He took the rose and started working on it, while Xavière shrugged, considering his effort extravagant.
Quentin turned to Orion. “Do you have a card, so that I can write a note?”
“But of course!”
Orion put a card, an envelope, and a pen on the counter.
“Why don’t you give him all the cash in the till and your savings while you’re about it,” Xavière whispered in his ear.
Orion laughed as if she had just said something witty.
Blushing, Quentin scribbled a line and sealed the envelope.
Orion showed him how the red ribbon could hold the note, then wished him a good day.
“Isn’t youth beautiful?” he said.
“Yes, beautiful, but broke,” Xavière, returning in disgust to the back of the shop. “It makes your mouth water but doesn’t feed you.”
Quentin ran to the bench, coming to such a clumsy halt that he almost poked Albane’s eye out as he handed her the flower. “Here, this is for you!”
Instead of taking the flower, Albane clapped her hands together and emitted a series of high-pitched squeals. Quentin glanced around, afraid he might look ridiculous. Luckily, they could be seen only by the parrots and parakeets, who didn’t seem interested in them.
Albane finally accepted the flower as if it were a precious gift. “Thank you.”
“I have to go, Albane, or I’ll miss my class.”
“Bye-bye, Quentin. See you tomorrow. I’m very . . . very . . . very . . . happy.”
Quentin blushed, quivered, stamped his feet, and at last made up his mind to leave.
Albane watched his cheerful retreat until he had vanished. Then she looked at the red rose again. It was the first time a boy had given her a flower. She was entering into a wonderful time, her future, where everything would now be as lovely as this.
Grabbing her phone, she typed a message. Gwen, Q. has given me flowers. Of course, it was just one flower, but that didn’t sound so good in a message. If she said, Q. has given me a flower, it might be thought either that Quentin was stingy or that he’d stolen it.
Albane noticed an envelope hanging from the ribbon.
“What a romantic!”
She opened it impatiently and deciphered the boy’s rushed handwriting:
I want to sleep with you. Signed: You know who.
10
She was watching Oxana, who had just discovered the anonymous message in the kitchen. Meg knew she was risking everything: either Oxana would get angry and leave Wim, or she would win him back.
It annoyed her that she couldn’t make out was going on in the model’s head. She strove to decode her body language but, sitting there on a high stool, with a cup in her hand, Oxana expressed nothing specific.
The telephone rang in Wim’s private office, and Meg ran to answer it, shaking off her wild imaginings and going back to being an art dealer’s perfect assistant.
As for Oxana, she was rereading the note. The more she thought about it, the more relieved she felt. Wim must have had a very strong relationship with his previous girlfriend, a relationship that was quite likely to resume. She must be very confident in their love to sign the note simply You know who.
Oxana got down off the stool, clinging to the refrigerator in order to avoid twisting her ankle, and put the kettle on again.
She was shaking off her sense of guilt. For three months, she had been punishing herself for failing to inspire Wim: he never took the initiative in their lovemaking, he never threw himself on her and whispered that her body drove him crazy, he had never taken her to bed with any ardor. He showed her the kind of respect that, once he had seduced her, caused her concern. She had wondered if she smelled bad or if she was aging fast. Even worse, she had started to question the way she abandoned herself to the delights of love . . .
Since she never stayed with a man long enough, she had never discussed this topic with anyone. Why did her love affairs last such a short time? Until now, she had assumed her breakups were related to geography, to the fact that her job took her to different parts of the world. But now that she had been living with Wim in Brussels for three months, she suspected that this official reason might conceal a more serious cause: Was she a mediocre lover? She suspected that as far as Wim was concerned—Wim who admired her beauty and showed her off like a precious treasure but avoided her in bed—she was second-rate.
This letter provided her with an alternative: Wim’s head and heart were elsewhere, he was still involved—or hoping to be involved—with another woman, a woman he might get back together with. She, Oxana, might just be the interim lover.
“Oxana, your taxi will be here in five minutes.”
She jumped. Meg was acting as an alarm clock, announcing that it was time to stop dreaming and go to work.
“Tell him I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
Meg replied falsely that she would pass on the message, concealing the fact that the taxi would be there in half an hour, time for Oxana to bump into the furniture as she got her clothes together.
On the floor below, Wim was smiling ecstatically at his friend Knud, director of an airline company. “Petra von Tannenbaum?”
“She’s been talking about nothing but you since last night.”
“I did feel a connection, but I never thought . . . ”
“Look, Wim, she couldn’t have said it more plainly: ‘It’s a shame your Wim is tied up with a model because I’d have loved to stay with him while I’m in Brussels.’”
“Wow!”
“She also said, and I swear it’s true: ‘You should mention it to him anyway.’”
Wim turned scarlet, flattered that he’d caught the attention of a woman who was famous around the world. “You realize of course that if people in the field heard that I was with Petra von Tannenbaum, it’d be—”
“Good publicity?”
“Huge publicity! Berlin, Paris, Milan, New York . . . Everybody’s talking about her.”
By “everybody,” Wim didn’t mean the masses—those millions of ordinary beings—but the small, snobbish, elitist modern art set. This narrow clique—a hundred or so individuals in each of the cities mentioned—contained the people who mattered. If he had been introduced to a pop singer who had sold billions of records all over the world, he would have ignored her because she didn’t rub shoulders with those kinds of people. For him, fame wasn’t a question of universal celebrity, but of the recognition gained within a circle whose members he could list.
Petra von Tannenbaum aroused passion in devotees of the avant-garde because she had reinvented striptease, turning that vulgar, wretched activity, steeped in distress and lust, into an elegant happening. Appearing only in the most select galleries, she demanded a handpicked audience to whom, thanks to the sophisticated lighting provided by some sixty spotlights, she displayed a number of extraordinary tableaux in which she was dressed to start with and naked at the end, although not always—that would have been too predictable.
Equipped with a stunning physique, Petra von Tannenbaum enhanced nature with artifice. Her hair, her makeup, her nails, even the silkiness of her skin and richness of her coloring, everything looked as if it had been retouched by the brush of a great painter. She only ever appeared surrounded by this patina of an old master. Moreover, each scene echoed a famous painting, which she hijacked in an iconoclastic fashion, making the Mona Lisa strip, for instance, and the Winged Victory of Samothrace lift her arms.
“Look, Wim, Petra von Tannenbaum is going to be staying in Brussels for three months. In the next few weeks, she’s performing in Antwerp, Ghent, Amsterdam, The Hague, and Cologne. Imagine yourself arm in arm with her at the Maastricht or Basel Fair?”
Wim stamped his feet with enthusiasm. To parade in front of his fellow dealers with a work of art at his side—now that would represent the apex of his c
areer. He slapped himself on the knees: his mind was made up! “Tell Petra von Tannenbaum that I’d be delighted to invite her to dinner tomorrow night. That’ll give me time to sort out a few issues.”
“Perfect.”
“Will she understand?”
“She’ll understand.”
Wim and Knud gave each other a warm hug.
“How will you deal with Oxana?”
Surprised, Wim gave him a glance that meant: What an odd question . . .
Wim went to the gallery, received a few clients, and flicked through magazines while pondering over the situation. Leaving a woman was something he had already done about twenty times. At other times, the separation had happened organically, through boredom or wear and tear, like a leaf falling off a tree in autumn. This time, he had to hasten the breakup.
Should he use the dreariness of their love life as an excuse? That would be the easy option, so why not take advantage of it? He was the victim, after all. No point in admitting to Oxana that his previous sexual relations had been equally appalling. As Knud would put it: “You can’t say about a man that he’s a bad lay because it takes two to be a bad lay.” He would just have to play it by ear. Just as he did when he received a customer . . . Hadn’t his brilliant instinct always served him well?
That evening, he had a meal delivered by the best Japanese cook in Brussels, and suggested to Oxana that they eat in the living room, on the couches, while listening to music.
Absently, Oxana hesitated, then exclaimed, “Yes! What a good idea!”
Once again, Wim wondered if Oxana used the short silences she observed to translate the question or search for an answer.
“Oxana, I have something important to tell you.”
“I already know, Wim.” She had replied with a quiet gravity. Looking him in the eyes, she swept her hair back and continued, “You’re in love with another woman.”
“What—”
“Much more than you are with me. You’re not in love with me, anyway. You think about her when you come to bed, and even when we . . . ”
She didn’t know the words to describe sexual intimacy, so she made a vague gesture that nearly sent the lampshade flying against the wall.
Wim looked down, embarrassed but also delighted by the way she was interpreting his demeanor. “How did you guess?”
Oxana chose not to mention the yellow letter she had picked out of the trash. “Feminine intuition . . . ”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, because now I know why you’re not really attracted to me . . . ” She smiled tenderly. “You’re lucky to experience such passion, Wim.”
Wim nodded, aware that the situation required it. Even so, Oxana’s words made it clear that she wasn’t crazy about him either, and that hurt his pride. He realized at that moment that he barely knew her: he had lived with her for three months, had taken her everywhere, but didn’t know anything about her wishes and desires. Curious, he leaned forward. “Oxana, what is it that you want from a man?”
She raised her head, opened her eyes wide, and, with a mixture of sadness and indignation, replied, “That’s something I’ll only ever tell one person: the love of my life.”
She had been as true to her feelings as she could be.
Wim took the blow. He gathered the wooden chopsticks from the two plates. “Would you mind moving out of the apartment tomorrow? Knud’s studio apartment is free, if you like.”
She looked him up and down. “I can afford a hotel, thank you. Tomorrow’s fine. I’m tired tonight.”
Without regret, without even sparing him a glance, she went up to the mezzanine.
Wim sat motionless on the couch for ten minutes—a long period of prostration for such an exuberant man—both pleased and vexed that this breakup should have taken place without tears. He had never imagined that he was living with such a solid block of indifference. He wasn’t shocked by his own, very male cynicism—he was used to it—but he was bothered by Oxana’s. What had she looked for in him? Free accommodation? Company? Once he had come up with the theory that perhaps she had looked for a lover who didn’t exist, he put an end to his introspection and bounced back, like one of the springs in the couch, and rubbed his hands: the space was free for Petra von Tannenbaum.
The following day, Meg ordered Oxana’s taxi for the last time. Unlike all the other times, she felt quite emotional as she did so, guilty at having caused the model’s departure by leaving the yellow letter lying around.
Oxana kissed her, thanked her for taking care of her, and got in the taxi. The driver was overjoyed at carrying such a beauty.
Wim, meanwhile, was getting ready to dine with Petra von Tannenbaum. What had seemed desirable to him the day before now terrified him. How was he going to suggest that she move in here? And if she threw himself at him, how would he react?
For a moment, he considered seeing Dr. Gemayel again, but then decided not to and vowed to take a few tranquilizers. That should be sufficient to deal with the stress, shouldn’t it?
At eight in the evening, he went to pick up Petra von Tannenbaum from the Amigo Hotel. The doorman, the bellboy, the waiters—they were all agog at this sculpture of a woman: they didn’t know who she was, although they found her highly alluring. Some thought she was “a Hollywood actress who’s very well-known over there but not yet over here,” others that she was “a German countess whose picture was in Gala magazine.” Nobody imagined that she was a stripper: her sophistication, her elegance, her aristocratic bearing were so much at odds with the image of that profession that nobody would have believed it anyway.
In the restaurant, Petra was charming toward Wim, who negotiated various topics of conversation skillfully but wondered how to breach more intimate questions.
She did so herself, over dessert. Taking out a long cigarette holder, she dug a ruby-red fingernail into Wim’s hand. “My dear, my things are ready. We just need to pick them up from the hotel.”
“Petra, you bowl me over.”
“I know.”
“How do you know you’ll like it at my place?”
“I’ve heard all about it. Anyway, I like being with you.”
He felt drunk with pride. One thing, though, bothered him. “I worry whether or not you’ll like your room . . . ”
“My room? I thought it was yours.”
Just to underline what she was suggesting, she removed her fingernail and caressed his hand.
Wim turned red.
On the way home, he talked like never before. He talked to conceal his nervousness.
Petra von Tannenbaum let out cries of admiration as she visited the triple loft. Finally, he led her to the private section.
“This’ll be perfect,” she said, discovering the bedroom.
He bowed his head like an eager servant, then brought up her trunks.
“Use the bathroom before me, Wim. I like to take my time.”
Wim obeyed. When he came out, he was clad in an elegant black kimono. Petra gave it an appreciative glance then, holding several toiletry bags, went in and shut the door behind her.
Wim went to have a drink, taking two tranquilizers along with it, and got into bed.
He waited. After half an hour, concerned, he knocked lightly at the door. “Petra, is everything all right?”
“Everything’s perfect, my dear.”
He waited patiently for her to join him.
She still didn’t come out. Thanks to the tranquilizers and the fact that he had been lying down for a long time, he began to feel sleepy. How embarrassing! She was going to come out and find that he had dozed off. He pinched himself, struggling with the wave of well-being that was trying to lull him into sleep.
Another half hour went by and he heard Petra behind the door. “Actually, my dear, I find the light uncomfortable in the evening. Just keep a night ligh
t on.”
Wim obeyed, and let her know that he had done so.
“I’m coming.”
He was expecting a theatrical entrance, like the ones she usually made. Instead, a shadowy figure slipped into bed next to him.
She laid her head on the pillows as if Wim wasn’t there. Once she was settled, he thought it necessary to say, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Good. Good. Me, too. Your bedding seems excellent.”
He slid a hand toward her, hoping for encouragement. She ignored it, so he grew bolder and grabbed her by the wrist.
She jumped. “Oh!” She turned her magnificent face to look at him. “I forgot to tell you, my dear: I hate sex and never have it.”
He stared at her. She wasn’t joking. She was stating an important detail, even if it was only a detail.
“You’re not angry with me? Thank you.”
With that, she turned over and curled up, leaving Wim nothing but the sight of her long, sublime black hair.
He looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath, then breathed out in relief: he and this woman were going to get along just fine.
11
The guy’s brilliant!”
“And tonight he’s really wild!”
Victor was arousing enthusiastic comments around the dance floor. In this bourgeois nightclub frequented by young thirtysomethings, the appearance of a supple, agile, handsome twenty-year-old shaking his hips in such a sexy way, moving in a kind of trance, his eyes half shut, his mouth half open, was making this an evening to remember.
Victor loved dancing. At one with his body, happy with the way it responded to him, he would lose his awkwardness and improvise a thousand moves to the music, unaware of the desires he stirred around him.
“Come on!” he said to the group of people sitting at the table, who had come with him.
The women giggled, tantalized. Already a few of the men were standing up, convinced they would be as sensual as Victor as soon as they started moving about.