Within a few seconds, she had learned all about the scandal that had provoked these gatherings. Shocked and dismayed, her head in a vise, she pondered on this first news of the day; accustomed to the fact that nothing unusual ever happened to her, she didn’t wonder about how she had spent the night, remembering only that she had been stuck here the previous evening and had started drinking to kill time.
She gathered her clothes, went to the bathroom, cleaned her teeth energetically, and tried to eliminate the leftover smells of alcohol that made her mouth feel like cardboard. It wasn’t until she was in the shower that sensations connected with Wim rose to the surface! Wim kissing her. Wim sliding into her. Wim kneading her buttocks. Wim bringing her to orgasm, smiling, attentive, looking down into her face. She froze. Had she dreamt it? Was she taking her desires for reality? It was quite unlikely that . . .
But the images kept coming back into her brain, unbelievable but strong. What on earth had happened?
And anyway, where was Wim? If he hadn’t been lying asleep next to her, that meant he hadn’t been in the room. The reason she had gotten up alone was because she’d slept alone. Were what she interpreted as memories merely fantasies?
Dazed and embarrassed, as uncertain in her gestures as in her thoughts, she found it hard to get dressed, to make herself look more or less normal.
Once she had done so, she trembled at the thought of leaving the room. When she joined Wim downstairs, she would learn the truth. Either he would throw himself amorously on her and they were indeed lovers, as her tormented brain suggested, or he would treat her as he usually did, and she had imagined everything. What would be the best outcome? She dreaded both.
She descended the stairs, immediately becoming aware of loud voices.
Wim and Petra von Tannenbaum were having an argument.
“No, I know you only too well,” Wim sneered.
“How dare you?”
“You made up that story, Petra, just to get yourself talked about.”
“To get myself talked about? Do I need to be raped in order to get myself talked about? People were talking about me before, as far as I know.”
“But not enough. Nothing will ever satisfy your narcissism, no amount of fame will ever be enough for you, Petra, I’ve understood that perfectly well. It doesn’t bother me. But this time you’ve acted badly. You’ve attacked a man who’s world-famous and respected, and who ought to be prime minister in this period of crisis! You’re causing irreparable damage. And that disgusts me.”
“He forced himself on me!”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“What would you need as proof?”
“Real evidence.”
“Don’t worry, there will be. Even if it’s only the analysis of the handkerchief—”
“Oh, sure!”
“Why won’t you believe that I could be a victim?”
“You, a victim? You’re the universal predator.”
“I don’t give a damn about what you think. Anyway, I’m not asking you to feel sympathy for me, I’m just asking to stay in this apartment.”
“Out of the question.”
Meg gave a start when she heard these words. Was he doing this so that she could take Petra’s place? Then that meant they really had . . .
Petra stood up and pointed her finger angrily at Wim. “All right then, if you insist, I’ll go outside, throw myself weeping in front of the reporters and photographers swarming out there on the square, and tell them my boyfriend, the famous gallery owner, has just thrown me out, like the worst male chauvinist there is.”
Wim recoiled as if he had been hit. “You bitch! You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“And you wouldn’t do it either, darling: throw me out now.”
There was a silence. Although Wim had quit smoking years ago, he lit a cigarette. “OK, stay.”
Without thanking him, Petra sat down, satisfied. She let a minute ago by, then said, “Of course, I have no desire to share your room anymore. After what I’ve been through . . . ”
“What are you talking about?”
“My rape, you idiot. Put me on my own in another part of the apartment. That way I’ll see as little of you as possible.”
“On that point, we’re in agreement,” Wim concluded, getting to his feet.
It was then that he saw Meg standing in the corridor with her arms down by her sides. “Meg, you’re just in time. Tell the staff to put Madame von Tannenbaum downstairs; explain to them how to arrange things so that she can do whatever she likes there and doesn’t need to come upstairs.”
“OK.”
“And if you don’t mind going to the kitchen, I could really do with a strong coffee. After the night I’ve had . . . Or rather, after the night Madame von Tannenbaum has given us.”
Petra shrugged contemptuously.
These words removed any last doubt from Meg’s mind: she must have dreamed it all.
Life resumed—to all appearances, just as before. Meg, an exceptionally devoted and considerate assistant, continued to help Wim; never once did she risk a familiar gesture, a conspiratorial smile, or a lingering look that would have suggested that she had been intimate with her boss. And with good reason, if her supposed memories were nothing but fantasies.
As for Wim, he would have died under torture rather than admit what had happened. A relationship with Meg didn’t suit his personality. As an art dealer, he didn’t merely sell beauty, he cultivated it, he surrounded himself with it, and was merciless toward any lack of taste. To show himself in public with an ugly duckling would not only have been a professional blunder—how can you choose paintings if you can’t choose a woman?—it would have negated all his efforts. A beautiful apartment, a beautiful car, a beautiful woman, a beautiful gallery: everything had to match, everything had to be in harmony. A single mistake, and the whole house of cards would come crashing down. Beneath his behavior as a refined aesthete, behind his sophisticated culture, lay an unprepossessing child’s naïve belief that by surrounding himself with beauty he could suppress his own ugliness, or even acquire beauty by a process of osmosis. It was an age-old reflex, close to religious cannibalism, which had led him, when he was very young, to eat the same dishes as the fashionable people he met; today, all that remained of that magical practice was a negative version: in a restaurant, he would refuse to choose a dish ordered by an obese neighbor. Similarly, as much to forget his nondescript appearance as to believe that he looked better than he did, he had condemned himself to flirt only with gorgeous women, even if they were trivial, even if they were stupid, or even if they were hateful like Petra von Tannenbaum.
If only he could erase his night with Meg from his memory, or even just stop thinking about it! But there was one thing about that night that kept niggling at him, stopping him from achieving this state of indifference: he had loved making love with her, he had shown himself to be a patient lover, only too delighted to wait until she had reached orgasm. Whenever he thought about it, he would look for explanations that excluded his partner: the alcohol, the unexpectedness of it all. But there was one simple explanation that clinched it: he didn’t find Meg attractive. That was why he had taken so long to come, that was why he had amused himself with all kinds of foreplay . . . The way to avoid coming too quickly was to sleep with a woman he didn’t find attractive!
He reflected on this theory, especially as a memory from his schooldays gave it a further degree of credibility: whenever he had translated from Latin at school, he only shone if the text was particularly difficult. If the teacher gave the class an easy passage from Cicero, his grade would be only average; whereas if it was a piece by Livy, or some thorny verses by Lucretius, Wim would triumph over the pitfalls and be top of the class. Why shouldn’t it be that way in love? Could his possibly be a unique case of a split between desire and orgasm?
&
nbsp; One afternoon, in the gallery, seeing an unattractive American woman come in, wearing Bermuda shorts, very short and with very white skin, he decided to prove the correctness of his theory. He walked her from painting to painting, sticking close to her, almost smothering her, flirting with her shamelessly. At first, she didn’t catch on to what he was up to, but when she did she blushed, torn between embarrassment and pleasure. As he showed her out, he gave her his business card and told her that nothing would please him more than to spend an evening with her. Remaining circumspect even though she was tempted, she let him get as close to her as possible before delicately taking his card. At that very moment, Meg walked past and gave them a look of complete astonishment. Wim’s face fell. From his reaction, the American woman immediately assumed that Meg was his wife.
“You son of a bitch!” she exclaimed.
Furiously, she pushed Wim away and threw the card on the floor as violently as if she had spat on it.
Wim stood motionless, watching her walk . . . Too bad the scene had finished as abruptly as it did. He wouldn’t have been able to go any further anyway in his attempt to prove his hypothesis that he was only a good lover when he was with a woman who didn’t attract him.
Meg’s questioning look had disturbed him. It had been like an arrow to his heart, and he had felt wretched and, above all, guilty. What on earth was going on?
After three days of investigation, it was confirmed that the DNA found on Petra von Tannenbaum’s handkerchief was Zachary Bidermann’s.
When they heard this on the radio, Wim and Meg happened to be together. They were silent for a long time. That Petra could have been the victim of a sexual predator still astounded them. However much they blamed themselves for their doubts, however much they forced themselves to consider her anew as an abused woman, they couldn’t manage to feel the slightest compassion.
When Petra appeared, looking victorious, Wim said, “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, Petra. I’ve been hateful. I’ve behaved in a way I reprimand in other men: I denied rape. I beg you to forgive me.”
“That’s all right.”
Wim was surprised by such magnanimity. To help him understand the reason, Meg, her head bent over her computer, said aloud, “It’s all over the Internet.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Petra cried, proudly. “And there’s a two-page interview with me in Le Matin.”
“Two pages? That’s amazing!”
Almost joyful, Petra was about to go back down to her apartment.
“Petra, are you comfortable in the apartment we set up for you downstairs?”
“Oh, yes, darling, very comfortable,” she replied, adding in a decidedly friendly vein, “and you know, darling, you can carry on sleeping with the maid, it doesn’t bother me.”
She pointed to Meg behind Wim’s back, and at her appalled reaction, which she found ludicrous, she burst out laughing and left the room. Wim gulped, his neck burning. He didn’t dare to turn around.
As for Meg, she had the impression she suddenly weighed a ton. So her sensual dreams of Wim were memories, alcohol-influenced memories, certainly, but traces of an actual event. But as she stood there trembling, all she could find to say was: “I’m not the maid!”
That day, Meg and Wim tried to avoid each other, which was mission impossible, since their daily life led them to share everything. They therefore tried not to talk or to look at one another.
By the end of the day, this avoidance had created the inverse effect of the one desired: no longer addressing either words or looks to one another took up so much energy that each thought only of the other, felt the other as a mass of light and volume whose presence occupied all the space.
At seven o’clock, Meg assumed that her deliverance was at hand, since she was about to leave. Since Wim had taken refuge in the kitchen, she dragged herself there to say goodbye.
On the table was a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Wim sat waiting, his head resting on his left hand.
She understood, and in a voice distorted by emotion, asked, “Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love one,” Wim replied in a toneless voice.
Now, as the days and nights succeeded one another, Meg and Wim were never apart. At night they were lovers, by day mere colleagues. An airtight border separated their night existence from their daily existence. In order to cross the border, they had recourse to two methods: whiskey at dusk, sleep in the morning. Through these airlocks, Meg, the fountain of sensuality, became once again the zealous colleague, and Wim, the expert in pleasure, the owner of the gallery.
One day, when it was nearly seven and he was looking for a bottle of bourbon, Wim almost broke the rule by saying, “Do we have to become alcoholics to continue our affair, Meg?” but immediately he stopped himself, showed Meg that he regretted his words, and resumed the role that was appropriate to the hour.
Petra von Tannenbaum continued with interviews and, occupied by her excess of fame, was totally indifferent to them. Her one demand was that from time to time she be allowed to accompany Wim to premieres and private viewings, determined as she was to perpetuate the idea that they were living together.
Meg didn’t take umbrage, treating Petra with professionalism, never letting the slightest jealousy show through, not protesting when her rival monopolized Wim, and not demanding her place on his arm.
While in his mind he was grateful to Meg for being so understanding, Wim was nevertheless surprised by it. One evening, after only one glass of whiskey, and without waiting for the state of intoxication that allowed them to behave as lovers, he turned to her, his forehead creased with worry, and asked, “Does Petra being here bother you, Meg?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Really?”
“Really. As long as you can bear her, I’ll bear her. When I’m with you, I don’t need a conventional life.”
He truly admired her. She was an extraordinary woman. What a pity he couldn’t display her in society!
As she poured herself a second glass of whiskey, Meg added, “Poor Petra, when all’s said and done, I feel sorry for her.”
“That’s crazy, Meg! There’s no reason to feel sorry for Petra.”
As far as Wim was concerned, in this case Meg’s humanism verged on stupidity. You could invent stories about Petra, you could find her sublime, exciting, unique, poisonous, irritating, hateful, a pain in the ass, but you couldn’t feel sorry for her.
He shook his head in denial.
“Oh, but there is!” Meg insisted. “I’ve seen the medications she’s obliged to take.”
“Petra?”
“Haven’t you noticed all the stuff she hides in her makeup cases? There isn’t just foundation in there.”
“Meg, don’t tell me you’ve looked through her things?”
“Yes. Are you angry with me?”
“Not at all.”
“The morning after our second night together, I admit I couldn’t help picking up the bottle of liquid she’d injected into herself with a syringe. It was a good idea, because since then I’ve understood her better. My brother’s a doctor, and when I asked him, he told me what it was. What a tragedy!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She had the operation, but she still has to take hormones. For the rest of her life, I suppose. When you know that, it’s easier to stand her behavior, her desire to be the most beautiful, to shine in everybody’s eyes, and especially her rejection of sex.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you know? Petra von Tannenbaum was born a man.”
10
She had found a husband, although he wasn’t hers. Nevertheless, she clung to him as if he were her property. No other woman was going to steal him from her.
When she got back from Knokke-le-Zoute, Ève decided that she had to go to war, to destroy her rival in
order to get Philippe back.
That morning, a crucial battle was about to be played out. She therefore got up in a cheerful mood.
“Barbouille! Where are you, Barbouille?”
The cat had climbed down off the bed and now sat on the ledge of the open window. Going to her, Ève grasped the reason. Because of the many local citizens as well as tourists now visiting Place d’Arezzo, the parrots and parakeets, considering themselves invaded, were reluctant to come down onto the cluttered lawns and so had annexed the higher territories, the balconies or gutters of the buildings. As a wise hunter, Barbouille had noticed this and was hoping she might be lucky and catch one of these detested birds. That was why, as soon as she got up, she had installed herself on the window ledge, on the lookout for parrots.
Ève leaned out and looked at the front steps of the Bidermanns’ town house, where Zachary and Rose were arguing with reporters.
“How ugly he is, that Zachary Bidermann! Don’t you think so, Barbouille?”
Ève meant it. Even though none of her elderly lovers were stunningly attractive, it seemed to her that she could never fall for someone like Zachary Bidermann. She was a commonsensical Swiss girl from a farming family, and to such people the impossible had no attraction; when she had realized, years earlier, that Zachary collected women but didn’t give them anything but his company, she had put him in the category of “without interest, to be avoided.”
She lifted her cat and carried her into the bathroom. “Who’s the pretty one? You or me?”
The cat struggled and protested—she had better things to do with her time—but Ève kept hold of her and looked at the two of them in the mirror.
Although neither wore any clothes, the cat looked dressed while Ève was the naked one, with her smooth, hairless golden skin and gorgeous curves; the feline, on the other hand, with her fur in disarray and her tail flicking angrily, looked like a society lady who has hastily put on a coat.
“You’re the pretty one, darling. Nobody has eyes as precious as yours.”