The Other Story (23 page)

“
Buona sera,
Signor Kolt,” said the young man, giving a polite little bow. “
Sono
Davide
.
”

Nicolas smiled back, thrilled, and stepped into the glossy black Riva, feeling his spirits soar. The boat headed out to sea, motor growling in a throaty crescendo. Nicolas stood next to Davide, shoulder to shoulder. The wind whipped his hair and seawater sprayed over his face. He glanced back at the Gallo Nero, at the glittering lights of the terrace shining out to them, and he felt like a bird set free, breathing heady whiffs of sea air. Davide asked him where he wanted to go, shouting to be heard, and Nicolas shouted back, he had no idea, Davide should choose for him, a simple place to eat and drink. “Somewhere uncomplicated,” he yelled. “Somewhere not like back there.” He gestured toward the receding Gallo Nero. Davide nodded, and Nicolas felt the camaraderie between them; he felt that somehow Davide understood that he needed to get away, even if Davide had no idea what Nicolas was running away from—a pregnant girlfriend and an overdose of luxury. He was glad that he had not had time to change for dinner, that he was still wearing his bathing suit under his shorts, his black Gap T-shirt, and his Converse sneakers. He looked like any other twenty-nine-year-old guy on a summer evening.

Davide drove on swiftly, the boat rising and falling, sometimes landing with a jerky bump, which made Nicolas careen into him, and he had to steady himself, which made them both smile, sharing that unspoken boyish complicity that warmed his heart, and then Davide let Nicolas put his hands on the wheel, and he felt the exhilarating vibrations of the motor filter up through his palms. Around them, the shadows grew as the sun backed down behind the hill, the water deepened into a blackish blue, and the hot air was suddenly laced with cooler strands. Davide slowed down, approaching a small town with a high circle of faded pink and blue houses. Nicolas made out a large, quaint villa with a crumbling facade, a leafy garden, and an arbor with tables and chairs beneath it. Davide pointed to the villa. “Villa Stella,” he said. “Very nice. You will like it.” Then he handed him a card with a number on it. Nicolas was to call him when he wished to return to the hotel. Nicolas thanked him. Before he got to the wrought-iron gates, he sent a text message to Malvina. “We really need to talk. Gone somewhere else to think things over. Back later.” Then he pocketed the phone and Davide’s card.

He was seated under the arbor at a large table with other customers. It was a noisy, joyful crowd, with young children, but that did not bother him tonight. The families were Italian. There were no tourists. A teenaged girl, who spoke little French or English, smiled at him shyly as she offered him a glass of white wine. She explained there was a set menu. Gnocchi to begin with, and then fish. She couldn’t say what the fish was, but she assured him it was very good. Nicolas was delighted. He sat back, sipped the wine, which was chilled and dry, the way he liked it, and looked around him. A large fig tree sent its enticing perfume his way. Through its green luxuriance, he could glimpse a silvery moon. He watched the Italian families laugh and be merry. He watched the young girl serve the dishes with careful yet awkward gestures, which made her all the more touching. The meal he ate at the Villa Stella was one of the best he’d ever had in his life. It was simple, rustic food, lovingly prepared by some buxom mamma in the kitchen, a faded apron tied round her ample hips, dyed black hair drawn back in a bun. It brought back his Ligurean summer with François. He loved the fact that the table surface felt a little greasy, that there were still crumbs from the previous customer’s meal, that the noise level was deafening. This was the Italy he preferred, the real Italy, nothing to do with the antiseptic perfection of the Gallo Nero. He did not feel lonely as he sat there, drawing a sensual pleasure from each slow mouthful. He did not think of Malvina, of the baby. He did not think of Laurence Taillefer’s article, of his mother and Ed, of Dagmar Hunoldt. He did not think of Delphine, of Alice Dor. He did not think about the nonexistent novel he had been lying about for so long.

He laid the Hamilton Khaki on the table in front of him and thought of his father, Fiodor Koltchine, and how he would have done anything in his power, how he would have invoked any god, succumbed to any voodoo, risked any occult pact in order to summon his father to his table at the Villa Stella tonight.

A
S HE SPENT HIS
days hunched in front of his computer, not writing, surfing relentlessly, feeling woolly-brained and lethargic, Nicolas became obsessed with the writing processes of other authors—living authors, dead authors, best-selling ones, lesser-known ones, French, British, Indian, Spanish, Italian, Canadian, Turkish, American authors, any authors. He scoured the Internet for details on how they wrote. Many, it seemed, were inspired by events, conversations, or other books. And once the idea took form, how did they actually write their novels? Nicolas thirsted for each and every element of information. How long did it take? Did they write notes? Did they research? Did they plan an outline? Was it detailed? Or did they simply sit down and write, like he had written
The Envelope
? Nicolas learned that Russell Banks did not enjoy writing fiction on his computer, as it cramped his flow. He wrote his first drafts by hand, with a rough outline to map his way. Nelson Novézan admitted that writing was such an agonizing business that he needed alcohol, drugs, and sex to get on with it and locked himself up in five-star hotel rooms. Margaret Atwood, who Tweeted as much as Nicolas did, printed out her chapters and stacked them on the floor, changing their order when she needed to. When she got an idea for a novel, she had to write it down on the first scrap of paper she could find, even if it was a paper napkin. He discovered that Orhan Pamuk also wrote by hand, following a structured plot he doggedly stuck to. Michael Ondaatje literally clipped and pasted entire paper paragraphs into multilayered notebooks. Kazuo Ishiguro edited ruthlessly, cutting out parts that were over a hundred pages long. Jean d’Ormesson did the same, salvaging a mere three pages out of three hundred one summer. Katherine Pancol wore a pen around her neck to jot down ideas, ate chocolate and sipped tea while she worked. William Faulkner drank whiskey. F. Scott Fitzgerald drank too much. W. H. Auden swallowed Benzedrine. Charles Baudelaire had to wrap his aching head in strips of cloth dipped in sedative water. Emile Zola wrote best at Médan, his country home by the Seine. Daphne du Maurier found her inspiration at Menabilly, her Cornwall estate, where she wrote in a gardener’s hut under the trees in order to get away from her children. Ernest Hemingway delivered five hundred words a day, every day. Ian McEwan, one thousand words. Tom Wolfe, eighteen hundred. Stephen King, two thousand. James Joyce needed one full day just to produce a couple of sentences. Georges Simenon wrote a novel every four months and found the names of his heroes in the phone book. Vladimir Nabokov wrote on index cards. Virginia Woolf, Victor Hugo, and Philip Roth wrote standing up. Truman Capote had to lie down with a coffee and a cigarette. Roald Dahl slid into a sleeping bag before sitting on his chair. Salman Rushdie wrote first thing in the morning, wearing his pajamas at the desk. Marcel Proust wrote in bed late at night. So did Mark Twain. Haruki Murakami started to write at 4:00
A.M.
So did Amélie Nothomb, using a blue ballpoint pen. Anthony Trollope from 5:30
A.M.
to 8:30
A.M.
Amos Oz took a forty-five minute walk at 6:00
A.M
and then got to work. Joyce Carol Oates preferred to write before breakfast. Toni Morrison wrote at dawn, in order to watch the sun come up. John Steinbeck puffed away at a pipe. Guillaume Musso listened to jazz. Dorothy Parker typed with two fingers. Serge Joncour wore earplugs and lifted dumbbells. Simone de Beauvoir wrote eight hours a day, pausing for lunch. Paul Auster, six hours. Emily Dickinson wrote on a tiny desk. Joanne Harris, in a stone shed built by her husband. Marc Levy, on a table made from an old door placed on trestles. The Brontë sisters, in their dining room. Nathalie Sarraute and Ismail Kadare, in cafés. P. D. James, in her kitchen. Jane Austen, in a room that had a squeaky door, which warned her of anyone’s arrival. Gustave Flaubert rewrote his sentences over and over again. Gabriel García Márquez could work only in familiar surroundings and never in hotels or on a borrowed typewriter. Annie Proulx started her stories by writing the ending first. Delphine de Vigan needed a long breather between two novels. Maupassant needed women; Cocteau, opium. Nicolas stopped researching. All the information he gleaned ended up depressing him. His feelings of inadequacy increased tenfold.

As he sat enjoying his meal at the Villa Stella, Nicolas tried to analyze the reasons why he couldn’t summon the energy to write. Was it only because he had been lured into the gluey and inextricable trap of the Internet and social networks? Hadn’t he been eviscerated by three years of a nonstop book tour? Perhaps his fame had in truth transformed him into the vain and uninteresting person Roxane and François were now convinced he was. Or was it because he was no writer, just a product, as the Taillefer article had so harshly pointed out? The taste of limoncello was sweet and lemony on his tongue. He wished this starry night under the fig tree could last forever. One of the Italian families was celebrating a birthday, and he watched it all, the cake, the candles, the faces gathered around their loved one, the singing, the cheering, the kisses, the embraces, the opening of presents. He could describe this so easily, the grandparents, regal and benign, the storm of boisterous children, the salt-and-pepper father, the mother beaming with pride, the young boy who was fifteen today, not yet a man, but full to the brim with the promise of swagger and style. He watched the father reach over and ruffle his son’s hair, and once again he felt the ache for his own father. He thought of everything he owed to Fiodor Koltchine. If he had never seen his father’s real name on the birth certificate, he would never have written
The Envelope.
He took a while to think this over. If he had never written that book, would he still be living with Delphine and Gaïa over the post office, on the rue Pernety? Would he still be a private tutor? It seemed impossible to go back to that old life, however charming some elements of it had been. Hurricane Margaux had spoiled him. He was now used to luxury, to flying in business class, to the best hotels. He’d had no idea about the strange and unexpected path he was about to take when the book was published, about how a book could change a life.

He really was extraordinarily shiftless, he thought, uncomfortably, as he watched the Italian family leave the restaurant. This could not go on. He must force himself, exert discipline, stop being so idle. It was all there, at his fingertips. If only he had the stamina to do it! He could write about a luxury seaside hotel and its elegant guests; he could write about a famous publisher and her unexpected appearance and what would ensue; he could write about an uninspired author; he could write about his ex, her hips in the shower, her perfect timing, and how he still loved her; he could write about an absolute cretin being trapped by a pregnant girlfriend; he could write about a sultry housewife from Berlin; he could write about his mother’s mysterious love life. He could write about anything; he could write about everything. He had done it once. He could do it again, if he got his act together. Instead of thinking about it, he had to do it—physically do it. Write it. Rascar Capac’s blue haze was out there somewhere. He had only to track it down and get to work.

When Nicolas called Davide to go back to the Gallo Nero, it was late. They sailed through the darkness, gliding over the black sea. This time, Nicolas sat in the back and observed the cloudless sky, the stars. When they arrived, he thanked Davide, clapping him on the back. He had nothing to tip him with, as he had left a large tip for the young blushing waitress, but Davide did not seem to mind. He said that if ever Nicolas wanted another ride, he should just call him. Nicolas walked up to the bar. The Brazilian party was over, but the bar was still full. He noticed new faces he had not seen before. Sophisticated Spaniards, one woman, pretty, and three men. Her husband, brother, and father, he guessed. A French family, the image of refined elegance; the mother small, lithe, and tanned, with black hair touched with silver, the balding but dashing father wearing a pink shirt and beige trousers, and two sleek children in their early twenties. The beautiful Natalie Portman sisters were back, each with an eager suitor on her arm. Saturday night was a busy night at the Gallo Nero. Or was it Sunday now? Nicolas checked his watch. It was. He had no intention of going back to the room and confronting Malvina. He ordered sparkling water from Giancarlo, who intuitively understood his mood was awry tonight. The blond American ladies were sitting not far off, heavily made up, their necks cluttered with jewelry, martinis in hand. He could not help listening to their conversation. Their voices were so loud that everyone was listening to them, or was forced to. Were they really talking about a beauty parlor where they’d had their pubic hair dyed? He had to make sure. They were. When they saw him turn around, they shrieked with laughter and sent air kisses to him. The next thing he knew, Giancarlo was handing him a martini.

“This is from the American ladies,” Giancarlo murmured. “I think they like you.”

Nicolas turned around again and smiled at the ladies. Then he took his drink and went to join them. They welcomed him warmly. Their names were Sherry and Mimi. Sherry was from Palm Springs, and Mimi was from Houston. They were friends and widows. They punctuated each sentence with a giggle and a double flounce of their hair, like headbangers from a hard-rock band. Nicolas was confused by this at first. Then he understood that they did it in order to convey emotion, as their skin was so tightly stretched over their cheekbones and their eyelids practically stitched open, like Alex DeLarge in
A Clockwork Orange,
giving them the glassy, fixed expressions of dried-out mummies.