Hotelles (13 page)

“You should go! It will be fun.”

If my own mother said so  . . .

This time, I was almost one hundred percent certain of the sender's identity. Who other than Louie Barlet would summon me to a hotel room to provide a service for which he had already paid? But I was more concerned by another thought that crossed my mind: What if Louie was the person who'd been sending me the indecent messages these past several weeks? What if he was the man behind the notebook? That depraved individual who'd taken it upon himself to perfect my sexual education. The night of the gallery opening I had wondered
who
could be up to such a task. Well, now I had my answer  . . .

I flashed back to a few hours prior in the conference room at Barlet Tower with David and Louie.
Their
tower. Being in the presence of the Barlet brothers had left a bad taste in my mouth. There was something unnatural about it. One of the two seemed excessive to me, but I couldn't figure out which. Together, they made an unsettling whole. I remembered their left forearms: David wore a white silk armband; Louie, who was thinner, had a tattoo that I had not yet seen in its entirety.

The doorbell tore me from this unsolvable puzzle. I hadn't noticed her move, but Mom was already perched at the window. She'd probably heard the motorcycle backfiring, a sound she abhorred.

“It's Fred,” she said succinctly.

“What does he want?”

“To get his stuff from your room.”

“Did he tell you he was coming?”

“Mmm, yes . . . He mentioned he'd be stopping by one of these evenings.”

My ex did nothing with his days, and yet he just happened to show up when I was there. The bell rang again; our visitor was impatient.

“Go to the basement,” Mom whispered.

“What?”

“Go to the basement. He won't look for you down there.”

“I'm not going to hide from him. I don't love him anymore, that's all . . .”

“You don't need this right now,” she insisted, her tone exasperated.

But Fred didn't wait for Mom to open the gate. I could already see him through the stained glass on the front door, just three feet from us.

“Annabelle?”

“Go downstairs!” Mom hissed.

“Annabelle? I know you're there. Open up!”

“Don't be ridiculous, Mom!”

He was now banging on the door.

“Christ, open the door! It's me!”

I looked at Mom, who was awash in anger and panic.

“Remember me? The guy you dumped like a little shit?!”

I reached to open the door, but Mom stopped me.

“Annabelle, I forbid you from opening that door. He's completely wasted!”

The motorist's gruff and menacing voice confirmed her suspicions: he was not in a sober state.

“I just want to talk to you . . .” His voice sweetened. “Don't you at least owe me five minutes? Five minutes, then I'll leave you alone for the rest of your life. Elle . . . just five minutes.”

“She doesn't want to talk to you, Fred.”

My sick mom's voice must have unsettled him because he started acting even more conciliatory.

“I'm sorry, Maude . . . I didn't mean to scare you. I just want Annabelle to tell me to my face.”

“Tell you what, for goodness' sake?”

“That it's over . . .”

“Well, I can tell you that: it's over!” she cried, mustering what little energy she had. “Long over at that!”

A few moments of silence went by before he replied, obviously shaken by Mom's bravado:

“What makes you say that?”

“Because it's the truth. She's with someone else now. Someone better.”

Don't tell him that,
my eyes begged.

“Who?”

And as she crucified him, telling him about David, my new career, my dream house, my guaranteed success, and all my future happiness with somebody else, my thoughts started to wander again.

. . . To the envelope.

With Fred's unfortunate arrival, I hadn't noticed its unusual weight. Deep inside, under the papers, lay a large, jagged key, polished by time and use. There was no indication of what it could open. Nor did I know what would be expected of me that night. And then there was the strange spelling of my name: “Zelle.”

Nevertheless, I was sure of one thing, and it was probably as foolish as the drunk man on the other side of the door: I had no other choice but to attend this meeting.

To skip it now seemed impossible.

11

June 6, 2009

I
n college, my methodology professor for journalism used to say that words carried hidden truths. And that in order to understand what they really meant beyond their banal surface, you had to experience them for yourself, with your own flesh and blood.

“Once you've really lived what you write about, once you start intellectualizing things a little less,” he would lecture, rolling his mustache like General Dourakine, “it's crazy how much power words begin to have. They
are
what you experience. They become one with you.”

Truth be told, I was at a loss to describe in words how I felt that evening. Butterflies in my stomach? My heart in my throat? Goose bumps? Yes, all of those things—and more. It was disturbing. More powerful.

After Fred finally left, I stuffed the silver envelope in my bag next to its older sibling, the notebook, and hurried to catch the next RER train into Paris. Fred had given in, but only for the time being; he'd promised to return for a final face-to-face.

 

THE METRO CAR WAS ONLY
half full since it was going in the opposite direction of suburban traffic flow at this hour. I braved the terrible cell phone reception and tried to call Rebecca several times—after all, I reasoned, she was the one who had put me in contact with the elder Barlet. Then I dialed Louie directly on his professional line. It was crazy, I know. Felicity meowed her disapproval from her travel crate.

I only got Rebecca's machine. As for Louie, an assistant answered in a surly tone and said her boss had already left for the night.

“Would you mind giving me his cell?”

“No, sorry, I'm not authorized to give out that information,” she recited.

“Right, I understand you're not supposed to intrude on his private life. But David Barlet himself has just hired me. You can check with Chloe, if you'd like.”

“I don't doubt it. But I am not authorized to give you—”

“Fine,” I cried, cutting her off. “But what I'm trying to say is I'm . . .”

What? The boss's girlfriend? Future wife? How could I put it without sounding like I was bragging or snubbing a girl who probably came from the same kind of run-down suburban neighborhood as I?

I ended up going with:

“ . . . a new prime-time host on BTV.”

I wasn't sure if that version of things would be better or worse.

“There's nothing I can do,” she stammered, undoubtedly torn between the fear of losing her job and that of making an enemy of her boss's boss. “I'm really sorry.”

The RER train went through the tunnel under La Défense. We were entering Paris, and the poor cell reception cut our conversation short. It also prevented me from calling Sophia and sharing my dilemma.

With each passing station, I felt my sense of determination waver, until I arrived at my destination and the train rushed off behind me. As I walked toward the Hôtel des Charmes, it occurred to me that I was ceding to the perverse game Louie had set up for me, beginning with our first meeting—and even before that, I realized, red-faced, since his initial correspondence had preceded the evening when David and I had met. If I refused to play along, though, I would run the risk of him telling David everything he knew about me. Moreover, the fact that he was related to my future husband meant I could never report him—as I'd been thinking about doing a few hours earlier. I could not tell the police without inciting legal conflict. And the notebook I carried around with me everywhere was written in the first person, filled with personal details, and in no way proof of anything. I had accepted it into my life, which implicated me in this affair just as much as it did its author.

But aside from these issues and blackmail's persuasive qualities, I was motivated by something I could not have even imagined a few days prior: curiosity. I refused to call the inner turmoil—tinged with anger and bitterness—that Louie caused in me by any other name.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle. David asked me to tell you he would not be joining you for dinner tonight.”

Only the ground floor was lit at Duchesnois. The master of the house was absent, and a silence common to old buildings hung in the air. Armand was standing on the front steps holding a lamp and looking like he'd been busy cooking.

“Oh . . . Okay.”

I was surprised David hadn't taken the time to tell me personally . . . and then I realized that the cell reception in the RER had probably prevented him. Sure enough, his number showed up three times in my call log.

I let Felicity out of her crate at last. The old servant looked on in silence. She took a few hesitant steps over the checkerboard marble, her nose glued to the floor.

“He has a meeting with the Koreans that will probably go late. He said not to wait.”

“Okay, do you want to do a picnic dinner?” I asked, as though Armand were a girlfriend who had dropped by unexpectedly.

“Everything is ready for us in the kitchen, if you're already hungry.”

“I'm not hungry. I am
starving
.”

That was a lie. I had eaten an early dinner with Mom and was really full. I had no desire to partake in another meal. But playing happy was the only way I could think to suppress the miserable feelings tearing me up inside. Still, I wasn't faking my enthusiasm when I saw our two steaming plates.

“Sautéed gambas on a bed of shellfish cooked in champagne,” Armand announced solemnly.

The recipe from the chef at Le Divellec! I was in heaven and beaming like a kid at Christmas. The gesture was so perfect it made me forget my troubles.

“David thought you'd like it.”

“It's . . . it's perfect! Thank you.”

Carried away with joy, I smacked his paper-soft cheek with a loud and chaste kiss. He replied with a gesture toward the golden shrimp:

“Shall we eat?” he suggested, blushing.

“Let's!”

My taste buds were almost as delighted as they had been the other night. Armand was too modest, I thought; he could have easily been a restaurant chef as opposed to working in anonymity for David. But his smile told me he derived pleasure from my own, and I thought better of saying anything.

“I don't know if you've noticed, but I've been receiving a lot of messages recently. Anonymous messages.”

“Anonymous?”

“Small perforated pages with my name on them, folded in four . . . You've been putting them on the console table with the rest of the mail.”

“Oh, yes . . .” He winced a little as he said, “I did notice them, but I try not to pry into your—”

“No worries, Armand,” I said, reassuringly. “I know you're discreet. I was just wondering if perhaps you'd noticed anything unusual about it . . . or if the mailman had said anything?”

“I did ask him about it. But he doesn't deliver unstamped mail. The person who sends you those letters puts them into the mailbox directly. If you'd like, I could keep an eye out to see who comes up to the house.”

“That would be really nice of you, Armand. Thanks.”

“Do you think we should alert the police?”

“No . . . Thanks, but I don't think that should be necessary.”

Not with Louie being behind them, I thought.

Since it seemed like a good time, I asked, in a confidential tone:

“Armand . . . Do you know Louie very well?”

At the mention of his employer's brother, Armand frowned, his lion's wrinkle deepening, his face sobering.

“About as well as I know Monsieur David. As you know, I worked for their parents when they were still alive. I saw the two boys grow up.”

“And, do you . . .” I interrupted my question when I saw the lines of discomfort and worry fold into Armand's face.

“Yes?”

“Do you think Louie might have any reason to be angry with his brother?”

“My mother used to say, ‘Show me siblings who don't in some way resent each other, and I'll have them framed and hung on the wall.' ”

“I agree,” I said. “But in their case, you don't see anything more . . . specific?”

Though he did not seem surprised by my question, it did clearly embarrass him. He took a moment to pour himself another glass of white and drank a few sips before attempting to answer. Armand's penchant for the bottle was no secret to me; I'd noticed his inflamed nose as well as an abnormally elevated number of empty bottles of Pouilly and Montrachet in the recycling. He was maybe even a borderline alcoholic.

“I can't tell you about David and Louie without first talking about Andre Barlet . . .”

“Go ahead.” I smiled sweetly to encourage him.

Another swig of wine, and he was ready. If I listened closely, I could hear the tiny grains of silica running through the hourglass, and they would continue to fall until the moment when I gave myself to David, my husband.

“In order to understand the Barlet brothers,” he began, “it's important to know that their father started with almost nothing. After the war, he inherited a small, failing business that made wood furnishings near Nantes. It only survived through its production of fir coffins, which weren't even very well made. At that time in their lives, people aren't very picky.”

I shivered as I imagined planks of blond wood, barely even registering Armand's uncharacteristic use of morbid humor.

“Coffins?”

“In those days, nobody had any money for furniture. Beer, yes. People needed more of that than ever, believe you me.”

How old was Armand during the war? He couldn't remember the Occupation, could he . . . ?

“Don't tell me they got rich off the funeral business?” I gasped, hoping he'd say no.

“No! Pierre, Andre's father, had diversified their business. From wood, he slowly went to paper. And from paper to printing, and eventually to publishing. He invested in several local periodicals. Notably a paper everyone later suspected had collaborated with the Germans:
The Salvation
.”

“And what happened when France was liberated?”

“Father and son must have thrown money where it counted because, with the wave of a magic wand,
The Salvation
became
The Liberated Ocean
, one of the leading Resistance papers in western France. And that's also when Pierre put his son, Andre, in charge of the paper.”

The portrait of the small-time owner of a provincial newspaper looked nothing like David and his media empire. What had happened to bring the Barlet family from the banks of the Loire to those of the Seine? From a village marketplace to the French stock exchange?

“Andre quickly proved to be more ambitious than his father.”

“How?”

“He started by taking advantage of his family's new contacts in the CNR . . .”

I recalled my high school history classes: the CNR, or the Conseil National de la Résistance, was a provisional body that managed the transition after the collapse of the Vichy government.

“ . . . and bought all the newspapers, one by one, that had openly collaborated with the Germans. For a song, of course.”

“They artificially inflated their readership.” I connected the dots.

“That's right, and the business reached proportions Pierre never could have imagined. In the early fifties,
The Liberated Ocean
became
The Ocean
and was the newspaper of record in western France. Remember, this was an era before television really took hold, and there were hardly more than two radio stations in the whole country. With one article,
The Ocean
could make or break anyone; its readership was in the millions. Its coffers filled at epic rates.”

The rest of the story was now fairly obvious.

“And from there they expanded their policy of acquisition?”

“Exactly. Pierre died in 1956, and Andre kept buying everything he could: newspapers; magazines; radio stations, what with the FM revolution of the eighties; and then television channels in the nineties . . . In the mid-seventies, the company moved from Nantes to Paris. Before David built the tower, its seat was in an Art Nouveau building on Rue de Miromesnil. The in-house journalists called it the Freighter because its windows were shaped like portholes.”

Many other French families who made their money after the war have similar stories: the Hersants, the Arnaults, the Pinaults, the Lagardères . . . The story of the Barlet dynasty was fascinating. But I was burning to know about the younger generation.

“And the Barlet sons?”

“I was just getting to them. Andre raised them with one thing in mind, Annabelle: who would succeed him at the head of the company. Their whole childhood, he was never a father to them but a referee.”

“A referee? What do you mean . . . ?”

“When David was born, he announced that the two were in competition over who would be the best to take over the company. Everything was judged accordingly: grades, athletic ability, friends, popularity with girls. It was as if he were charting their scores. He probably was, actually.”

Their youth had thus been a succession of tests and conquests to measure who was most worthy of their father's scepter.

 

I wonder if in the domain of female conquest the two brothers ever compared each other's prowess in bed. Have they already had a threesome or more?

The idea of Louie and David joined by one woman, one plunged in her vagina, the other sucked into her mouth, alternating orifices and combinations, together capable of making the girl come as she has never come before, turns me on as much as it sickens me.

 

Anonymous handwritten note, 6/7/2009

 

WITH THESE LAST WORDS, ARMAND'S
voice quivered. He seemed weighed down by what he was describing.