“Of course, signor. Coming right up.”
The glass is handed to him. Nicolas gulps half of it down. Then he turns around and checks out the terrace. No fans edging up on him. Malvina still talking to the gay couple. No Dagmar Hunoldt.
“All clear?” whispers the barman.
“All clear.” Nicolas smiles.
“How do you get your inspiration, signor?”
Nicolas wonders if Giancarlo has any idea how often he is asked that question and how thin his patience is wearing, a fatigued battery about to render its last dying spark. He downs the last of the champagne and makes a wide sweeping gesture toward the terrace, the sea, the yachts.
“This is my inspiration,” he says with exaggerated panache.
“You mean we are all going to end up in your new book?”
“You could.” Then Nicolas states, ironically, “If my new book only existed.”
Nicolas expects Giancarlo to pounce upon this precious unexpected bit of information, to move in relentlessly, to demand explanations—What do you mean, signor? There is no next book?—and he squares his shoulders, closing his eyes, preparing for the onslaught, but oddly, the man does not react. Nicolas opens his eyes, almost disappointed.
“You see that lady?” whispers the barman. “The one over there, talking to Dr. Gheza?”
Nicolas turns, to see a tall, slim, red-haired woman with a stupefying black dress of leather and lace, slit up the sides. Her fine spike-heeled shoes are buckled leather contraptions that suggest bondage and other delicacies.
“Who is she?” asks Nicolas. The woman’s heart-shaped face is vaguely familiar.
“Cassia Carper. She is the editor in chief of that famous fashion magazine I was telling you about. She will be orchestrating the photo shoot tomorrow.”
The woman is middle-aged, but her figure is that of a young girl. Nicolas takes in her legs, slim and shapely.
“Ah, yes, Signora Carper, she is something. Every year, she comes here with her daughter and her husband. She does a photo shoot each summer. You’ll see. It’s a sight. You’ll probably want to put it in your novel.… Ah, good evening, signorina. Would you care for some champagne? I was telling Signor Kolt about the cruise ships.”
Malvina, as usual, has crept up, unheard and catlike, and is now standing by Nicolas’s side. She says cooly, “No, I’d like some water, please. With ice. What about the cruise ships?”
Smooth move, Giancarlo, marvels Nicolas as they all turn toward the sea, the very direction he was facing moments ago when he was checking out Cassia Carper’s legs. A giant vessel is hovering nearby, blazing lights glittering like jewels on the dark blue sea.
“You see, signorina, they sail by and salute the Gallo Nero.”
“Salute?” repeats Malvina.
“Yes, in Italian, we call it the “inchino”; it means the ship comes as close as possible to us and blows its siren. Usually, they sail at least four or five miles away from us, but in the summer, they come in only a mile away. Here is your water, signorina.”
They observe the gigantic white cruise liner as it makes its steady approach, bedecked with lights like a floating, top-heavy, gaudy wedding cake.
“That’s the Sagamor,” says Giancarlo. “One of the biggest ones. On its way to Civitavecchia, the last stop of a luxury seven-day cruise.”
The guests around them hold up their glasses to the Sagamor, so Nicolas and Malvina do the same. Looking at the boat’s ungainly multilayered decks, Nicolas imagines clusters of people grouped along the railings, tiny black ants waving back at them, and he makes out the muffled roar of music, of laughter, of singing, of merrymaking as the enormous mass slowly surges past. He thinks fleetingly of all the stories that could be told about those passengers, who they are, where they’ve come from, and what lies in store for them. All this is his inspiration, as he has just jestingly declared; all this could get him started on the new novel. So why can’t he get off Facebook, kick himself in the ass, forge a path into the raw material at his disposal, tap into a vein, thrive on it? He has literary possibilities right here, at his fingertips. But he knows, deep inside, how much he lacks the drive to write. It is so much easier to pretend to be writing, to take himself seriously, to play the part. When is he going to stop the lies, though? Oh well, he will think about that at the end of his stay here. For the moment, there are still two more languid blue-and-golden days ahead. Two more days for doing nothing. Far niente, that’s what they call it here.
The deep boom of a siren blasts through the night three times.
“The inchino,” says Giancarlo.
The Sagamor leaves a trail of froth on the black water in its wake. Nicolas decides to go up to dinner. As he turns to leave, Malvina on his arm, he murmurs good-bye and winks discreetly at Giancarlo with the eye that Malvina cannot see. Giancarlo nods, polite and poker-faced, but Nicolas knows he has acknowledged the wink.
Up on the higher level of the terrace, Nicolas and Malvina are shown to a table that is not the best one with the best view. Nicolas frowns. He angrily demands to be put at that table. The headwaiter answers that is not possible; it is reserved for another guest.
“Do you know who I am?” Nicolas coldly asks the man.
“Of course. You are Signor Kolt,” stammers the waiter.
“I want that table.”
Dr. Gheza is summoned. There is a bright smile on his face.
“Signor Kolt! That table is yours. It should have been given to you in the first place. Please excuse us.”
The headwaiter is told off and banished. They sit down.
“Why did you have to do that again?” says Malvina.
Nicolas ignores her as he discards the pinch of guilt that takes over, only for a couple of seconds. He notices that most of the guests are looking his way and smiling. Yes, they have recognized him. Oh, look! It’s the writer! Is it him? Yes, it’s really him. The members of the Vanity Fair family, a vision of Italian elegance, raise their glasses to Nicolas. He smiles and does the same to them in return.
Cassia Carper is at the next table, sitting with a dapper white-haired man and a teenage girl. Nicolas has another peek at her legs and shoes while Malvina peruses the menu. He scans the restaurant. Dagmar Hunoldt is nowhere to be seen.
“Why are you frowning?” asks Malvina.
“I’m just hot.”
He takes his jacket off, hangs it on the back of the chair. He is not hot, but there is no other way to explain the frown. Nicolas is longing to check the BlackBerry in his trouser pocket, but he cannot face Malvina’s ire if he dares. Still no news of his mother. And François never called or texted back. And Sabina … That last BBM … He can hardly wait for the next one. And did Alex Brunel post a new photo on his Facebook wall?
Nicolas wonders, giving in to another twinge of remorse as he nibbles on some grissini, if he will ever be able to disconnect himself from his phone, from his e-mails, from Facebook, from Twitter. Will he ever be cured of this addiction? Maybe he should go someplace where there is no mobile reception, no Internet access. What about those writing residences, monasterylike places where recalcitrant authors are sent, locked up, and forced to write? He visualizes himself hunched over sheets of paper, Montblanc in hand, scribbling away in a bare, high-ceilinged room overlooking a magnificent landscape. Twice a day, a scrawny, grim woman in black, reminiscent of Daphne du Maurier’s Mrs. Danvers, would wordlessly bring him a tray with tea, bread, and soup.
The waiter’s voice pulls him back to the refinement of the Gallo Nero. Malvina has ordered a sea bass fillet with broccoli cream. Nicolas chooses oyster risotto and tuna tartare. When the food is brought to them, they eat in companionable silence. The meal is excellent, and so is the Orvieto. The chef comes to visit the tables and tells Nicolas how much he loved The Envelope. His family is from Camogli, and he knows exactly where Bob and Nancy’s white house is. Nicolas thanks the chef. Then comes the dreaded question: “And what is your next book about, Signor Kolt?” Nicolas b
landly delivers the habitual answer he has in store—“You’ll just have to wait and see!”—with the faux beam of a smile that goes with it.
At the end of the meal, Malvina says she is not hungry for desert, so they go back down to the swimming pool and order drinks. The air is balmy and sweet. The sea murmurs from afar. They sit on deck chairs and look out at the silvery water.
“Happy birthday,” says Nicolas quietly, handing her the small square box. Malvina opens it. The Rolex gleams in the moonlight. She stares down at the watch in her palm.
“Do you like it?” Nicolas asks tentatively. “It took me a while to find that one. I thought it was perfect for you.”
“A Rolex…,” Malvina murmurs. “Well, yes, I like it, but…”
Nicolas stops smiling. “But what?”
“A Rolex, Nicolas. That’s the kind of present you give your mother.”
He sighs. “Jesus, Malvie. Can’t you just say thank you?”
“Thank you,” she mumbles quickly. “It’s lovely. It really is. Thank you.”
He fumbles to fasten it on her wrist. The Rolex hangs there chunkily. He is terribly disappointed. The moment is ruined, not only by her remark, which stung, although he can’t quite explain why, but also by how wrong the watch looks on her. He recalls the joy he felt when he bought it, the certainty that she would wear it with such grace.
“I’m tired,” Malvina whispers. The nape of her neck is delicate and fragile, her skin paler than ever. She seems to droop like a wilted flower.
“You want to go back to the room?” asks Nicolas, but she is already on her feet, and he has no choice but to follow. It is only eleven o’clock. He does not feel sleepy, and the idea of going to bed now is unappealing. He hears the temptation of music and laughter from the bar behind them. Malvina strides on ahead in her high heels, surprisingly fast.
The room has been prepared for the evening while they were out. It is cool, calm, and inviting. The bedcover has been turned down, a white rose and a box of chocolates delicately placed on the pillows. The curtains are drawn and the night-lights are on. The air conditioner purrs, set at a perfect temperature. Fresh towels await them in the bathroom.
“Kiss me,” says Malvina.
Nicolas kisses her. But in his mind, he thinks of Sabina, whom he has never kissed, and when he touches Malvina’s high white breasts, he thinks of Sabina’s mature skin, which he has never even seen. It is Sabina’s mouth he feels, Sabina’s mouth he craves.
Saturday,
July 16, 2011
You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you.
—CARLY SIMON
WHENEVER NICOLAS CHECKED INTO a new hotel during his frequent book tours, he had to submit to a necessary personal routine that enabled him to get through the night smoothly. In his previous life, as Delphine’s lover and as a private tutor to irredeemable students, he had not traveled much. The only trips he undertook were those to Brussels, to visit his mother’s family, and the Italian spree with François. His new fame propelled him worldwide. Nicolas discovered, at twenty-six, what the words jet lag truly meant. Between 2008 and 2011, he traveled to nineteen countries. At first, he thirstily lapped up novelty and thrill, delighted to be discovering new cities, new people, new challenges. Two years later, the intensity of the traveling began to take its toll, and he found that when he arrived at his hotel for the night, sleep eluded him, in spite of his exhaustion. Although he was always put in the best hotels, some rooms, even if they were stylish and elegant, had the word sleepless stamped all over them. Feng shui, his friend Lara insisted, an ancient Chinese discipline that had to do with whether your bed was facing north or south and if any mirrors were reflecting bad vibrations. Nicolas had scoffed at her. He now knew, as soon as he crossed the threshold, whether he was going to sleep well or not. It was like the first impression of a person’s face. When Nicolas was standing in a room, looking around, taking possession of it, he sensed what was wrong. Perhaps it did have something to do with feng shui; however, he never admitted this to Lara. The bed wasn’t in the right position, or the table took up too much space, or the chair was wrongly placed, a picture on the wall irked him, a coverlet was turned down in a crooked line according to his eye, a curtain was drawn in a manner that bothered him. His routine meant that he shoved the furniture around until he felt comfortable. At times, the color of the walls disturbed him. Or the smell, especially if the premises were overperfumed. Frequently, he went back to the reception desk to ask if he could be put elsewhere.
There were two memorable stays. One was in Venice, where he found himself in an entirely mirrored room that had no windows. He had not noticed that detail when he checked in, as he had been impressed by the lobby, a dizzying universe of silver icicles and black marble floor that seemed liquid, and by his room, a shimmering pink suite where his image was reflected back at him dozens of times, like in Lord McRashley’s sepulchral staircase. Even the telephone, a glittering mother-of-pearl spiral, was a work of art, and so was the shower, a scintillating contraption of knobs and tubes he hardly dared touch.
After his book signing at the Libreria Toletta, in the Dorsoduro, Nicolas returned with the beginnings of a headache. He ignored the complicated shower, swallowed an aspirin, and went straight to bed. In the middle of the night, an icy hand had girdled his heart. He awoke with a start, fumbled with the light switch, hoping to turn the bedside lamp on, but he turned all the lights on instead, causing a glaring, blinding blaze that made him blink. He could no longer breathe. A monstrous weight flattened his chest, pinning him to the mattress. The mirrors placidly sent his panicked reflection back to him as he lay there, frozen, gasping like a goldfish plucked out of its bowl. He felt as if he were being buried alive. He managed to drag himself out of bed, legs weighing a ton, and struggled to his feet, meaning to open a window for a salvaging gush of fresh air, but there was no window to be found in the vast pink suite. Only the hum of the air conditioner and the expanse of mirror after mirror. Nicolas checked the bathroom, only to discover there was no window there, either. Was he having a nightmare? He pinched himself hard. What time was it? He didn’t care. If he didn’t get out of this room, he was going to die right now. He was going to topple flat on his back, full length on the pink carpet, and pass away. He could already imagine the headlines of the Corriere della Sera: BEST-SELLING AUTHOR FOUND DEAD IN VENETIAN HOTEL. Nicolas flung the door open and staggered downstairs. In the silver-and-black lobby, the receptionist behind the desk stared at him as he careened past. She wondered if he was on drugs. It wasn’t until the cold nipped at his flesh that Nicolas realized he was standing outside in the middle of the night, wearing next to nothing. But he was breathing. He was alive. He was going to be all right. As long as he never went back to that windowless room again.
The other sleepless stay was in Madrid. The hotel was luxurious, with a jade green pool and a cluster of palm trees on a tranquil patio. He had gone to bed early by Spanish standards, after a successful event at the Casa del Libro. His Spanish publicist, Marta, had informed him with an apologetic smile that he’d have to be up “not too late” for a crucial breakfast interview with a top journalist from El País. Nicolas fell asleep after his routine of pushing things around until he felt at ease. The bedchamber was spacious, the pale yellow walls were soothing and pleasing, and there was no noise, as the room did not give onto the lively street, but the patio.
In the dead of night, diabolical cackles jolted him awake. Who was in his room? It sounded like an entire group of people. How had they gotten in? What on earth were they doing? Nicolas turned on the light and got up. There was no one, no one at all. Then he made an unpleasant discovery. The locked door by his bed was a connecting one that opened into another suite. Nicolas understood that behind the door, a merry bachelorette party was in full swing. The ladies began to dance to the “Macarena,” howling with glee, sounding like a herd of hysterical elephants on a rampage through the bush. Nicolas could not bring himself to sh
are their mirth. It was four o’clock in the morning and his wake-up call was in two hours. Should he join the ladies, get drunk and dance? He ended up wearily asking the receptionist for earplugs and then missed his call. He also missed the crucial interview with the important journalist.
As Nicolas walks down to the breakfast area, wrapped in his fluffy white bathrobe, holding his Montblanc and his Moleskine, he realizes that the two nights he has spent at the Gallo Nero did not require a feng shui routine. He felt spontaneously comfortable. But wasn’t that to do with the luxury of the resort? Everything here seems designed for the comfort of guests, down to the tiniest detail: the delicate way soaps are laid out near the basin, the fresh sheets and their honey and lemon fragrance, the bowls of fresh fruit, the warm welcome of the staff, the kindness of the housekeepers. There is a simplicity about the Gallo Nero that makes it like no other fashionable hotel. It is, as Nicolas realized upon arrival, like being invited to a friend’s home. The beauty of the Gallo Nero, the sea and its blue lure, the lush garden, the gentleness of the breeze, add to its charm all the more. He imagines that the glamorous Roman heiress and the dashing American pilot he read about on the Web site, who had built this villa forty years ago because they were in love, somehow live on. At least, their spirit does. Might they not make an appearance, hand in hand? She, tall and tanned, a barefoot brunette with a patrician nose and a Pucci tunic, and he, the rugged Steve McQueen type, wearing a pair of faded Levi’s and a white T-shirt.
Nicolas is shown to the same table he had yesterday. It is not even eight o’clock, and he is not tired, although he’s had little sleep. How was it he was able to get up so early and with such buoyancy? He thinks of last night, of the unexpected events that took place, and he smiles, thanking his father for those sturdy Koltchine genes, the ones that can deal with the morning after. The sun shines with Italian splendor, glorious and powerful. Nicolas orders tea and looks around him. Only the Swiss couple are already having their breakfast, and they greet him. He salutes them back. No Dagmar Hunoldt. Does she have all her meals in her room? Is she still here? Nicolas prefers to think about last night. There is one precise image that will not leave his mind. He smiles again, a slow, sensual smile. The waitress who pours his Earl Grey notices what an appealing young man he is. Nicolas glances up, and she grins back.