The Most Beautiful Book in the World (11 page)

He asked me to be frank, to explain the source of my pain. Naturally, that would have been the best course, and yet I refused. Since childhood I have had a sort of counterproductive talent: I invariably avoid the right solution. No doubt if I had spoken to him or asked him to speak, we might have avoided the catastrophe . . .

Stubborn, hard, wounded, I said nothing, and I stared at him as an enemy would. No matter how I thought of him, he could only come across as a traitor: if it was not me that he was deceiving, then it was his mistress and her children. Did he care for too many things, or did he care for nothing? Was this man before me someone who could not make up his mind, or the most cynical man on the planet? Who was he?

I wore myself out with suspicion. I had lost my way, I could not even remember to eat and drink, and grew so weak that eventually they had to inject me with vitamins and hydrate me with a drip.

Samuel did not look all that robust himself. And he refused to look after himself, since I was the one who was suffering. I enjoyed watching him worry, much as an old mistress gnaws on the last bone of love; it would never have occurred to me to go beyond my own selfishness and demand that he be looked after, too.

It was surely Samuel who sent for Dr. Feldenheim, my former psychiatrist.

Although I would have greatly liked to reveal my thoughts to him, for three sessions I resisted.

By the fourth one, tired of beating around the bush, I told him what I had discovered: the mistress, the children, the clandestine home.

“So that is it,” he concluded. “It was time you spat it out.”

“Oh really? Is that what you think? It seems to fuel your curiosity, Doctor. For me, it doesn't change a thing.”

“My dear Isabelle, at the risk of surprising you and above all of being excluded from my profession, I am going to break my vow of confidentiality: I have been aware of the situation for several years.”

“Pardon?”

“Since Florian was born.”

“Florian? Who is Florian?”

“The young man you interrogated, Samuel's son.”

To hear him speaking in such a familiar way about the very people who were destroying my relationship and my happiness . . . I could feel the anger welling up inside me.

“Is it Samuel who told you this?”

“Yes. When his son was born. I believe it was a secret he found too heavy to keep.”

“What a monster!”

“Don't be too hasty, Isabelle. Have you stopped to consider how difficult this situation is for Samuel?”

“Are you joking? He has every reason to be happy.”

“Isabelle, don't try that with me. Don't forget that I know. I am well aware of the fact that you have a rare disease—”

“Be quiet.”

“No. Not talking about it creates more problems than solutions.”

“And anyway, no one knows what it is.”

“Female impotence? Samuel knows. He married a beautiful, funny, sexy woman, whom he adores, and he has never been able to make love to her. He has never penetrated her. Has never shared an orgasm with her. Your body is closed off to him, Isabelle, despite the numerous attempts, despite all the therapy. Can you imagine the frustration he must feel from time to time?”

“From time to time? All the time, would you believe. All the time! And yet, no matter how I hate myself, no matter how guilty I feel, it doesn't change a thing. There are times I think it would have been better if he'd abandoned me when we found out, seventeen years ago!”

“And yet, he stayed. Do you know why?”

“Yes. For my money!”

“Isabelle, don't try that with me.”

“Because I'm out of my mind!”

“Isabelle, please: don't try that with me. Why, then?”

“Out of pity.”

“No. Because he loves you.”

A thick inner silence came over me. I had just been buried beneath a layer of snow.

“Yes, he loves you. Samuel may still be a man like any other, a normal man who needs to penetrate a woman's flesh and have children, but he loves you and continues to love you. He could not bring himself to leave you. Besides, he doesn't want to. Your marriage has taught him to behave like a saint. This justifies his desire to have other experiences outside your marriage. One day he met this woman, Nathalie; he thought that by having a relationship with her, and then a child, he would have the desire, the strength, to leave you. In vain. He found that he had to subject his new family to distance and absence. No doubt the children don't know the truth but Nathalie does, and she's accepted it. So you see, nothing has been simple for Samuel these sixteen years. He wears himself out at work trying to make enough money for his two families, to bring you presents and to give them enough to live on; he's exhausted from making himself available and attentive to both sides; he hardly looks after himself, only you, and the others. Add to that the fact that he is riddled with guilt. For not living with Nathalie, and his son, and his daughters, he feels guilty; and for lying to you for such a long time, he feels guilty too.”

“Well then, just let him make up his mind! Decide one way or the other! Let him go to them! I'm not the one who would stop him.”

“Isabelle, he can never do that.”

“And why not?”

“He loves you.”

“Samuel?”

“It tears him apart, it's a passion, it's incomprehensible and indestructible, but he does loves you.”

“Samuel . . .”

“More than anything.”

With these words, Dr. Feldenheim stood up and left the room.

Filled with a newfound sweetness, I no longer struggled against myself or against this Samuel who was a stranger to me. He loved me. He loved me so much that he had hidden his double life from me, and had imposed it upon a woman who was capable of offering her body to him and giving him children. Samuel . . .

In raptures, I waited for him. I was eager to take his face between my palms, to place a kiss on his forehead and thank him for his unfailing love. I was going to declare my own to him, my own ugly love, capable of doubt, and furor, and jealousy, my horrible, filthy love, that had only just, quite abruptly, become pure. He would find out that I understood him, that he must hide nothing from me, that I wanted to allocate part of my fortune to his family. If they were his family, then they were mine as well. I was going to show him that I could rise above bourgeois propriety. Just as he did. Out of love.

At seven o'clock, Stacy stopped by to find out how I was doing. She was reassured to find me smiling and calm.

“I'm so happy to see you like this, after all those weeks of sobbing. You are completely changed.”

“And it's not the Atelier Capillaire,” I said with a laugh, “it's because I've realized I married a wonderful man.”

“Samuel? What woman would not want such a man?”

“I'm lucky, aren't I?”

“You? It's downright indecent. There are times when I find it hard to remain your friend—you have every reason to be happy.”

Stacy left at eight o'clock. Determined to put an end to my apathy, I went down to the pantry to help the cook make some dinner.

At nine o'clock, although Samuel had not yet come back, I decided not to worry.

At ten o'clock, I was at the end of my tether. I had already left twenty messages on his cell phone, which recorded my words without replying.

At eleven o'clock I was so tense with anxiety that I got dressed, got into the car, and without giving it any further thought, set off for the Place d'Italie.

When I got to the Butte-aux-Cailles, I found the gate wide open and people coming and going outside the little gray house.

I rushed forward, went through the open door, down the hall, headed toward the light and found Nathalie collapsed in an armchair, surrounded by her children and the neighbors.

“Where is Samuel?” I asked.

Nathalie raised her eyes, and recognized me. A trace of panic flickered across her dark eyes.

“Please, tell me,” I repeated, “where is Samuel?”

“He's dead. Just now. At six o'clock. A heart attack, while he was playing tennis with Florian.”

Why do I never have a normal reaction to things? Instead of going to pieces, or sobbing, or screaming, I turned to Florian, who was crying, and I pulled him to his feet, and held him close, to console him.

 

 

 

 

 

H
e was very impatient to see her again.While the bus carrying the little troupe began to climb the road winding up to the Sicilian village, he could think of nothing else. Perhaps he'd signed on to this tour for no other reason than to come back here? Otherwise, why would he have accepted? He didn't like the play very much, his role even less, and for all his troubles he would only be receiving a pittance. To be sure, he no longer really had the choice: either he must accept this sort of engagement, or give up his acting career forever and get what his family would call “a real job.” It had been years since he had had the leisure to choose his roles; his time of glory had lasted for only one or two seasons at the very start of his career, when he had irresistible good looks and no one had realized yet how deplorable his acting was.

And it was then that he'd met her, the mysterious woman, in this town set like a crown on a rocky mountain. Had she changed? Surely. But not so very much.

And he had not changed all that much himself. Fabio had preserved his leading man's physique, although he no longer had either the youth or the brilliance of a typical lead actor. No, if he no longer got the good roles these days it was not because his looks had gone downhill—he was still just as attractive to women—but because his talent was not on a par with his appearance. It didn't bother him to talk about it, even with his colleagues or with directors, because he considered that looks and talent were both innate gifts. He had received one of them, and was lacking the other. And where was the harm in that? Not everyone could have a career at the top; he was content with his minor career, it was enough for him. For what he liked was not the acting itself—if that had been the case, he could have tried to improve—but the lifestyle that went with it. Traveling, camaraderie, playfulness, applause, restaurants, girls for a night. Yes, he'd rather have that life any day than the one ordained him. With Fabio you could be sure of one thing: he would do everything in his power for as long as possible to avoid returning to his place on the family farm.

“A peasant's son, handsome as a prince”: so went the title, in his early years, of a television commentary devoted to him when he was starring in a series that had held all of Italy in thrall over the space of a summer.
The Prince Leocadio.
His starring role. It had earned him thousands of letters from his female admirers, some provocative, others flattering, others intriguing; all of them in love.
Prince Leocadio
had led to a role in a Franco-Germano-Italian series about a flamboyant multimillionaire. That was the role that had reduced him to poverty. Not only had the initial novelty of his looks worn off, but the character—excessive, ambiguous, full of contradictions—called for a real actor. The moment the filming began he was dubbed “the male model,” a nickname which was taken up by the press when commenting on his pathetic performance. Subsequently, Fabio appeared on screen on only two more occasions, once in Germany, and once in France—because in those countries, his flamboyant multimillionaire role had been dubbed by real professionals, thus creating the illusion that he was a better actor than in reality. After that, nothing. Nothing of note. That winter, seeing reruns of
Prince Leocadio
at four in the morning, he had rediscovered himself with some dismay: he hated the inept plot, his inconsistent partners (who had vanished like him), and above all the tight costumes, the ridiculous shoes with heels, the voluminous hair style that made him look like some actress in a second-rate American sitcom, with that lock of hair dangling over his right eye, depriving him of his gaze and making his regular features seem even more unexpressive. In short, the only excuse, the sole justification for his performance onscreen, was the fact that he was only twenty years old.

As the bus rounded the bend, the medieval citadel appeared: proud, sovereign, its tall ramparts and half-moon towers commanding respect. Did she still live there? How would he find her—he did not even know her name. “Call me Donatella,” she had murmured. At the time he had believed that to be her name; several years later, when he would think back over her words, he became certain that she had given him a pseudonym.

Why had that adventure had such an impact upon him? Why, fifteen years later, was he still thinking about it, even though he had known dozens of women in the interim?

No doubt because Donatella had been so mysterious at the time, and remained so. Women are pleasing because they come to us wrapped in the catkin of an enigma, and they cease to please when they lose their intrigue. Do women believe that men are only interested in what is between their legs? That would be an error: men are more attracted by a woman's romantic side than by her sexuality. And if proof were needed: if men stray, blame it on the days, not the nights. Days spent talking in harsh sunlight do more to tarnish a woman's aura than the nights spent in each other's arms. Fabio often felt like declaring to women: preserve the nights and remove the days, you will hold on to your man longer. Yet he kept his thoughts to himself, out of caution to a certain degree, for fear of driving them away; but to a larger degree because he was convinced they would not understand: they would merely see it as confirmation that men only thought about fucking, whereas what he meant to imply was that the greatest playboys—like himself—are actually mystics in search of mystery, and they will always prefer that part of the female creature that is not given to the one that is readily abandoned.

Donatella appeared before him on an evening in May, backstage at the local theater after the performance. This was two years after his triumphant beginnings on television, and he had already begun his descent. At that point they no longer sought his screen presence, but because he was slightly famous, he had been offered a major role on stage: he would perform
Le Cid
by Corneille, a veritable marathon of verse tirades, which he scrupulously recited without understanding a word. What made him happy when he left the stage was not that he had acted well but that he'd made it to the end without any mistakes, like some athlete going an unusual distance. At the time he was not as lucid as he was today, yet he did sense that the audience appreciated his face above all, or perhaps his legs, enhanced by the tights he wore.

A huge wicker basket full of yellow and brown orchids had been left outside his dressing room before the show. There was no card with the basket. During the performance, when he was not called on to recite, Fabio could not help but look out into the audience to try to guess who might have sent him the sumptuous gift. But the spotlights blinded him and prevented him from any closer scrutiny of the faces protected by the half-light; and then, of course, he had the wretched play to perform . . .

After a worthy amount of applause, Fabio hurried to his dressing room, took a quick shower, and splashed himself with cologne, because he had the suspicion that the person behind the gift might show up.

Donatella was waiting for him in the corridor backstage.

Fabio saw a very young woman, her long hair restrained on either side in a braided crown; she gave him a graceful handshake.

Steeped in the chivalry that went with his role, Fabio spontaneously kissed the lady's hand, something he rarely did.

“Was it you?” he asked, referring to the orchids.

“It was I,” she nodded, lowering heavy eyelids with brilliant black lashes.

Her limbs seemed to emerge furtively from a flowing dress in silk or chiffon—he did not know which—something light, airy, costly, oriental, something a woman with a supple, soft body would choose, a woman who hardly weighs a thing. Around her white wrist she wore a slave bracelet, although the expression “slave bracelet” was far from appropriate where she was concerned: it was as if you were admiring a woman who orders her slaves about, or even transforms other human beings into slaves, a sort of Cleopatra, yes, a Cleopatra reigning from a mountain in Sicily, so great was the imperious strength she conveyed, a mixture of sensuality, shyness, and something altogether wild.

“I am inviting you to dinner. Would you like that?”

Was there any point in answering her question? Did he even give her an answer?

Fabio remembered that he had given her his arm, and they left together.

Once they were outside in the cobbled streets of the historic village, beneath a veiled moon, he saw that she was barefoot. She noticed his surprise and anticipated his question: “Yes, I feel more free, like this.”

Her words, her manner were so natural that no response was possible.

It was a magnificent walk, on an evening where perfumes of jasmine, fennel, and anise arose from between the cool city walls. Arm in arm they climbed silently toward the highest part of the citadel. There they came upon a five-star inn, the most luxurious place imaginable.

As she was heading for the entrance, he reached out to hold her back: under no circumstances could he afford to take a conquest there.

Donatella must have read his thoughts, for she reassured him: “Don't worry. They have been notified. They are expecting us.”

When they entered the lobby, all the staff members were indeed lined up on either side of the entrance and bowed down to them. As Fabio led the ravishing young woman past the impeccable staff, it was as if he were guiding a bride to the altar.

Although they were the only patrons in the fine restaurant, they were seated in a private dining room, in order to enjoy a certain intimacy.

The maître d' addressed the young woman with excessive courtesy, calling her “Princess.” The wine waiter did the same. As did the chef. Fabio concluded that she must belong to the nobility, staying here as she did, and that it was no doubt out of respect for her rank that they overlooked her eccentricities and did not mind if she came to dinner in her bare feet.

They were served caviar and superb wines; one dish followed the other, all inventive, delicious, exceptional. The conversation between the two diners remained poetic: they talked about the play, the theater, the cinema, love, feelings. Fabio quickly understood that he must avoid asking personal questions of the princess because she withdrew at the slightest inquiry. He also discovered that she had wished to dine with him because she had delighted in the two series that had made him famous; to his utmost surprise, even as he was greatly impressed by her person, he realized that, with the unexpected help of the two romantic heroes he had incarnated, he made just as great an impression on her.

During dessert he took the liberty of holding her hand; she let him move closer; he told her with a newfound delicacy, worthy of his characters, that he dreamt of only one thing, to be able to take her in his arms; she trembled, lowered her eyelids, trembled again then murmured breathlessly, “Come with me.”

They headed toward the grand staircase leading up to the rooms, and she escorted Fabio to her suite, the most luxurious chambers he had ever seen, an exuberance of velvet and silk, enhanced with embroidery, Persian rugs, ivory trays, marquetry seats, crystal carafes, and silver goblets.

She closed the door behind her and, untying the wispy scarf she had around her neck, conveyed beyond a doubt that she was offering herself to him.

Was it because of the décor, worthy of an oriental tale? Was it because of the voluptuous food and drink? Was it because of the girl herself—so strange, rebellious and restrained, sophisticated and savage, all at the same time? Whatever the reason, Fabio's night of love was exceptional, the most beautiful he had ever known. And it was something that today, fifteen years later, he was more sure of than ever.

That long-ago morning, at first light, he emerged from his lover's sleep to face the reality of the day before him: he had to travel eighty kilometers with the troupe for afternoon and evening performances, and they had been expecting him at eight-thirty in the lobby of the hotel: once again the tour administrator would lose his temper and take him to task. How dreams come to an end!

Fabio dressed hastily, careful not to make any noise. It was the only way he could prolong the enchantment.

Before leaving the room, he went over to Donatella, abandoned on the vast four-poster bed. Pale, fine, so slender, a smile on her lips, she was still sleeping. Fabio did not have the heart to wake her. He said an imaginary goodbye, and, as he recalled, even went so far as to think he loved her, and would always love her; then he slipped away.

 

Now the bus was driving through the gates of the citadel, taking the Green Snail Theatre Troupe to the municipal theater. The director climbed onto the bus and glumly announced that they had not sold more than a third of the seats. He seemed to blame them for it.

Fifteen years later, it was still true, what he had thought when taking his leave of Donatella . . . He loved her. Yes, he still loved her. Perhaps even more than ever.

The story had no ending. Perhaps it was for that reason that it endured.

He had left the citadel at a run, just in time to reach the hotel and close his suitcase; the theater manager had sent on the orchids from his dressing room. Fabio had jumped into his car—in those days, as leading man, he was entitled to a chauffeured limousine, not relegated to the bus with the rest of the troupe like today—he had fallen asleep again, then on waking swore to call the luxurious inn; but he had had to rehearse his cues and exits at the new theater, and perform, and rehearse again.

So he had postponed calling. Until he no longer dared to call. His everyday existence took over; it was as if he had dreamt it all; but above all as he revisited his memories he understood that Donatella had implied, more than once, that this was to be a unique event, as much for her as for him; a marvel with no tomorrow.

Why disturb her? She was rich, of high birth, no doubt already married. He resigned himself to the role she had given him: the whim of a single night. He thought with amusement that he had been an object for her, a plaything; he had taken great pleasure in incarnating her phantasm; and she had asked it of him with such kindness, such elegance . . .