The Most Beautiful Book in the World

 

 

. . . those bouquets of flowers that
set off in search of a heart
and find only a vase.
 
ROMAIN GARY,
Your Ticket Is No Longer Valid

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T
he leather interior of a Rolls. The leather-clad chauffeur, his leather gloves. Leather suitcases and bags stuffed into the trunk. A woven leather sandal preceding a slender leg slipping out the car door. Of leather is Wanda Winnipeg's scarlet skirt.

The bellboys bow.

Wanda Winnipeg steps over the threshold without looking at anyone or checking to see whether her belongings are following her. How could it be any other way?

Behind the desk at the reception, the employees quiver. Since they cannot be sure of capturing her attention, her gaze invisible behind her dark glasses, they overflow with stock phrases of welcome.

“Welcome, Madame Winnipeg, it is a great honor for us to have you staying at the Royal Emerald. We will do everything in our power to make your stay as pleasant as possible.”

She receives these tokens of their high esteem like some small change that is owed her, and does not reply. The employees continue the conversation around her as if she were taking part in it.

“The beauty zone is open from seven in the morning until nine at night, as are the fitness rooms and the swimming pool.”

She winces. Panicking, the clerk in charge fears there is a problem.

“Naturally, if you so desire, we can change our opening times and adapt them to your wishes.”

The hotel manager arrives hurriedly on the scene, out of breath, slips behind her and gushes, “Madame Winnipeg, what a huge honor it is to have you staying at the Royal Emerald! We will do everything we can to make your time here as pleasant as possible.”

Because he has just uttered the same cliché as his staff member, Wanda Winnipeg gives him a mocking smile that she shares with the employees, as if to say, “Not very clever, your boss, can't even express himself any better than you,” then she twirls around to hold out her hand for a kiss. The manager fails to notice her derision, and won't even suspect her of it, as she does grant him the grace of a reply.

“I
do
hope I shall not be disappointed: Princess Mathilde has spoken so highly of your establishment.”

With a rapid snap of his heels, somewhere between a military salute and a tango dancer's thank-you salute, the manager acknowledges receipt of her command: he is now fully cognizant that accommodating Wanda Winnipeg means accommodating not only one of the greatest fortunes on earth but also a woman who moves in the very highest society.

“Naturally, you are acquainted with Lorenzo Canali?”

With a wave she introduces her lover, a handsome man with long, black, almost polished hair, who nods with a faint smile, perfect in his role as the prince consort who, aware of his inferior rank, knows he must prove more amiable than the queen.

She then moves in the direction of her suite, aware that she leaves murmuring in her wake.

“I thought she'd be taller . . . What a pretty woman! She looks younger than in her photos, no?”

The minute she enters her suite, she can tell she'll feel very much at home here; however, it is with a skeptical pout on her face that she listens to the manager boasting of all its comforts. Despite the size of the rooms, the marble in the two bathrooms, the abundance of bouquets, the quality of the television sets, the precious marquetry on the furniture, she feels that there is something missing, and goes no further than to comment that an extra telephone would be useful for the terrace, should she need to make a call from one of the deck chairs.

“Naturally, Madame, you are right, we will bring it up right away.”

She refrains from pointing out that she will never use it, that she will resort to her cell phone, because her intention is to terrorize him until her departure in order to obtain better service. The manager of the Royal Emerald closes the door behind him with a bow, gushingly promising the stars and the moon.

Alone at last, Wanda stretches out on a sofa, leaving Lorenzo and a chambermaid to unpack her clothes. She knows she impresses everyone, and this always amuses her. Because she refrains from giving her opinion, she is respected; because she only ever speaks to give a disagreeable judgment, she is feared. The effervescence occasioned by the briefest appearance is not merely owing to her wealth, or her fame, or her irreproachable looks, but to a sort of legend that surrounds her.

What has she accomplished, after all? According to Wanda, accomplishment can be summed up into two principles: marry well and divorce well.

With each marriage, Wanda climbed a little higher up the rungs of society's ladder. Her last marriage—fifteen years ago—made her what she is today. By tying the knot with the American billionaire Donald Winnipeg, she became famous: magazines the world over published pictures of their wedding. Subsequently she was on the cover for her divorce, one of the juiciest in recent years, with huge media coverage, a divorce that made her into one of the wealthiest women on the planet.

Since then, her life as a woman of independent means has been extremely comfortable: all Wanda Winnipeg has to do is hire very qualified people to manage her affairs; if they prove themselves unworthy, she fires them without a second thought.

Lorenzo comes in, purring in his warm voice, “What's on the program for the afternoon, Wanda?”

“We could have a quick swim in the pool, and then have a rest in the room. What do you think?”

Lorenzo immediately translates Wanda's two orders into his own language: watch her swim her two kilometers, make love to her.

“Fine, Wanda, I like the sound of that.”

Wanda sends him a benevolent smile: Lorenzo has no choice in the matter, but it is very elegant of him to play his submissive role with such good grace.

On his way back to the bathroom he sways his hips ever so slightly, so that she can admire his long waist and the curve of the hollow of his back. She muses with voluptuous anticipation that she will soon be able to knead his manly buttocks with her hands.

That's what I like best about them—go figure!

In her inner monologues Wanda uses simple phrases, common formulas that reveal her origins. Fortunately, only she can hear them.

Lorenzo comes back in, dressed in a linen shirt and tight swimming trunks, ready to accompany her to the pool. Wanda has never had such a consummate companion: he never looks at other women, he has no other friends than her own, he eats what she eats, gets up at the same time, and he is constantly in a good mood. It matters little whether he likes everything or nothing: he fulfills his role.

All things considered, he is impeccable. That said, I'm not so bad myself.

She's not referring to her figure, but to her behavior: while Lorenzo may behave as a professional gigolo should, Wanda in turn knows how to treat a gigolo. A few years ago, given Lorenzo's attentive, gallant, irreproachable behavior, she might have had her doubts, might have suspected him of being homosexual. Nowadays it really wouldn't matter if she found out that Lorenzo desired men; it is enough that he fucks her well, and as often as she desires. Nothing else. Nor does she care to know if, like so many others, he slips off in secret to the toilet to inject himself with some substance sure to make him stand to attention before her . . .

We women are so good at pretending . . . Why should it be a problem if they cheat as well?

Wanda Winnipeg has reached that happy stage in the life of an ambitious woman where cynicism finally yields some wisdom: released from any moral compunction, she is free to enjoy life as it is, and men as they are, without becoming indignant.

She checks her date book and reviews the organization of her vacation. Wanda hates to be bored, so she plans everything: charity evenings, visits to villas, meetings with friends, jet-ski outings, massages, restaurant openings, business inaugurations, costume balls; there is very little time left over for spontaneity; time for shopping and siestas has also been predetermined. All of her personnel—Lorenzo included—have a copy of her calendar and have been instructed to oppose any bore who might besiege them with requests for Madame Winnipeg's presence at a dinner or a soirée.

Reassured, she closes her eyes. An odor of mimosas suddenly disturbs her. She feels a sudden dismay, sits up, anxiously inspects her surroundings. False alarm. She is victim of no one but herself. The scent has merely reminded her that she spent part of her childhood here, that in those days she was poor, and her name was not Wanda. No one knows this, nor will they ever know it. She has totally reinvented her biography, and has arranged things so that people will believe she was born near Odessa, in Russia. The accent she has created in five languages—and which so greatly enhances her husky tone of voice—substantiates the myth.

She gets up, shakes her head, banishes memories. Farewell, reminiscence! Wanda controls everything: her body, her behavior, her business, her sexuality, her past. She must have a delightful vacation. Besides, that is what she has paid for.

 

The week goes by enchantingly.

They flit from “exquisite” dinners to “delightful” luncheons, not forgetting the “divine” soirées. Wherever guests of the jet set are to be found, identical conversations are to be heard and, very quickly, Wanda and Lorenzo are able to join in the discussions as if they had spent their entire summer on the Riviera—talking about the advantages of the Privilege Disco, the return of the string bikini—“such an odd idea, but if you can get away with it, why not”—and that “fabulous” game where you have to convey a film title through mime—“you should have seen Nick, trying to make us guess
Gone with the Wind!”
—and electric cars, “ideal for the beach, darling”—and Aristotle Paropoulos's bankruptcy, and above all that plane crash, the poor Sweetensons' private plane it was—“single-engine, my dear, why on earth have a single-engine when you have the means to pay for a private jet?”

On the last day, an outing on the Farnellis' yacht—“of course you know them, he's the king of the Italian sandal, those very delicate ones with a double lace around the ankle, it's all the rage”—finds Wanda and Lorenzo on the peaceful waters of the Mediterranean.

The women waste no time in grasping the purpose of the outing: to lie on deck in order to exhibit—whatever their age—their perfect figures: firm breasts, narrow waist, legs devoid of any cellulite. Wanda goes along with the exercise with all the natural flair of a woman who knows she has superior good looks and superior grooming. Lorenzo—exemplary, yet again—bathes her in a warm, loving gaze, like a man truly in love. How delightful, no? Wanda garners a few compliments, which put her in a good mood, and it is in this state, enhanced by the rosé wine from Provence, that she follows the merry troupe of multimillionaires onto the beach at les Salins where the Zodiac drops them off.

A table has been set for them in the shade of the restaurant's thatched awning.

“Would you like to see my paintings, ladies and gentlemen? My studio is at the far end of the beach. I'll take you there whenever you like.”

Naturally, no one pays the least attention to the humble voice of an old man, and he keeps a respectful distance. Everyone goes on laughing, talking loudly, as if he did not exist. The old man himself thinks he has not made himself heard, so he tries again.

“Would you like to see my paintings, ladies and gentlemen? My studio is at the far end of the beach. I'll take you there whenever you like.”

An annoyed silence makes it clear that this time, the bore has been noticed. Guido Farinelli glares at the restaurant owner, who obediently jumps to attention, goes up to the old man, grabs him by the arm and leads him out, reprimanding him.

The conversation starts up again. No one has noticed that Wanda, however, has gone pale.

She has recognized him.

Despite the years, despite the physical deterioration—how old would he be now, eighty?—she trembled on hearing the intonation of his voice.

Hostile, she banishes the memory without further ado. She despises the past. She despises that past in particular, the past she spent in poverty; not for an instant since stepping out on this beach at les Salins has she recalled that she used to come here so often, many years ago, to walk in the sand studded with black rocks—it was a time that all have forgotten, a time when she had not yet become Wanda Winnipeg. Then memory prevails, sharply, in spite of her, against her will and, to her surprise, it brings with it a warm happiness.

She turns discreetly to gaze at the old man; the restaurateur has offered him a pastis. He still looks a bit lost, astonished, like a child who does not understand the world.

Oh, he was never all that smart, even back then. That probably hasn't changed. But he was so handsome!

She found herself blushing. Yes, Wanda Winnipeg, the woman with billions of dollars, can feel something prickly spreading a warmth up her neck and cheeks, just like when she was fifteen years old . . .

Appalled, for a moment she is afraid that the people around her will notice that something is wrong, but instead the discussion, fuelled by the rosé, grows ever livelier.

Behind her smile she decides to give them the slip and, without moving from her chair, protected by her dark glasses, she goes back into her past.

 

She was fifteen at the time. According to her official biography, at that age she was in Romania, working in a cigarette factory; oddly enough, no one has ever thought to check on that detail, which transformed her, in a very romantic way, into a sort of Carmen who'd managed to get away from her hole. In actual fact, she had been living not far from there, in Fréjus, where a few months earlier she'd been placed in an institution for difficult adolescents, most of them orphans. While she had never known her father, her mother—the real one—was still alive at the time; but the doctors, because of the mother's drug addiction, had preferred to keep her away from her daughter.