of memorial to all the triumphs of my young existence. The most recent pictures were of my high school graduation and then with Sophia with our college diplomas.
“Honey, it’s normal to have doubts,” she said, folding her fragile hands around mine. “But given David’s level of responsibility, he can’t afford to take unnecessary risks. And he chose you.”
She knew the right words to say, the ones that soothed and made everything a little clearer, like when I was a little girl and would ask about my father, the only trace of whom I had was an old, faded photograph: him and a chubby me, dating back to the year he disappeared, late 1987.
Richard Rodriguez, the Spanish foreman. They’d had a shotgun wedding, and one day he left to do a job in Quebec that was only supposed to take a few weeks. He never came back. Just like that, a ghost.
“Thanks, Mom.”
I hugged her closely, trying to give her some of my warmth.
“Oh, I’m so stupid . . . I forgot the most important thing!” I was so excited I was clapping my hands like a kid.
“What is it?”
“Wait a sec . . . ”
I went to the entry, rummaged through my bag, which was hanging on a hook, and came back to the kitchen holding a long envelope on which was printed a line-drawn globe.
Maude looked at me questioningly.
“What is it?”
“Ta-da!” I trumpeted. “What do you think? Your annual Disneyland pass?”
“What?”
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scold me. I pretended to whack her with the envelope.
“No! Our tickets for L.A.! David’s assistant gave them to me earlier.”
“La?”
“Los Angeles, Mom . . . Get with the program, jeez!”
So long as I didn’t push her limits, she loved it when I teased her. It made her feel more like a friend than a mom.
“You should have seen Madame Chappuis’s face when I told her I was going to the United States this summer!”
“I bet she couldn’t believe it.”
“Honestly, she thought I had lost it, yeah! ‘Right, America . . .’ ”
“You should send her a postcard.”
“I’m going to, and you’ll sign it. The old bag will have a heart attack.”
She took the envelope and stared at the boxes printed on the heavy stock paper with all the dates and codes. She read the first one quickly.
“We’re leaving June twentieth?”
Two days after the wedding, I thought to myself. I hadn’t told her yet. I didn’t want to show how happy I was when her life was in the balance.
My wedding . . . Even to me the prospect seemed unreal. Almost none of my friends and family knew. David, in our few moments together, never brought it up, as if now that he had my answer, it was a done deal and the subsequent events a formality. As promised, Armand was working behind the scenes to make it a perfect day. He hadn’t been consulting me on the more basic decisions (invitations, flowers, menu, etc.). I’d only ever hear about them once the choices had been made. And Sophia, who normally would obsess over this kind of topic, seemed uneasy about broaching it, even though the wedding was imminent. Was she jealous? Or annoyed that I hadn’t told her sooner?
“Yes, we leave on the twentieth. Why? Did you have other plans?” I bantered.
“And when do you start your new job?”
“In theory on the ninth. In three days. Tuesday the ninth.”
She closed the envelope, grasped my hands, and looked at me with determination.
“I’ll go alone.”
“What?” I stammered.
“You can’t come with me. You will have just started a new job.”
“But, Mom, the plane leaves on a Saturday. It’s not a problem.”
“Be reasonable: you’re not going to go all the way across the world and back in a weekend. And I know this job is really important to you. You can’t drop everything and leave right after you’ve been hired.”
“David is the one who bought the tickets. And David is also my boss, Mom. If he thought it was a problem, he would have said something. He would not have chosen these dates.”
Although she was weakened by illness, Maude was still my mother, which meant she was still capable of making me do what she wanted with just one look. Just one word.
“No, no . . . You’re staying here, daughter. I’ll go by myself. I’m a big girl.” She said it like she was taking a cruise for a few weeks, though it was hard to tell by her voice whether or not she was just pretending to be brave.
“I’m not just worried about the trip . . .”
“Am I misremembering? Weren’t you the one who said that this clinic was amazing, and that a nurse would be at my side attending to my every need as soon as I got off the plane?”
“Yeah, I said that,” I admitted. “And it is amazing. It’s truly world-class. It has treated the crème de la crème of Hollywood. As well as at least two United States presidents.”
“So what do you think is going to happen to me there?”
Nothing, she was right. The only thing that was going to happen in this whole adventure was that she was going to be cured, something the Max Fourestier Hospital in Nanterre had been unable to achieve, despite laudable efforts.
“Anyway, you know how it is. When you’re happy, I’m happy. And if I’m happy . . .”
She stopped herself, probably out of superstition. She didn’t want to think of her future but of mine, which she saw as bright. I decided not to contradict her. We could talk about it later.
THE BLANQUETTE TASTED AS GOOD as it smelled, and I was relieved to see my mom devouring the mouthwatering pieces of meat. She had more appetite than usual and was clearly enjoying our meal.
“Did you see your mail?”
I had not yet requested a change of address at the post office.
“No. Why? Is there something special?”
“No. The usual papers: bills, ads . . . Oh, wait, here.”
She stood suddenly and made her way to the entry with surprising energy.
“You have a strange invitation.”
“Why ‘strange’ . . . ?”
My question, like my fork, froze and hung in the air.
“Because there’s no address on the envelope. Just your name.”
In other words, someone had brought the letter directly to my mailbox. And that someone had known not only that I got my mail at my mom’s house but also that I came by regularly to pick it up. Like the person who wrote the anonymous letters in my notebook, I thought fleetingly.
I wasn’t waiting for anything in the mail, and if David had wanted to surprise me with something, he wouldn’t have sent it here.
Maude shuffled back to the table and handed me the envelope. I thought I would pass out. My hand froze on the edge of the paper.
“Are you okay?” Mom asked, surprised.
“Yes, yes . . .”
The color choice, a glittery silver, was one used for wedding or birth announcements, and also for society events like gallery openings or movie premieres.
I recognized the familiar hue of my Ten-Times-a-Day. How could it be a coincidence? The color was so rare, so specific.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
The flap wasn’t sealed but tucked into the envelope’s folds. Anyone could have opened it and read its contents. Without understanding why, this thought sent a nervous shiver up my spine.
The most visible aspect of its contents was a hard plastic magnetic card. Again, I thought I was going to faint when I saw the printed logo:
The Hôtel des Charmes
So he knew . . .
Since the hotel rooms didn’t have numbers, it was impossible to know which door this magnetic key would open. After I got over the initial shock, the first thought in my head was strangely this: without the room number, the keycard was useless.
I’ve already made love a few times in this hotel, but I have yet to orgasm here. I have not added my contribution to the ghosts of pleasure haunting its rooms. Do I really mind?
Anonymous, handwritten, and unfinished note, 6/7/2009—What did he know? He wasn’t in my vagina and couldn’t possibly speculate about what I felt!
A PINK POST-IT WAS STUCK to the back of the card. I felt a wave of disappointment when I realized that the handwriting did not match the one used in the anonymous messages addressed to my body.
Dear Zelle,
tonight, ten o’clock.
Be on time.
Do not bring your phone.
The script was less jerky, more calm and even. It was the handwriting of a person at peace, as opposed to the worry and anguish apparent in the other messages.
“Bad news?” Mom asked, noticing my pallor.
After having examined the contents of the envelope, I was able to say without lying, or barely:
“Yes . . . I mean, you were right, it’s an invitation.”
A white card with one sentence printed in the center:
1—Thou shalt love thy body.
The reference to the Ten Commandments was unmistakable. In college, I had participated in a daylong seminar on literary forms in the Bible: sermons, parables, psalms, etc. The Decalogue had been an important topic.
“Really? Where?”
Maude, who respected my privacy like it was a sacrament—a character trait that had made it easy for me to dodge her repeated requests to meet David—was suddenly curious.
“To a, umm, a masquerade ball.”
“Really? How cool! Is it at your school?”
She was forcing me to improvise.
“Yes. The student council president lives nearby. He probably thought it would be nicer to hand deliver the invitation.”
“You don’t seem very excited,” she said as she poured herself another few drops of wine.
“You know me, big parties have never been my thing.”
“You should go! It will be fun.”
If my own mother said so . . .
This time, I was almost one hundred percent certain of the sender’s identity. Who other than Louie Barlet would summon me to a hotel room to provide a service for which he had already paid? But I was more concerned by another thought that crossed my mind: What if Louie was the person who’d been sending me the indecent messages these past several weeks? What if he was the man behind the notebook? That depraved individual who’d taken it upon himself to perfect my sexual education. The night of the gallery opening I had wondered who could be up to such a task. Well, now I had my answer . . .
I flashed back to a few hours prior in the conference room at Barlet Tower with David and Louie. Their tower. Being in the presence of the Barlet brothers had left a bad taste in my mouth. There was something unnatural about it. One of the two seemed excessive to me, but I couldn’t figure out which. Together, they made an unsettling whole. I remembered their left forearms: David wore a white silk armband; Louie, who was thinner, had a tattoo that I had not yet seen in its entirety.
The doorbell tore me from this unsolvable puzzle. I hadn’t noticed her move, but Mom was already perched at the window. She’d probably heard the motorcycle backfiring, a sound she abhorred.
“It’s Fred,” she said succinctly.
“What does he want?”
“To get his stuff from your room.”
“Did he tell you he was coming?”
“Mmm, yes . . . He mentioned he’d be stopping by one of these evenings.”
My ex did nothing with his days, and yet he just happened to show up when I was there. The bell rang again; our visitor was impatient.
“Go to the basement,” Mom whispered.
“What?”
“Go to the basement. He won’t look for you down there.”
“I’m not going to hide from him. I don’t love him anymore, that’s all . . .”
“You don’t need this right now,” she insisted, her tone exasperated.
But Fred didn’t wait for Mom to open the gate. I could already see him through the stained glass on the front door, just three feet from us.
“Annabelle?”
“Go downstairs!” Mom hissed.
“Annabelle? I know you’re there. Open up!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mom!”
He was now banging on the door.
“Christ, open the door! It’s me!”
I looked at Mom, who was awash in anger and panic.
“Remember me? The guy you dumped like a little shit?!”
I reached to open the door, but Mom stopped me.
“Annabelle, I forbid you from opening that door. He’s completely wasted!”
The motorist’s gruff and menacing voice confirmed her suspicions: he was not in a sober state.
“I just want to talk to you . . .” His voice sweetened. “Don’t you at least owe me five minutes? Five minutes, then I’ll leave you alone for the rest of your life. Elle . . . just five minutes.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Fred.”
My sick mom’s voice must have unsettled him because he started acting even more conciliatory.
“I’m sorry, Maude . . . I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want Annabelle to tell me to my face.”
“Tell you what, for goodness’ sake?”
“That it’s over . . .”
“Well, I can tell you that: it’s over!” she cried, mustering what little energy she had. “Long over at that!”
A few moments of silence went by before he replied, obviously shaken by Mom’s bravado:
“What makes you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth. She’s with someone else now. Someone better.”
Don’t tell him that, my eyes begged.
“Who?”
And as she crucified him, telling him about David, my new career, my dream house, my guaranteed success, and all my future happiness with somebody else, my thoughts started to wander again.
. . . To the envelope.
With Fred’s unfortunate arrival, I hadn’t noticed its unusual weight. Deep inside, under the papers, lay a large, jagged key, polished by time and use. There was no indication of what it could open. Nor did I know what would be expected of me that night. And then there was the strange spelling of my name: “Zelle.”
Nevertheless, I was sure of one thing, and it was probably as foolish as the drunk man on the other side of the door: I had no other choice but to attend this meeting.
To skip it now seemed impossible.