The Other Story (14 page)

Nicolas finishes his breakfast and goes down to the sea. He has the bathing area to himself, and the staff is delighted to welcome the first customer. The ballet of the chair, the parasol, the towel, the newspaper, and the fruit juice ensues. He gives in to it. He is then left alone, except for a nearby waiter hovering at his beck and call.

Nicolas observes the loveliness of the scene around him, the clarity of the water, the silvery fish, the boats zooming along the horizon, far away. He strides to the water edge, takes off his bathrobe, and dives straight in. For a short while, he swims fiercely, kicking into the cool sea. Not a trace of a hangover. His mind is crystal clear and his limbs tingle with energy. What a pity those two assets cannot be used for writing the book. He turns around, treading water, observing the ocher villa perched on the rocky hill, the gray cliff, the quiet beach area. He has never been afraid of the sea, although his father most probably drowned in the Atlantic Ocean. Nicolas has not been back to Biarritz since his father died, and of that, of going back there, he is afraid. He has turned down several invitations to book signings in Biarritz and in the area because he cannot face laying eyes on the Côte des Basques and the Villa Belza, the very spot where he saw his father’s black sail for the last time.

Nicolas flips over to his back, returning to the shore. He flings his arms backward, slicing the water vigorously, legs pumping. His hand encounters a mound of flesh and the top of his skull jolts against something soft. A gurgle is heard. He turns around, faced with a goggled white sea lion wearing a flowery plastic cap. The sea lion quivers with indignation.

Dagmar Hunoldt.

His heart nearly stops.

“I’m so sorry…,” Nicolas mumbles. He feels his cheeks burn through the wetness.

Dagmar Hunoldt coughs, splutters, and chokes for a few endless moments. Nicolas reaches out to grab her forearm, as the sea is deep, and they both have to swim in order to keep to the surface. Her alabaster flesh feels surprisingly firm under his fingers.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Fine, thank you,” she wheezes in that deep voice he recalls from TV and radio interviews.

“Would you like to rest, out of the water?”

“No, no,” she tuts, “I’m fine. Just watch where you swim, young man.”

She has a faint accent, which is impossible to trace.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters again. “I thought I was alone.”

She seems to have regained her composure and glances at him through her steamed-up goggles.

“Well, you are not alone.”

“I’m very sorry.”

Nicolas has said he’s sorry three times. Dagmar Hunoldt says nothing in return. Perhaps he should exclaim right now, joyfully, Oh, hello! How nice to see you! But she glares at him in such a manner, he does not dare. She has not recognized him. But maybe with his hair wet, he looks different?

A waiter calls to them from the beach area. He wants to know if the signora is all right.

“
Va bene, grazie,
” Dagmar Hunoldt shouts back, flashing her terrifying white smile. Nicolas remembers reading somewhere that she speaks seven languages. Her origins are mysterious. She has Danish or Norwegian blood, but also a zest of Hungarian heritage. Some Austrian or German ancestry, as well. She is now swimming away, an energetic breaststroke that propels her out in the distance. Should he follow her? Get out of the water? He decides to swim on as well, keeping her in his line of vision. Perhaps later, when she takes off her goggles, she’ll laugh and say, Oh, it’s you! Nicolas Kolt! He could suggest a coffee; they would have it together, up on the terrace. They could then talk, quietly, just the two of them. He doesn’t dare think of Alice and how he would be betraying her just by listening to Dagmar Hunoldt. He concentrates only on the moment, on the astonishing coincidence (but is it truly a coincidence?) of being here with her, Dagmar Hunoldt, the most powerful woman in the publishing industry.

He is nervous; he has to admit it. She does have that effect on people, and the fact that she has not recognized him makes it worse. He has heard through the grapevine that she has, or had, a drinking problem, a fact that is usually hushed up, but he has listened to tales of her passing out at restaurants and then being carted back home by a faithful friend. He also remembers the scandal that took place at the Frankfurt Book Fair when she turned up at the Hessischer Hof bar late one night with a young girl on her arm. A girl young enough to be her granddaughter, he was told, as he was not there to witness the scene, but he had heard the story so often, it now felt like he had truly been there. A lissome beauty in a black velvet dress. Even at such a late hour, the bar was packed with important figures of the international literary circle. For a while, Dagmar Hunoldt had cajoled the young girl, stroking her hair, her naked elbows, her hands in what had been mistaken at first for motherly attention, until she had tipped the girl’s face to hers and had kissed her on the mouth in a hungry, unequivocal manner that had electrified the entire bar. Dagmar Hunoldt was notorious for her appetite concerning men, men of all ages, men of all milieus. It was murmured she had two husbands in two separate countries, that she had a son, now in his forties, and a daughter who was not much younger, and there were even grandchildren in a big European city, to whom she devoted much of her time. The Hessischer Hof bar episode had made it clear to the publishing intelligentsia that Dagmar Hunoldt also enjoyed women.

Nicolas reflects upon all this as he swims behind her, observing the roll of her massive white shoulders under the water. Should he be relaxed, jovial, casual? Or polite, discreet, reserved? His stomach hurts, as it does with the cramps he usually gets before stressful TV interviews, and that he fully experienced when he had to pronounce a few words live on CNN after Robin Wright got her Oscar, and there he was on the red carpet, a forest of microphones thrust at him, and behind that red-eyed camera, the entire world.

Dagmar Hunoldt swims for over forty-five minutes, a fast and sure swimmer. She is surprisingly fit, he notices. When she finally hauls herself out of the water, Nicolas is relieved, as he was starting to feel tired. A waiter hands her a towel and she wraps it around her thick midriff, plucking the plastic cap off her head and the goggles off her eyes. Her legs are slimmer than he would have thought, firm and muscular. He can see a skein of blue-and-purple veins running up her thighs. Her hair is pure platinum. She walks to her deck chair and sits. There appears to be no one with her. The Swiss couple have come down, about to embark on their daily swim.

Nicolas walks up to her. “Are you all right?” He does not know whether to say “Mrs. Hunoldt” or “Dagmar,” and so, preferring neither, he decides to add nothing.

She peers up at him blankly.

“I bumped into you in the water…,” he stammers, pointing to the sea.

“Oh!” She smiles. “Yes, you did. I’m fine. Thank you.”

She turns away.

Nicolas is baffled. She has not recognized him and she dismissed him as if he were a mere bellboy. How could she not know who he is? It’s preposterous. It’s surreal.

An idea slowly dawns on him. Maybe she is doing this on purpose. Treating him like a
vulgus pecum.
Perhaps this is part of her secret plan. Dagmar Hunoldt does nothing the usual way. She is not like any other publisher. She abides by her own rules.

“Would you like a drink?” Nicolas says suddenly.

She frowns. “What kind of drink?”

“Any kind of drink. Cappuccino, tea, champagne.”

“Champagne? At this hour?”

“Yes,” he replies, grinning. “At this hour.”

She looks at him closely at last, taking him in, the muscular chest and arms, still glistening with seawater, the flat, tanned stomach, its lower part darkened by tiny swirls of body hair.

“Well, why not?” She shrugs.

“What would you like?”

“I’ll have what you have.”

“A Bellini?”

She nods appraisingly. Nicolas orders two Bellinis. He drags a nearby chair over, pulling it next to her, and sits. She has put her panama hat on. She bears a resemblance to Glenn Close, the actress. The pale skin, the hooked nose, the deep-set eyes. He wonders what she must have looked like when young. Too massive to ever be pretty. Yet he has to admit there is something darkly attractive about Dagmar Hunoldt.

The Bellinis are brought to them.

“Santé,” says Nicolas, clicking his glass to hers.

He decides to wait for her to speak. There is no urgency, after all. If she has come here for him, then she must know how to go about her business. He feels curious, expectant, but he is not going to ask any questions. He must be patient.

Nicolas Kolt and Dagmar Hunoldt sip their Bellinis without a word. Around them, the beach area fills up. The Swiss couple have changed into new bathing suits. The Belgian family (with a low-profile and puffy-faced mother) orders coffee and fruit juice. Alessandra and her mother sunbathe. The gay couple peruse Kindle and iPad.

None of the guests have any idea of the importance of what may happen next, thinks Nicolas. Nicolas marvels at the originality of Dagmar Hunoldt’s approach. She is like a huge white spider, spinning her web from a faraway corner, gently reeling him in, and yet she has not even breathed a word. He waits, tremulous, his Bellini almost finished. His glass is tarnished with specks of peach. The alcohol has gone to his head, but it is an enjoyable, giddying sensation. His legs tremble with excitement. He wants the moment to last. He enjoys the strong pressure of the sun on his back, the salty breeze, and Dagmar Hunoldt’s overwhelming presence. Just by lowering his eyes, he can glimpse her wrist, thickset and sturdy, and one square, powerful hand. A fascinating hand. She wears a golden signet ring on her middle finger. The hand that has signed contracts for life-changing books. The hand that has plucked authors out of obscurity and transformed them into golden-haloed superstars. The hand that rules the literary world, that bends it to its will. What will her first words be? What if she gets straight to the point, going for the jugular? No, she is too subtle for that. She will not play it frontal. The more the minutes tick by, the more Nicolas is convinced of that. She will want it to be a lengthy matter; she will want to relish the conversation, like a gourmet meal.

He has not made up his mind about what his attitude should be. Surely she is aware he will put up a fight. He will not capitulate, at least not immediately. He wants to be seduced. He expects the usual song and dance, yet he hopes Dagmar Hunoldt will indulge in her best party piece just for him. He yearns for a dazzling literary courtship. As he stares covertly at the thick wrist, he is aware of being yet another asset, yet another gamble, yet another ploy. He knows she has done this many a time, turning writers into instruments, shaping them to her needs. He thinks fleetingly of
Les Liaisons dangereuses.
Will she play Merteuil to his Valmont? He has heard rumors about the inimitable parties in her apartment on Gramercy Park (although apparently last year, she moved to the Upper East Side), where she invited her authors, expertly mingling them with models, artists, heirs, geeks, opera singers, polo players, actors, or good-looking nobodies she met on the subway. He recalled other rumors about business meetings in her legendary white office on the top floor of the Flatiron Building, where she was photographed for
Vogue
and where, overlooking the breathtaking view on Broadway and Fifth, she would swoop in for the kill.

Their empty glasses are collected. Dagmar Hunoldt leans back in her chair, dabbing sunblock on her chiseled face, neck, and décolletage. From close-up, her white skin is flawless, almost wrinkle-free. Has she had a little nip and tuck? She does not talk to him, but he does not feel rejected. They are joined in a bubble of companionable silence. He prays that Malvina will not come down now and ruin this moment. Hopefully, Malvina, if she does appear, will remain her usual silent self.

Dagmar Hunoldt throws a couple of words to the horizon, to the boats, to the sea. Not to him.

“Mercury Retrograde.”

Nicolas strains his ears. Did she say: Mercury Retrograde? (The hashtag #WTF, short for “What the fuck?” flashes in front of his eyes, but he is not on Twitter. This is real life, not Twitter.) If he says anything, whatever he says will sound stupid. So he says nothing. But perhaps nothing sounds just as stupid?

“Mercury Retrograde,” repeats Dagmar Hunoldt, dreamily, staring out to the sky and the water, not bothered by the fact that he has not uttered a sound. “We have nothing to fear till August, but one must be wary.”

Nicolas frantically pieces all this together in his mind. He feels like a dull-witted contestant on a TV show. The slow one who has not yet pressed the buzzer. How cruel she is to play with him thus, to inflict incomprehensible charades on him.

She turns to look at him. “Are you familiar with astrology?” she asks.

“No,” he says truthfully.

“Three times a year, for about three weeks, the planet Mercury turns backward, meaning it’s in retrograde. For those three weeks, everything comes to a standstill.”

Nicolas nods, not quite knowing what is expected of him. Astrology is not his subject. It is his friend Lara’s hobby. Lara would know exactly what Mercury Retrograde is all about. She was the kind of person who’d exclaim over lunch, “Oh no, he’s a Scorpio. I knew it. Well, that’s it, then. Forget it.” Nicolas was amused at how much of Lara’s life was regimented by Zodiac signs. He teased her mercilessly about it. “So, what do the stars have in store for you today?” he’d text. “Are you allowed to have a drink with an Aries at six?”

“What do you mean by standstill?” Nicolas asks carefully.

Dagmar Hunoldt spreads more sunblock on her nose.

“Well, that this is not the moment to clinch an important deal, to sign a contract, to buy a house, for example,” she says. “You see, for those three weeks, delays occur. Problems arise. Mercury is the planet of communications. Letters are delivered, but late. E-mails are lost. Messages are not listened to. This year, 2011, Mercury Retrograde starts on August the second. I have important decisions to make at that point.”