Hotelles (41 page)

“It's stupid, I know. I'm sorry.”

Okay.

But what was I supposed to say? As sincere as his confession seemed, it didn't erase everything else. In no way did it make up for the things I'd heard from François and Rebecca.

I could have contented myself with his touching confession. I could have sated my thirst for information with the tears he was clearly fighting to hold back. I could have decided to forget everything and take him at his word when he promised a better life. But I already knew too much  . . .

“Belles de Nuit was always only ever about one thing, wasn't it? Finding you another wife? Another Aurora?”

His face tightened into an incredulous smile. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting me to know so much. Nor that I would have the nerve to be so frank with him.

“It's not so simple . . . ,” he said, casting around for an excuse.

“Yes or no: you used Rebecca's business as a private marriage agency? Yes . . . or no?” I enunciated these last words.

His embarrassment did not completely hide the irritation welling up within him. He was hopping uncomfortably, kicking the ground with the toe of his shoe, filled with nervous energy he couldn't contain.

“Yes . . . But it was Louie's idea to begin with.”

“Unless it was Louie who had it first. I never really knew,” Rebecca had admitted.

“But what does that really change, in the end?”

“What changes is that I didn't want it. Belles de Nuit wasn't supposed to be a trap. At least . . . not for me. Just a way for us to meet.”

“And Louie?” I pressed him.

My question seemed to come as a surprise.

“Louie is an eternal bachelor. He likes the chase, you see . . . Always on the hunt for fresh meat.”

The reproach struck me as though it had been meant for me. Not that I included myself among the herd from which Louie, being the good wolf that he was, chose his victims. It was more like I suddenly felt as though I were the predator David was describing, and I did not like hearing my true nature being portrayed like that. Like a vulgar form of consumption. A basic, morbid penchant.

After several sessions at the Hôtel des Charmes, I knew it was much more than that.

“For him, Belles de Nuit was a kind of godsend. All he had to do was pick up the phone and Rebecca would provide. A strange relationship, by the way, when the dealer is jealous of the stuff she's peddling to her junkie . . .”

It was one of the first times I'd heard him speak so openly about his brother. He clearly didn't have any qualms about throwing him under the bus. He didn't even try to justify his behavior or understand the reason behind his addiction to sex. He completely wrote him off, without mincing words.

“Anyway, I don't even want to know all the details, but I think sometimes it got fairly dark.”

Dark?

The skulduggery Marchadeau had told me about came to mind. Louie's erotic fantasies were much less offensive by comparison.

“Dark?” I jumped. “Dark, like a porno made with sex slaves from the East?”

My remark lashed him like a whip, leaving him speechless for a moment.

“Huh?” I insisted. “Dark, like letting me sleep with your best friend the night we first met?”

Instantly, he released my hand. Judging by his expression, I could tell I had gone too far. His head sunk into his shoulders like he was defending himself against a beating. Then he composed himself, puffing up his chest in preparation for his point-by-point defense:

“The investments to which you refer were made without my knowledge.”

“Really?” I was dripping with sarcasm.

“Really. The person who made them in the company's name was fired years ago. But in the wonderful world of finance, that kind of story sticks for a long time . . . Even when you're proven innocent.”

I was stunned. The beast of the media had reared his head. Practiced in the art of the tricky interview, he wasn't going to give in without a fight.

“Check into it if you want. Stephen Delacroix—that's the name of the analyst I hired. And who screwed me.”

“And why did he do that?”

“What do you think? He was working for the competition. To connect me to a heinous moral scandal. To get me thrown out of my job as CEO and to buy Barlet Group at a cut rate. That kind of thing happens all the time, but the media almost never talks about it.”

The strategy did in fact recall what François Marchadeau had described to me over the telephone, and then on the terrace at Café Marly. Economic warfare. Anything was permitted.

Since I didn't say anything, he grimaced and provoked me:

“Ask Marchadeau if you don't believe me! Apparently the two of you are closer than I thought . . .”

Had the end of my night with Marchadeau been outside the bounds of their agreement? I quickly replayed the sequence of events in my head, so far as I now knew them: François placed an order for me with Rebecca, at David's request. David pretended to discover me during the evening, thereby avoiding the less-than-glamorous scenario of ordering me himself—would I have agreed to see him again, would I have found him all that attractive, if I had known
what
and
who
had made our magical encounter possible? Marchadeau was then supposed to get out of the way, his mission complete. But at the last minute, he changed his mind and invited me to the Hôtel des Charmes, knowing that I would never admit it to my future husband.

It all made sense. After all, David had been looking for a new wife, not the first harlot who came along  . . .

It was my turn to grasp his hand. Then to draw myself to him, spontaneously, moved by a swell of emotion. He was as firm and warm as I remembered him. I did not recognize his cologne, a light citrus, just the right amount of acidity.

Why go back to him when I longed for other arms? Guilt? Remorse for having erroneously seen him as a monster?

It was easy to absolve him since, according to his account, there was nothing that needed pardoning. In the end, what could I fault him? Putting together an elaborate scheme to meet me? Using his fortune to make a better, more harmonious, and less dramatic life for himself?

In a way, what with my incessant questions, my obsession with the truth, my reporter's curiosity, which had been piqued by Rebecca and Louie's revelations, I had not been better behaved.

David was perhaps an unstable and wrathful autocrat, a demanding and fickle man who would stop at nothing to get the toys he wanted. But didn't he deserve a woman who really loved him, as opposed to someone obsessed with transparency?

He had shadowy things in his past. I did, too.

I think it was at that exact moment that Professor Band-aid's message finally sunk in: Mom was going to die, regardless of what happened with the American treatment.

Maybe in a month. Maybe a year. Or even, there, then, now. Under these paint-chipped ceilings. And I could not deal with that alone. I needed someone I could count on. I needed a David to cuddle up to for support.

I needed a solid pillar for the fragile structure that I had become.

36

June 17, 2009

W
hen an armistice is fragile, when it is susceptible to new crises, some signs do not lie. I remember studying that in a history course on the Treaty of Versailles, which everyone now agrees contained the seeds of the Second World War.

However, nothing, no bad augur, disturbed the hours that followed. I should have been wary. The peaceful environment that greeted us at Duchesnois House was too perfect to be real.

 

ARTICLE ONE: PUT DOWN YOUR
arms.

Against all expectations, David did not go back to the office. He made a quick call to Chloe, telling her he wouldn't be back to Barlet Tower for the rest of the day. After all, I heard him remind his assistant, it was the eve of his wedding day. Our wedding day.

In a rather comical reversal of roles, he put himself at Armand's service to help him with some last-minute details. The majordomo, red with stress, looked like he was going to drown. My future husband set himself to the task of directing workmen who were erecting the main platform, the temporary stage, and several little tents. I noticed the grass had already begun to yellow with the summer heat.

Article Two: Retreat into your camp.

I took refuge in the bedroom. Felicity had fallen asleep on the marriage contract, which had not left our conjugal bed. Excavating the document from her fur, I began initialing each page. There were three copies and the task proved tedious. Then, I hesitated for a long moment, my pen hovering over the line where I was to sign. If any gesture can be said to be automatic, it's signing one's name. However, ceding to a strange reflex of protection or reserve, I decided not to scribble my usual scrawl. I quickly traced my pen into an “Annabelle Lorand,” and though it was indeed my name, signed by my very hand, it wasn't any less a lie. It was still a forgery.

Armand didn't seem to notice when at last I handed him the thick stack of papers and he checked the important pages.

“Now all we have to do is pray that Master Olivo stamps this before tomorrow afternoon,” he griped.

“I trust you.”

“Oh . . . your dress is back from the tailor. If you try it on now, it might save us a headache tomorrow morning.”

 

ARTICLE THREE: TAKE OFF YOUR
uniform and put on your peacetime clothing.

I immediately complied, standing alone in the bedroom in front of the mirror, glowing in the afternoon sun, which bathed the garden-facing side of the house. Through the half-open bay window, I heard workers barking at each other in various languages as well as sharp clanks of metallic pipes being assembled.

After its trip to the seamstress, the Schiaparelli dress was now even more perfectly fitted to my full curves. A second skin, a glove . . . I didn't know how to define the surprising sensation of such a seamless transition between fabric and flesh. And yet, I didn't feel anything as I gazed at myself in this perfect wrapping. I felt alien to the sublime piece. Literally, I felt like I was in somebody else's skin. Playing a role that had not been written for me. My question still remained unanswered, and was haunting me: “
What do I have that's so exceptional?
”

Was the simple girl that I was really worth seventeen years of patience and tenacious searching? What man would be crazy enough to sacrifice so much of his time for such a prosaic prize? All that for this, me, us?

 

ARTICLE FOUR: HONOR YOUR HEROES.

Lying against Felicity, my nose buried in her warm, fragrant fur, I let my mind wander. My thoughts were, in all appearances, idle, though something deep inside me tightened. And though I was holding
Secret Women
, I hadn't read a page. For the first time in days and days, I had not even written one single word in my Ten-Times-a-Day.

Eros and Thanatos are inextricable. Yes, but sometimes you enter so entirely into the kingdom of one that it becomes impossible to imagine the other. Then, you are one with either sex
or
death, and the other withdraws, agreeing to leave the field open for a time to its eternal partner. A brief interruption in their maddening tango.

That morning, death seemed to win out. My mother's deathbed . . . The dead woman's dress I was now wearing . . . And another deceased woman, whom I would soon be replacing at her husband's side. For his part, he was quite alive.

 

“YOU WON'T BE ANGRY IF
I go out tonight?” I asked David, who was hunched over the guest list with Armand.

“No . . . Of course not. Where are you going?”

“Sophia has put together a last-minute bachelorette party.”

“Oh . . . I see. Well, have fun.” His forced smile contradicted his words.

“Honestly, I would rather stay here and help . . .”

“Why?”

“It's not really my thing. And I'm not in the mood.”

“But you should go out! I'm sure it will be fun. Your Sophia seems like a hoot.”

He who had planned our romance down to the last detail, who had locked up every aspect of our union, was now acting so liberal. Now he believed in spontaneity.

As for me, I was trying to convince myself that this lie would be my last. That I would be the best wife possible, regardless of how long our marriage lasted. An hour or a lifetime.

 

ARTICLE FIVE: REVIEW YOUR PLAN
of deterrence.

I had not been surprised to find a new silver package on the table a few minutes earlier. And I had decided against a fleeting idea, which I took as a sign of my good intentions: open it in front of David. Reveal to him how his brother had infiltrated his own plan, and had been trying to steal me from him. Tell him about the Hôtel des Charmes, its rooms without numbers, the rendezvous  . . .

But nothing good could come out of driving the wedge between the Barlet brothers any deeper than it already was. The score would be settled soon enough.

In addition to a magnetic key from the Hôtel des Charmes, the box contained a card and an object: a man's black boxer shorts, like the ones I had seen stretched over the buttocks of the men at the Brigantine. Which courtesan did these underthings represent? As I inspected the drawers, one detail caught my eye. In addition to the usual stitching in the front, I noticed seams in the back, over the posterior. My fingers gently explored the fabric, and came across a number of strategically placed buttons. Nothing about them was decorative. They snapped together to create a tiny trap door, not much longer or wider than a stick of gum. I had already seen this kind of thing in women's underwear, though it had always been front-side, for easy access to the vagina. That it was present on the backside was a source of wonder. Though I was instantly brought down to earth by the latest commandment:

8—Thou shalt brave the forbidden.

That is what Louie had in store for me on the eve of my wedding. The back door. The forbidden point of access. The ultimate form of capitulation, for both men and women . . . Opening a new eyelet of pleasure, a new flower of sensation. The idea was at once pleasant and fearsome.

 

ARTICLE SIX: CONSOLIDATE YOUR ALLIANCES.

I locked myself in the closet, away from prying ears, and called Sophia. No way I was going to that meeting alone.

“How long will it take you to get to the Hôtel des Charmes?” I whispered.

“I'm at work . . .”

“Where? Pigalle?”

“Yeah, I still have four more rotations.”

I remembered the last time I saw her there, the red lighting, her finger plunged into her open sex  . . .

“Please come. I'll give you the money you'd make.”

“Yeah, but if I leave now, I can say good-bye to my job!”

“Fuck, Soph, you call that a job? If you want, David can make two phone calls and find you a position in a real company. No more stripteases for nasty fatsos.”

It had just come out of my mouth. I was finally voicing what I really thought of her disgusting work.

“Glad to hear you could help me before I got to this point,” she groused.

“I can't go alone,” I insisted. “I really need you.”

Nothing was more true. I needed a safety. Obviously, Sophia was probably the worst chaperone in a situation where I was trying not to be tempted by my physical desires. But then again I couldn't think of anyone else who could drop everything and come to my rescue.

 

SO IT WAS THAT THIRTY
minutes later, I found a disheveled but punctual Sophia waiting for me in the square by the Hôtel des Charmes, right in front of the blue telephone booth where Louie had already once tortured me.

When we stepped into the lobby, Monsieur Jacques screwed up his forehead in surprise. He had not been expecting a delegation. Sometimes Hotelles came in on the arm of a man, and they always left alone. Never did they arrive here in twos, much less wearing such racy clothing. I set the tone, which was as strained as in our previous exchange:

“Which room?” I asked, cutting to the chase.

“I see you've lost your good manners, Elle . . . It's really a shame.”

“Save your airs for paying guests. As you know, all I do is lie down here.”

My not-so-hidden allusion to the real goings-on of his hotel made him grimace in irritation. That was Monsieur Jacques, a Tartuffe in a brothel. You could treat yourself to the most shocking perversions in his hotel so long as you never mentioned it in front of him.

He straightened, tugging at his livery, stiffening his neck, readying himself to provide the requested information  . . .

“Very good. You are expected in—”

. . . when I interrupted him:

“Wait! Don't tell me. Write it here instead.”

I handed him the card with the eighth commandment, blank side up. The suddenness of my decision took him aback.

“Why?”

“Just to see. Please.”

He stared at us both; then my friend offered some encouragement of her own:

“Go ahead, since the young lady asked so politely.”

He grasped the pen that was always sitting on his counter, the black lacquered one he tended to fiddle with, and wrote out the following in a round and ample script. I recognized it at once:

     
The Chevalier d'Eon

Fourth floor

 

My intuition had been spot-on: he was the author of the invitations, and the hotel bellboys—led up by Ysiam—were most likely his errand runners. The Hôtel des Charmes was at the center of Louie's web. It was where he would continue to coax me, so long as this chapter of our relationship was not closed.

“Thank you.” I smiled graciously. “That's all I wanted to know for the moment.”

We hurried toward the elevators, but suddenly I remembered something and turned around:

“Oh, right . . . I forgot something. Sophia is going to stay outside the door. And you or one of your employees had better not throw her out while I am inside.”

“As you wish,” he agreed without looking at me.

That night, the redheaded elevator operator was on duty. He was as silent as ever, and simply guided us to the fourth floor, the one with night-blue doors, and to the room at the end of the hall. After he unlocked the door, Sophia bade him leave with a fiery gaze, and he disappeared without further ado, leaving us on the threshold:

“Are you going to be all right, hon?”

“Yeah, don't worry . . .”

“Don't hesitate to yell if there's a problem, okay?”

“Okay. And you, where are you going to be?”

“I saw a service staircase next to the elevator. I'm going to wait behind the door.”

“Super.”

“Do you want me to call you when I see him?”

I was sure Louie would not miss this rendezvous. Yes, he would be coming in person this time. He wouldn't be sending an audience of sexually excited creatures or one of his male or female doubles.

“No. It wouldn't make a difference. I know what I have to do.”

As I said this, I flattened my hand on the collar of my trench. The coat was too warm for the season, despite the fact that it was unlined canvas.

She winked at me one last time for encouragement and disappeared down the dimly lit hallway.

 

ARTICLE SEVEN: OCCUPY THE ENEMY'S
deserted territory.

The Chevalier d'Eon room was brimming with rococo furnishings, which added to the oppressive atmosphere. There was one window, and as in most of the other hotel rooms, it did not open.

A thick Oriental rug, toile de Jouy wall coverings, and heavy carved-wood furniture. The most striking pieces were a dressing table with a tilting mirror and a massive damask headboard. The gilded wood of the bed's structure was topped with a silk canopy in blue, the same shade as the hallway outside.

I was burning up in my rough coat. Sweating, I felt like I was trapped in a straitjacket, and from what I could see of my face in the various reflective surfaces, my discomfort showed on my flushed cheeks. My hand was still cool, and I ran it over my exposed neck, just under my messy bun, hoping for a little relief from the sensation of being cooked alive.

But I resisted the temptation to undress. I didn't want to give away the surprise. That was paramount. It was my turn to be a few steps ahead of him. Just a few. I wanted to prove to him that I wasn't his pawn.

The door opened brusquely; perhaps my hour of liberation had finally come, and I wasn't just thinking of the suffocating coat. For the very first time, he appeared before me without hiding in the shadows. No masks, hoods, or latex suits. The scene hadn't been set to shroud him or confuse me. He was wearing one of his elegant fitted suits, which opened onto a bronze vest. He closed the door behind him with the knob of his cane, bolting it shut. Now we were each other's hostage.

“Good evening, Elle.”