Mai at the Predators' Ball (21 page)

planned to stay awake although total silence had just
descended on the cabin and on the bridge, her father’s voice and the words that should have shamed him, really Noémie I just don’t know what I’m going to do with my daughter, all she does is buck all the time, even awake, Lou didn’t hear this part, I’ll just go to sleep with my hand on Rosie’s shoulder and that’s it, Rosie her very own baby chick. With even strides Mai skated along Atlantic Boulevard with the yellow beam from her flashlight slicing through the sea fog, it had gathered all along her way and seemed to stick to her skin, you can barely even hear the waves she thought, and Tammy’s music, “Billy Jean” and “Thriller,” thumped through her head and the man with the black hat and black shades and the sexiest look, the sexiest moves, danced on for her, on and on Tammy said, night and day, and when her parents came home from one of their nights out on the town drinking with friends she heard the same arguments and fights, always ending the same way, too many kids, at least the oldest ones, Tammy and her teenage brother were already trying heroin, Mom had confiscated needles from her brother’s room, then Tammy and her hash and her anorexia, his fault, the father’s, for making her have too many kids, but the father shot back they’re our kids, we have them and how can we not love them, never a thought about me though said her mother, I just wanted a family not a bunch of deadbeats like these last two, I’m just a mother as far as you’re concerned, not a writer, and I can’t get a minute’s peace, never, just Tammy and her brother, they drain me completely, look it’s just a phase her father replied, we have to stand by them, we were young, just students when we had them, we have no one to blame but ourselves, too much in love to think straight, and so they went on for hours, weighing in against one another Tammy said, our births, our lives, never should’ve been born, they both knew it and my mother said it, just parasites is all the two of us were, never gonna come to any good, my mother the writer didn’t even dare show us to anybody, cruddy, that’s all we were, and Dad going on that we were kids and deserved their affection and support, no way were we parasites but good kids, disturbed and insecure maybe, still needing to spend more time with them, I’m worried that you might be having another breakdown he said to his wife, we overdo it and you get depressed, that’s what bothering those kids, can’t you see he said to her, you think they’ve pushed us too far, and my mother would end up saying she was going to, he was welcome to us, throwaway kids, never should’ve been born, on and on it went all night long, Mai was lucky said Tammy, to have parents who appreciated her, tomorrow Tammy’d be back at Manuel’s private beach unless his father got busted first, but he was a smart pusher, careful Manuel said, and life on the beach was good, nothing to do but hang in the sun, swim, take it easy till the day Manuel and his dad got led away, but hey no that wouldn’t happen, they were too smart for that, look at my prince dance and sing, he’ll never ever stop, watch him even when you think he’s asleep in some make-believe forever, just look how hot he is Mai, his looks, his moves, his hat and sunglasses, and the music in Tammy’s room seemed to batter at Mai’s temples even when she was skating, regular strides behind the yellow beam of the flashlight in the sea fog, not that late really, not even midnight, but what on earth was Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint doing in her grandmother’s place at this hour, lately she’d even been spending whole nights there and she hung in so that Mélanie couldn’t get her to leave, Grandmother had some sort of unshakeable trust in her Mai thought, or was she just plain gullible, imposed on by the governess, Mélanie’s own candour leading her into feelings of guilt toward poorer people every single time, anyway what on earth was that woman doing in grandmother’s room, so Philippo’s hubby showed up at the bar in a winter coat and telling Robbie he’d just got back from an assignment in colder climes and here’s Philippo complaining about me, so you’re all invited to my party Robbie, all of you, it’s just that he drinks too much Robbie and I don’t want his drunken friends sitting at my table in my nice clean house slobbering beer all over my embroidered tablecloths, I mean really I’ve done everything for him and all he does is complain, look you know me Robbie, I love Philippo and his brothers and sisters and his mother too, and I’ve helped that whole family, but does he show any gratitude, hell no, just goes on whining and moaning, he’s a pain, Robbie said that’s gotta be his seventh gin, you’ll find him back there somewhere all teary-eyed and looking for a second hubby, no secret about that, he’s been telling everyone hey look at my sweet face and plump lips, I gotta get him home said the hubby, he’s always making a mess, dirty fingers all over my white tablecloth, him and his drunken slob friends, but his Latino friends are welcome in my place just the same, he’s so damned spoiled, how can he say things like that about me, hey boys has anyone seen my Philippo, over that way in the sauna pointed Robbie, then turning toward Petites Cendres he said no you’re wrong, Yinn’s not looking at you, one of the girls coughed and it worried her, though you could barely hear it, one had a sudden fever, who knows which one it was, and they sat her down in the limo, couldn’t stand up straight at all, probably the haughtiest one, the coyest, never mind which, and Yinn asked who but no one said anything, okay, everything’s okay, and they went on with the tour, one of them said thanks to Yinn, what an enchanted night, what stars, Jamie’s given us coats so we’re not cold anymore, they chatted on about other bright nights on the sidewalks and in the cabaret, nights forever shining on their insomnia, almost wrinkle-free thanks to the makeup, so much like the good old days and almost as young-looking without the ravages of illness showing through Robbie said, still talented dancers and singers, maybe a hint of wear and tear in the voices but as bold and daring as ever, bold and daring as Fatalité, one, probably the coyest and proudest one, said to Yinn say remember when you ran out of red velvet one Christmas and all we had on were bows like ribbons over our private parts, some bikini Christmas that was, boy how we laughed, maybe a cloud over our heads, yeah hoods, remember that Yinn, but were we ever cold underneath, I mean it was December, right, never mind, we were good enough to eat Robbie added, oh yeah so much like the old days, flirty talk, painted smiles and laughs, lots of laughs, the only difference is what’s eating away at them down inside, weird, unreal, not something you can touch or see, better not to think about it, why spoil the fun and laughs, perfect the way it is, a tragedy of happiness the way Yinn wanted it, Jamie the owner of the place too, both of them coming from poverty and making their way with a taste for the charming and fantastic, the bar, the sidewalks to the seafront and the jetty where Yinn stepped onto a boat every New Year’s in almost full-length boots and a red silk dress all ready for the fantasy show meticulously created out of flesh and blood, a feast for the senses of one and all Robbie told Petites Cendres, who envisioned Yinn as depicted on those Christmas nights, his body glossy beneath the red velvet bow with an unaccustomed quiver, a chill, as if he were surfaced in marble all of a sudden, such a vision, so icy it set Petites Cendres ablaze, Yinn looking so theatrical in the streets, detached under the golden glitter of a bikini or a red bow, steadily forward, a gift, a gift Petites Cendres only had to reach out and take for his own, or getting into the boat, what could be more incendiary out on the water, riding the waves under the night’s unreal illumination, evanescent silver globes, luminous necklaces and bracelets dangling from her as if set alight on the water by those same nocturnal fires and spells, as she herself lit and choreographed that same night with a fairy ballet inside the bar or out in the streets, though always watchful of his sprites, a ballet that was magical but perhaps just a little too slow, fatigue had taken a little something from them all, and she watched it closely Robbie noted, Yinn said she remembered those Christmas nights, sure she did, when the red velvet and ribbons ran out, a time like this, then she’d come up with all these costumes and the Chinese silk ran out, what would she have done without her mother’s cupboard full of hidden treasures to fall back on, here son, enough to keep the girls decent at least, I told you to watch how much you spent didn’t I, that material is expensive and you’re so free with it, at least that Jason of yours doesn’t cost me because he only wears tees and Bermudas which he never changes except on New Year’s, when he gets into a tux, he obviously does it out of respect for you with all those cameras on you, and he’s right, so tell me, is it your father’s influence that pushes you to let yourself be filmed getting into a boat nearly naked on New Year’s Eve, must be, he’s the fanciful kind too, plus you’re going to catch cold son, well yes what would Yinn have done without her mother’s instinct for collecting things, crazy Christmas nights said Yinn to the girls, crazy Christmas nights, and as she skated home Mai saw the blinking red light on her cellphone, a message from Tammy, she could read it later, she was still overcome by one of the girl’s posters and now here she was herself, sweet and pitiful, but with all this she’d forgotten about her grandmother, hmmm not good, Mai loved order and Tammy’s life was anything but that, you never knew though, like the June bride on the beach, in the middle of all Tammy’s confusion some sort of beacon sought Mai out, maybe it was the anxiety in her eyes, standing there in front of the poster and wearing her father’s ample shirt from head to toe over her rocker swimsuit, there was Tammy once again saying to Mai just look at my prince’s flaming hair, still no concern on his face, even in the ambulance they couldn’t get the white glove off him, that spell-binding, miracle-working hand of supernatural gifts, was there a red filter on the camera as it registered the dancing and singing or was his long hair suddenly afire, it was, he was ablaze with second- and third-degree burns, just look at his highness coming straight toward us, head in flames and yet he doesn’t lose his cool, look Mai, look Tammy said, it’s like he’s in some deep, permanent sleep or lethargy or something, it’s an illusion though, hey you going already, I’ll text you, you know, about my brother and me, g’night Mai, aren’t you worried about skating along Atlantic Boulevard on your own, I mean don’t you ever get scared, Tammy standing there dancing in her father’s shirt and rocker swimsuit, asking you really gotta go, that happened in Los Angeles and no one was expecting it, hair totally on fire, no sweat, no reaction, why you going so soon, and Mai’s mind skipped from Tammy and her father’s shirt to the poster of the burning man on a red screen, as if nailed to the sunset, her very own prince alone in her room with her, isolated beneath a jungle of palms and bougainvilleas, a damp jungle, nearly midnight, guess it’s not really that late thought Mai, it’s just all that fog on the ocean and along the boulevard clinging to her skin as she strode, skating along to her grandmother who might already be asleep, who was thinking that she’d have to ask her granddaughter about the jewellery, they were so close after all, understood each other so well, yes she must ask her about that, the medallions and all, Esther would say are they still in the box, you have no idea sweetheart all the bad dreams one has at my age, imaginings that leap out at you, our imaginations hold so many horrible things, you have no idea, you’re young though, you’re not just stepping into a pure world of the supernatural, it’s got some very ugly ghosts you know, obsessively ugly, mediocre at best, phobias of enemies on every side, I must tell my granddaughter that’s not all though, there they all were for me to see in Charles and Frédéric’s house, Caroline was the first to come over to me, the lamps were shining so bright and I just headed over to them, oh they were everywhere, and tenderness, and do you know what Caroline said to me, oh nothing new you know, dear friend she said, the only thing is to struggle always to do better, really Esther all that’s required of us is to move forward, but that’s not so easy when you’re hemmed in with old habits like pettiness, greed, and so on and that’s what holds me up, most of all I can never match the generosity of Jean-Mathieu, he’s been so good to me all these years, no, how can I ever make up for it all, I’ve used him so and only now am I aware of it, I’ve even humiliated him, me with my financial cushion on the side, listen well to what I’m saying Esther dear, nothing to be proud of, believe me, and nothing that isn’t the true picture of me as I am, you knew I’d be the first to approach you, that’s what Caroline said from beneath her antique hat, stepping on that hapless scorpion inside the house, a smash from the flat sole of her sandal, this was Caroline, vain and greedy, heedless of Jean-Mathieu’s financial straits, you’ll know me and say that’s her all right, no surprise there with all her faults, there she was holding out her hand to me and saying come, come, don’t be afraid, she wondered would Mai yell that the jewels, medallions, and priceless tokens of love from Mélanie were gone from the box, Mère would hear her rage against Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint, I always said, didn’t I, that she was no good, and Mère would say you have to make allowances for what she and her brother have been through, that’s something you need to learn, how to empathize, you’ve never been there have you, adrift on the ocean on some makeshift raft, no country, no home, you must develop that ability Grand-daughter, that’s what Mère would have to say to her, probably in vain, she knew Mai just wasn’t ready to understand that language, and she’d also tell her you know that box also contains letters I sent to Augustino just as I used to, although he’s hardly written back to me these past months, although he’s become a writer with his entire life before him so I can’t hold it against him, still I truly do believe, sweet Mai, that generations can’t separate true kindred spirits, no matter what family, that’s how I feel about you and Augustino, and I always will my
dearest, he even wrote me that once links like that are forged in life we have to fight, survive, and live with the same impulse, the same passion, and perhaps he might have added the same hopes for understanding despite the chasm of age, one age, one time for us all to cling to and better know one another, borrowed time we can’t get back if we waste it, oh those letters I wrote for him are now yours, this Mère would tell her granddaughter, she could still hear the protests when Mai discovered the loss of the jewels and medallions from the box, inestimable tokens of Mélanie’s love, I told you Grandmother, I told you how awful she was, thieving and nasty just like that brother of hers, He-Who-Never-Sleeps and kills animals in the cemetery, preying vulture I told you, didn’t I tell you, no then, no Mère would not tell her about the missing gems, she wasn’t entirely certain and couldn’t accuse her guardian as long as she wavered like this, really not fair, and here she was, Marie-Sylvie, raising the cushions behind her in the bed and saying, as if to reassure her, here you’ll be better like this when Adrien comes in to see you, though it wasn’t certain he was there right now, Mère remembered him of course, the white trousers and navy blue blazer as though he were there in front of her and confessing he’d seen Charly at the tennis court that afternoon and been charmed into taking a ride in the car she chauffeured, the idea of him stepping gingerly and uncertainly into it tormented Mère, maybe because without Suzanne anymore he was defenceless as he was getting ready to sell his house and move in with the children in New York and had fallen prey to Charly’s wiles, oh that golden couple’s house, the past splendour of Suzanne and Adrien, one last look at that Chinese screen, such delicate shelter for Suzanne when she wrote and read, all those years, all those poems above all, only now being published, how bashful she’d been about that he told Mère, she never wanted them to become public, must be because of me, I didn’t push her hard enough, oh selling this house of love, of books we wrote together, just a Chinese screen between us, such a terrible uprooting, it tore Adrien apart he told Mère one afternoon, of course my children will look after me for a while, years even, then I’ll go to one of those homes to wait to die, where boredom probably does everyone in, I am not just an old man I am a poet and I know it sets me apart and strengthens me, of course it does my dear replied Mère, and you’re still majestic, just as Suzanne was when she left for Switzerland, she knew of course the leukemia was progressing very rapidly and would soon deform her entirely, not one for resignation though and why would she be, Esther, when I wrote my poem “Giving Account,” that’s what I said, never, never must one give up, what a terrible sin it is, and I’ll have to render accounts, what if I did let myself fall under Charly’s deadly spell of beauty and youth so capable of destruction, might that not be better than imposing myself on the children only to have them one day take me to one of those places so I can die of boredom, a place for lives to twinkle out like countless fading stars, when my life as a poet might be so enriched by life and love with Charly, what a story to tell, life sustaining itself by meeting another life, you see Esther dear, this is what I’ve been thinking, perhaps it’s not very noble of me but it is what it is, Mère’s response was well my friend, it means you want me to have to go on worrying about you, forever worrying wherever I travel, is that it, on top of all the concerns I have about my children and my grandchildren, that was when Adrien, sitting next to her on the bed, took her hands in his and said Esther dear, you know a poet like me, suddenly abject and useless without his Suzanne, first and forever a dreamer, wild nights, wild said Robbie to Petites Cendres, Christmas and all the others that disappointed Fatalité, that’s what took him from us, bled him dry, that was when Petite Cendres saw the glimmer of a tear between two dark lashes, Robbie’s nighttime lashes, a crown weighing on deep, wide eyes, it’s true she gave herself too easily to anyone who asked, it was a relic from the prostitution days with her mother, who’d had to do it since childhood, deflowered, bought and sold for pennies, deep in debt till the day she died, singing in glory and pathos, poor Fatalité, hemorrhaging life right there onstage at the cabaret, anything for a bit of friendship, just a bit, and yet no one around her seemed to realize it was going on, wild nights, my Fatalité’s wild nights Robbie said, and Petites Cendres recalled one Christmas night when he’d spotted his old parents hawking their Bibles on Esmeralda, then the old man suddenly got up to scrape shrilly away at his fiddle, a worn old toque on his head once trimmed with fur, and greeted Petites Cendres with respect, not recognizing him in women’s clothes, good evening he said, good evening, baring a mouth full of cavities, and Petites Cendres felt sorry for him and his mother sitting on the bench like that, his kin, his own poor folks, destitute on Christmas. Nora swam vigorously across the pool thinking that if she painted all night again instead of going to sleep, though she didn’t sleep much anyway, and her children let her know that wasn’t good, as if she was to blame for having tremulous nerves, then at least she’d be able to finish this one before Christiensen got back, yes it would be finished she decided as she splashed through the iridescent green water illuminated by the garden lamps, fingers and hands still stained from the work, she’d quickly stripped off her pant-stiffened smock for an instant skinny-dip, the gumbo rained huge leaves among the vines that wove it to the other trees, she’d eaten its fruit long ago in Africa, savouring smells, sounds, and an atmosphere rather like this, why such a fog around the orange and banana trees though, for days now she’d been sowing and planting in the mist and mould, you either had to get up early or not sleep at all to keep pruning away the unhealthy growth on her plants and trees, and while her husband was away she decided to paint the floors with patterns of her own design so they resembled the real plants and trees, like the tall and powerful gumbo she’d painted in Christiensen’s office, now one could move from house to garden amid the same serene vegetation, one her own painted reproduction, the other voluptuous and vibrant, hovering over the pool rich in aromas and perfumes, paddling through the greenish water that undulated away from her but did so much good, now she could see the painting much better, just now set upright against the wall, it felt good to do things on her own though it was hard to carry, but as long as she had the strength she’d ask no one for help, was it too rough, too vast, yes looking at it from a distance like this it did seem too broad and the shape of Nora’s face somewhat ample amid the spareness of the portrait that seemed to fade into the distance, as though craning upward to view herself from above, a lunar space, her own face and head suspended in a void, a major defect she hadn’t spotted up close, the distended eye that stared back at her out of proportion, the enlarged eyes were what drew her in, they should be attentive and not fixed, Nora realized more than ever she didn’t have the mystical ability of a Van Gogh depicting himself while in the hellish tumult of a fever yet calmed just enough by the green of his suit that allowed the white shirt and dangling collar to show, the rough, worn suit of a poor man, a jumble of greenish flames, not blacks and reds, a rough-edged green to calm the man in the picture condemned to madness, a damnation ready to emerge from his own red-bearded mouth, closed perhaps but still on the point of biting and howling through clenched teeth, in her awkwardness Nora thought she must have painted simply the remaining fragments of all that had fallen away, of course Christiensen would say she was wrong to underrate herself like that, still she’d at least like to actually hear the cry burst out of that Nora’s mouth, not stifled like Van Gogh’s, a woman’s scream, a woman who had borne children, not inert and censored, not necessarily one of pain either but one of victory, this painted mouth of hers uttered neither anyway, not a trace of a voice and certainly not a howl of any kind, only a mouth drying behind lips pinched in perplexed hesitation, vacillating between criticism and remonstrance or possibly some delayed expression of wonder, now surely that was what she really intended, yes, to leave the lips slightly open in a moment of enchantment or at least a longing for enchantment, not shut them so firmly, implying an ambivalent ferocity perhaps about to give way to curses, to calumny, or to a frustration that was not warranted when one considered how spoiled she was, Van Gogh would have had more courage than this in his picture of self-mutilation, wearing bandage and fur bonnet as he clenched his pipe, the pipe, his sole comfort amid the flaming reds, the greys, the black of his coat and fur, then the deathly white of his bandage, the terrifying pallor in his face, the disconsolate eyes, reddened eyelids perhaps contaminated by his own paints, lead, arsenic, his own poisons already absorbed into his membranes, the furious and self-mutilating vision he had of himself, barely able to scratch out his painting in pitiless strokes, yet when it came to his friend, he painted with such primitive kindness, practically joyous, with a hint of a smile on the mad friend’s face that bordered on generous indulgence when he painted flowers, Nora instead fled her own portrait and swam to the far side of the pool, where she watched the raccoons on the brown picket fence knowing she would soon feed them, this would have to be the last time though before her husband came back, he wouldn’t allow it, lightning leaps and bounds of fur between the trees, knowing that in a few moments she’d be calling them and speaking their language, holding out dishes for them to take in their paws as agile as human hands, bits of bread, now already calling to them from the pool, yes speaking their language and saying I’ve had enough of this self-portrait, time for food, no more painting and worrying about veracity, enough or not enough, she’d go on feeding them in fact, tomorrow and tomorrow, secretly though so her husband wouldn’t see, it was on a foggy night like this when she and her brother were both children that he had lost his baby monkey in the bush, it had gone to bed with him under the mosquito netting, then by morning it was gone, he thought he’d heard the yelp of a hyena in the dark, yes something like it, the paint smelt of oil and lead, her fingers were still stained with colours when Nora climbed out of the pool refreshed but a bit agitated, Christiensen would be here in a few hours but she dare not go near the picture again for fear of ruining it, she’d done that many times before, broken, destroyed her work by degrees, no, this time she’d be reasonable, and she got ready to meet him at the airport, she intended to look fresh and exquisite in an irresistible dress and straw hat with African necklaces, though perhaps her hair was too short, barely a strand touching her ear, she should have chosen a dye somewhere between blonde and red, this one didn’t quite work, why was she so worried anyway, was this really necessary, for every Saturday when he was home, Christiensen had breakfast alone with Valérie at the hotel by the sea anyway, what was this constant need for female friends, weren’t she and the perfectly run household enough for him, he was away so much as it was, in Niger or elsewhere, why Valérie and all the other lady friends for breakfast by the sea then, except when the children were there of course, but why this devotion to Valérie, she was exceptional, yes, though Nora couldn’t understand her philosophical writings and hardly read them, Christiensen said he admired how she had overcome so many obstacles but Nora too had done as much and was alone so often right here in the present, Valérie was resilient but again so was Nora, yet these Saturday breakfasts and this romantic feel to their relationship, why thought Nora, Valérie had an intellectual and loving husband of her own, widely read too, so what need had she of Nora’s, very helpful of course but still he was Nora’s husband and did they really think she was just a child, an irrepressible kid, slightly irresponsible, thoughtless even, did they consider her at all in their chats together on Saturdays, he always seems to need some female artist or writer apart from me, I mean look at all the languages I’ve learned on our travels, and mostly for him, going from country to country with the children in tow, she’d never dare ask him this, not even where he went at midday on Saturdays or with whom, in fact he confided in her quite sincerely I eat with Valérie, she’s got a problem that needs solving you see, she worries a lot about other people, friends, kids, and so on, and she’s awfully generous he said as though his wife were not, now that was bad, Valérie sees into the problems of our time so very well he went on, there’s always going to be this cleavage between the U.S. and Europe, that’s where her kids are and her husband’s here with her, was it really that or was Christiensen the psychologist peering into Valérie’s soul even though her own husband understood her so well, but Nora would say none of this, furious but silent, it’s better that way because jealousy is an ugly and confused state to be in, this she often said to Marianne, it’s nasty to be envious of your sister Greta, look at me, look at your mother, Papa’s always away but is your Mama jealous of what might go on overseas, no she’s not, besides, such feelings are hideous and disruptive, now dry your tears Marianne, you know I love you every bit as much as Greta, now you really mustn’t feel like this my angel, really, perhaps what she felt toward Valérie was envy more than jealousy, envy of her analytic intelligence, not to mention her brunette beauty, of course it was pleasant for Christiensen to dine in her company, besides he was just as close to her husband Bernard and often ate with him too, Valérie was a hearty eater unlike Nora, not like Nora at all, who was always dashing here and there, more likely to be feeding others than herself, never sitting long at the table, these breakfasts by the sea were really unfair she thought, really unjust, so why didn’t she give vent to her resentment, yes that would put an end to it, then stop thinking about it, so why not simply tell