Saint-Germain
MY FATHER DIDN’T MENTION THE fifty euros again and in return, I didn’t mention how drunk he’d been. Things often passed like that between us: I ignored his bad behaviour and mostly, he ignored mine, but the incident hung between us like bad air for several days until one morning at breakfast he started talking about my allowance, saying he would have to reduce it by fifty euros unless my grades improved.
I was about to get up and walk out of the kitchen when I felt my phone vibrate. I glanced down at the screen – sunglasses and white teeth against a bright blue sky.
It was my mother, but I didn’t answer. Then it buzzed with a message as if she knew I was there, watching the phone:
Let’s have lunch today! I’ll send Philippe to collect you. Don’t tell your father.
I flicked it to silent in case she continued. Anything she wanted kept from my father often meant trouble for me, and I couldn’t engage with her now with him right there. I was often dragged into my parents’ battles in this way, each of them demanding my secrecy so that it was impossible to weave a path through the maze of traps and lies they laid for each other. I usually messed it up by saying too much or too little, and I could already sense the danger ahead.
The last time we spoke, my mother apologised for missing her plane the weekend of the Chambières’ party. She said it was because of the traffic at JFK, but I could tell she was lying because her voice went down to a whisper – as if even she couldn’t bear to listen to the stuff she made up. She usually fooled people with her deceit, including my father and her new husband, Olivier. They were smart men, and not the kind who were easily duped – or at least that’s what I thought.
Although I resented it, my mother always impressed me with her ability to lie convincingly. I thought it proved she was smarter than us, but now I know deception is much more complicated, more instinctive than clever, and that most successful liars are just actors on a good run.
At least there wouldn’t be a lecture about school, I thought, relaxing a bit. She was never interested in that kind of thing. My mother didn’t stress about grades, and she didn’t buy into the fuss my father made about universities either, so at least we saw eye to eye there. She’d got by on her looks and her wits, each victory making her more fearless and irresistible, like a wave that gets stronger on the incoming tide.
My parents were so different it amazed me they were ever together. I didn’t understand how they’d managed four years of marriage when now they couldn’t even share a phone call. They’d met in the early Nineties when my mother was twenty-one, an intern at La Globe, and my father was exactly twice her age. This was before he started drinking, back when he had a full head of hair and was the paper’s star columnist.
‘I was a catch back then. Women love journalists, and they loved me,’ he would boast. But it was only when he was drunk that he could say her name, recounting hazy stories from the past, and letting his eyes film over as the memories drifted back. He told me she had burst into the office one summer, dazzling everyone in her orbit, and burning those who got close. Sometimes he’d present their story as a tragic romance – doomed yet profound, whilst other times he’d raise a finger as if it were a cautionary tale.
According to him, my mother arrived from Croatia with barely a word of French but acquired it within months thanks to a string of men who were more than happy to oblige. She blazed through the office like a gambler on a losing streak until she got to my father whom she sized up as, if not quite the alpha male she was hoping for, then at least a soft touch and the crucial first springboard into a life of no turning back. Her talent lay in making it seem as if it were all his idea, as if he were the one that needed her. In the end, she had him eating out of her hand.
She became pregnant almost immediately, he’d say, with a helpless look that I found insulting. The facts blurred at this point, but in one account, I was conceived in a nightclub to the muffled throb of ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’ by Coolio. There was always a lot of wild invention to my father’s drunken tales, and none of it seemed like my mother at all, but the story about the nightclub might be true because they were married by Christmas and I was born the following June. Within a year, she had what she needed, and school grades had nothing to do with it.
*
Heat shimmered over the bonnet of my stepfather’s black Mercedes as Philippe, his driver, craned around to chat. I saw my reflection in his gold aviators as he brought me up to speed with his family and his recent holiday to see them. He had a soothing voice, so I let him talk as we drove to the swanky restaurant to meet my mother.
I waited behind a velvet rope while the concierge checked my name and then let me into a place decked out like a strip club. Dark, mirrored dining tables filled the room, while heavily fringed lamps muted the light. My mother sat in the middle of it all, scrolling through her phone.
She kissed me on each cheek, her eyes darting from mine as we took our seats.
‘I was worried about you the other night. In a bar at midnight?’ she said, tut-tutting as though it had been my idea.
There was an awkward silence as I refused to get drawn in.
‘I heard he’s drinking again,’ she said, looking at the menu.
‘Not so much,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘He’s pretty busy with work.’
She snapped the menu shut. ‘What’s he working on now? Wait, let me guess – a conspiracy theory about people he envies?’
Here we go again, I thought. I hated the way she laid straight into my father whenever we met. I knew she still had a score to settle, but she didn’t seem to realise I was the one who actually had to live with him. In a strange way, it made me feel defensive of him and that was the last thing I wanted.
After a while, she changed the subject, and I zoned out. I watched the waitresses as they weaved around the tables balancing trays of food while she chatted about her life and the places she’d been recently. One of the girls had long hair, and a tiny golden padlock pierced the flesh of her navel. She reminded me of Lisa from my history class at school.
About half an hour into the meal, my mother cleared her throat and looked around. I thought for a horrible moment she was about to rise and address the crowded restaurant, perhaps even propose a toast. Instead, her focus returned to me.
‘Listen, darling, there’s something we need to discuss.’ She looked sideways at our neighbours as she leaned forward. ‘It’s not very good news.’
Her lowered voice chilled me, and I braced for what was to come. I stirred the edges of my steak tartare, forking in spoonfuls of diced onion then capers, sprinkling Tabasco on the glistening yolk that wobbled on top of its meat cushion.
‘There’s some tax nonsense on one of Olivier’s projects, and we need to leave until things are sorted out.’
I worked in a streak of mustard and watched the yellow flare swirl through the meat.
‘It’s these new laws the government’s imposed,’ she said, whispering now, her eyes mournful. ‘We’re moving to Monaco.’
It was my cue to feel sorry for her, but how could I when she was basically telling me she was leaving me here with my father full-time? I didn’t spend many weekends with her, but they were a relief when they came, and she usually spoiled me by taking me to restaurants like this. I knew we were only there because she liked the place, but so what.
I reached for the pepper grinder. My mother must have thought I was extending my hand in sympathy, and she grasped my fingers. We sat there, holding hands awkwardly in mid-air for a moment or two.
‘It’s not until the New Year, at least,’ she said with a sigh.
I focused on my food, adding mustard, ketchup, more Tabasco until it turned a lurid shade of terracotta.
‘I knew you’d be disappointed,’ she said. ‘Imagine me as an exile. We’re being treated like criminals!’
I looked at her. What on earth was she saying?
Then I had a crazy idea. She’d always promised I could live with her one day. I knew it was difficult because she had another child – a half-brother I barely knew, and they travelled so much, but I was older now and less trouble. They could leave me alone while they jetted around.
‘I could come and live there too,’ I said.
My mother stiffened, and I regretted the words immediately.
‘Oh, Alex. We’ll hardly ever be there, and . . .’ she said slowly. ‘And what about school?’
It was like she’d slapped me in the face.
‘Oh, that’s right, I forgot. They don’t have schools in Monaco,’ I said.
She gave a smile like a squeezed lemon. ‘Of course they do, darling, but the one you’re at now sounds wonderful. Everyone says it’s the best in the country, how difficult it is to get in.’ She pushed salad around her plate then forced a laugh, her face still sour. ‘You have your father’s sense of humour.’
I stared at my food. Piercing the egg, I watched the yolk ooze over the meat and pool in the bloody crevices. I dug in my fork, bringing the meat to my mouth.
As I bit down, a fireball of mustard shot up my nose, setting off a coughing fit. I dropped the fork, which fell off the table and rang on the stone floor drawing everyone’s attention to me as bloody lumps of meat rained across the table.
My mother stared at me, aghast.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off, then? Fuck off to Monaco,’ I said, through threads of saliva.
‘Alex!’ she said, backing away in horror.
I tried to breathe, staring at my reflection in the mirrored table as the waitresses fussed around.
My mother gathered herself, dropped some notes on the table, and led me from the restaurant, her head high.
Outside, she drew me to her. ‘You have to understand, Alex, it’s not like that. Things are much more complicated than you know.’
‘What things?’
She shook her head, and for the first time ever, she looked worried, suddenly much older, and her eyes glistened slightly. ‘One day I’ll explain, but for now, it’s out of my hands.’
Then, before I had a chance to find out what she meant, she smiled and put on her sunglasses. ‘Tartare’s never a good choice in warm weather. It’s very hard to keep the meat fresh.’
She stepped forward to kiss me, but I’d already turned towards Philippe, who was waiting across the road.
*
I left school with Nathan that afternoon, feeling sick and empty after the lunch. I didn’t want company, but it was too late to change the plans we’d made to experiment with the weed while my father was out.
‘I’ve asked them along too,’ Nathan said, pointing to Lisa and Jeanne up ahead, dressed identically in ankle boots, leggings, and designer puffa jackets. ‘Lisa’s an expert. She’s probably already smelled it on you.’
I held the door of our apartment building as the others filed in. We all squeezed into the tiny lift, and I felt Lisa’s breath on my neck as we climbed to the fifth floor.
Our housekeeper, May, was ironing in the hall and looked up, surprised since it was the first time I’d ever brought friends home after school. I knew both of the girls lived in vast apartments in the sixteenth arrondissement and I watched their reactions to our ordinary flat. They wandered through, opening doors until they found my bedroom.
Lisa took a small metal pipe from her bag, opened the window and sat on the ledge.
I passed the foil bullet. ‘You do it,’ I said, having no idea how the thing worked.
Peeling back the foil, she stuffed a pinch of weed into the pipe, tapped it then held it out to me. She put her lighter over and I sucked it in, the heat of the flame searing my throat. I held my breath for a few seconds before it hit me with a massive head rush.
The pipe was passed around, and soon it was my turn again. I couldn’t work the lighter and pipe at the same time because my hand was shaking, so Lisa helped me.
‘Alex, this is really strong. Where did you get it?’ she said.
I could barely form words, my head spinning. ‘A girl in Montparnasse,’ I squeaked eventually. ‘I don’t know who she was.’
Lisa raised her eyebrows. ‘Little Alex scoring drugs on the street.’
After that, the room started pitching, slowly at first then gathering momentum. I lay down, and my head felt pinned to the bed with my body whirling fast around it. Someone said my name, and it felt like hours before I could reply. Nathan was laughing and holding the pipe, but I waved it away.
‘Come on, Alex,’ Lisa said, millennia later. Her hand shook, and flakes of grass spilled onto the bed. When I finished, she lay next to me, holding my hand as the room pulsed and swayed around us. I tried to sit up, but my head was anchored to the pillow. Someone dropped the pipe and crashing cymbals filled the room. Finally, I rolled onto my side, my body leaden.
‘You look bad,’ Nathan said, his voice reaching me as if through an echo chamber. My ears burned, the blood throbbing in my head, my throat on fire. Smoke hung heavy in the room, thick and reeking.
Then panic whipped up through the haze.
What if this feeling was permanent?
What if my father found us like this?
You used your bedroom as a crack den.
I leaned over the bed, feeling like I was going to puke while Lisa pressed her hand to my forehead. ‘Just lie back. Breathe. The spinning will stop.’
She brought my head to the pillow and stroked my forehead. Her hand felt cool on my burning skin, like a cloud passing over the sun. I tried to control the panic by breathing slowly, keeping my eyes fixed on tiny cracks in the ceiling, and then finally, everything calmed and the room just pulsed with shadows and light, the bed covers rippling in the breeze, wafting over my face like soft ribbons. Lisa was fanning me and loose threads tickled my cheeks. Someone played some music, and the edges of the world softened and blurred. My arm drifted off the side of the bed, and I felt I was on a gently rocking boat, numb and peaceful, floating.
Lisa continued to stroke my arm as sunlight shone in, bouncing off her hair in a Technicolor halo, blonde strands drifting across her face.
Finally, Nathan loomed above me, asking if I was OK. He looked serious, but the things he said were absurd. Laughter welled up inside me and rolled out like bubbles bursting, each one setting off the next. The look on his face was the funniest thing I’d ever seen and I was doubled up, laughing uncontrollably, carried now on the waves of light and sound. We all clutched each other on the bed, laughing into each other’s faces.
Lisa kissed me. She tasted of smoke, her lips hot and dry. Then she lay beside me, her hand tracing patterns on my chest. I flinched, worried about my eczema, but amazed that for once it didn’t itch or hurt. We lay there kissing, and awkwardly rearranging our limbs until we were in each other’s arms beneath the sheets. Then she smiled, and I thought she was going to laugh at me, but her hand moved down as she watched me, registering each move she made, and its effect on me. I’d never had such close attention. She was looking right inside me, her gaze so intense it was as if she was taking something from me. I was only half-aware of the other two – they had slipped out of sight.
*
Later, there was a soft knocking at the door.
‘I’m going now, Alex,’ May called gently. ‘Papa will be home soon.’
Lisa went to the window and lit a cigarette. The sky was indigo and someone was singing in the street below. It had rained, and tyres lapped the road while distant car horns beeped in the rush-hour traffic. Lisa finished her cigarette and turned to face me with that same intense look she’d given me earlier. Then she ran her fingers through her hair and tied it up in a knot. She put on her boots, kissed me goodbye and walked to the door, glancing back as she left the room.