Hotelles (14 page)

“That's horrible . . . ,” I said with emotion in my voice.

“Hortensia always tried to minimize the impact of the struggle between her sons. Sometimes she would even get violently angry with her husband. But so long as he was in the house, nothing could be done. Andre played them against each other like two crazed puppies.”

“At some point they must have calmed down a little, right? I mean, their father eventually made a choice?”

Armand nodded sadly, and I understood that their fratricidal duel had never really been resolved.

“Yes, not long before he died. It may have been an accident, but he must have seen it coming.”

Armand's doubts about Andre Barlet's death did not escape me, but I didn't say anything.

“Did they keep fighting?”

“Worse than ever! David taking over the company was a decisive win, but they kept trying to one-up each other: the prettiest girlfriend, the most expensive watch, the best stock purchase, et cetera.”

Fated or not, Andre's sudden death had meant no end to the match. The referee had died before he'd gotten the chance to blow the final whistle. Without him, the game went on, year after year, even to this day. The two orphaned players were exhausting themselves in an eternal competition.

“Neither of them will ever feel he's won, will he?”

“That's what I fear,” he whispered.

Yet, with his imminent marriage, David was not far from a KO. His final victory would come when we had a child as it would assure the future of the Barlet name. It would seal his ascendancy in the family.

Given the context, I was surprised the loser, Louie, would so graciously accept his brother's scraps: director of communication. How could he possibly be satisfied with such a consolation prize? Or maybe he wasn't as content as he let on. Perhaps his schemes with me were a plan to exact revenge.

With that thought, I recalled the energy coursing through his lean body that had transferred to me at the slightest, most superficial contact.

“That's the whole story . . .”

His charcoal eyebrows arched expectantly. It seemed Armand had hoped for a different reaction from me. But what was I supposed to say? That I felt like some kind of vulgar trophy? Like the Road Runner caught by one of the competitors? Like the ball in a penalty kick?

I tried to push these degrading thoughts out of my head. Instead, I made a list from my fragile memory of all the romantic things David had done for me, including this amazing dinner he couldn't even attend but had wanted to be perfect for me.

“He really loves me,” I said weakly, “and I love him, too.”

My voice betrayed a slight tremor.

“I sincerely hope so, for both of you.”

Somehow, I was able to profess my love for David to a person I barely knew. Meanwhile, I had yet to find the courage to announce my imminent marriage to my own mother . . . I eased my conscience, telling myself it was because of Fred this afternoon. Today, I had been ready to tell her. But I wasn't really convinced. I had trouble relating to what was supposed to be the “most beautiful day of my life.” It was soon, but I hadn't done a thing in preparation.

My phone vibrated, interrupting the emotional moment. I opened the message with a trembling finger. It contained two photos: the first of me entering the Hôtel des Charmes; the second, taken the same night, showed me leaving. Both pictures were taken from the same vantage point. The photographer must have stayed put for several hours, without moving. As for my clothing, I recognized what I had been wearing the night I'd met David; I was sure of it. I remembered spending the after-party in a hotel room with my fiancé's old friend Marchadeau. I shivered.

There was no accompanying message, but I was sure of its meaning. Someone was waiting for me there. And not in two hours.

Now.

12

June 6, 2009, at about eleven p.m.

D
iscreet, elegant, romantic: that is how I would describe the Hôtel des Charmes that night.

My mustachioed professor used to play another literary game with us in college. He would rub his bald head with one hand and ask us to define a person, place, thing, situation, or sensation in three words: “It's all you need,” he would say. “Don't overload your text with images. Three well-chosen adjectives are worth a lot more than long, stilted metaphors.”

The Hôtel des Charmes was only about three or four streets from my new house. Despite the sharp incline on Rue de la Rochefoucauld, I was able to make it there in only a few minutes, without getting distracted by the neighborhood's numerous music stores and their flashy window displays.

The junction of this uphill street and Rue Pigalle formed a kind of elongated triangle, which was dominated by a view of the Hôtel des Charmes. Most striking was the narrowness of the building: each of the six floors featured just two slim windows with potted blood-red flowers.

I had dressed in haste, and justified my sudden departure to Armand as a Sophia-related emergency. Breathless, I arrived in front of the building just as a nearby pay phone—a relic—started ringing.

I tore the receiver from its blue base and quickly surveyed the area for a potential observer. I was knee-deep in a bad spy novel, and I felt uneasy.

“Hello?”

But the three scraggly trees—planted by the hotel?—were not hiding any peepers. Nor was the row of scooters parked nearby for the night. I could hear breathing on the other end of the line; then the person—whoever he or she was—hung up.

The hotel entrance on Rue Pigalle was extremely discreet. No obvious signage. No ostentatious awning. The name of the establishment, even, was only indicated by a simple chrome plaque.

T
HE
H
ÔTEL DES
C
HARMES

PERSONALIZED ROOMS

RENTED BY THE HOUR

How did I feel: Nervous? Transfixed? Excited?

Though this certainly was not my first time here, as I walked through the hall, I felt like a girl at prom. Or just before her first date. I fought off that ridiculous idea and tried to quell the turmoil stirring at the base of my abdomen. I waved to the tall bald man smiling with complicity.

“Good evening, Monsieur Jacques.”

His wide blue eyes recognized me with a kind glint.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle. Would you like a room?”

“Actually . . . I already have a keycard.”

I took the hard plastic rectangle from my pocket and handed it to him. He showed no signs of surprise or approbation, and simply took the key.

“Okay. I suppose someone gave this to you?”

“So you weren't the one who sent it . . .” I said under my breath.

“No, I wasn't. So long as guests return them to me, they are free to do with them as they please.”

“I understand. Do you have a way of knowing which room it opens?”

“Yes, of course.”

As he said this, he slipped the card into a black magnetic reader and focused his bulging gaze onto the counter-integrated computer screen.

“Hmm. That's strange,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, that's just it . . . The card is blank, and yet . . .”

“And yet?”

“It's still active. It hasn't been reprogrammed.”

“What can we do?”

Late? Annoyed? Impatient?

“Unfortunately, there's only one possible solution: we have to test it on all the occupied rooms. Currently, there are . . . eleven spread out over four of the six floors.

Each second separated me from the conclusion of this affair, which had made me feel like a cheater as soon as I'd stepped out of Duchesnois House. I couldn't do this to David . . . and yet I had to do this for him. For us. All legal options were out of the question, so I had to take care of things tonight. And fast. Even if it meant meeting Louie in one of the rooms.

“Wait . . .”

I suddenly remembered the giant key in the silver envelope  . . .

“Does this mean anything to you?”

The object made him smile.

“No . . . Sorry. We haven't used that kind of antique for at least twenty years.”

“Darn.”

. . . Then, as a last-ditch effort, I withdrew the pink Post-it that had accompanied it.

“And what about this?”

Dear Zelle,

tonight, ten o'clock.

Be on time.

Do not bring your phone.

 

His smile was so wide that he had to know something.

“The person who sent you that note must know the hotel quite well, Elle.”

That was the first time, I think, I'd ever heard him use my nickname. One of my clients must have told him what it was.

“What do you mean?”

“ ‘Zelle' is not a mistake on your first name. It's the family name of one of our most famous muses.”

Each room bore the last name of a great seductress or courtesan.

“Really? Which one?”

“One of the greatest: Margaretha Geertruida Zelle.”

“Excuse me?” I was scanning my memory  . . .

“Mata Hari.”

Oh.

“Sixth floor.” He anticipated my question. “The farthest door to the right of the elevator. But Ysiam will be there to help you.”

Ysiam? It was the first time I'd ever heard the exotic-sounding name.

Another peculiarity of the Hôtel des Charmes were the floor boys posted outside the elevators.

 

WHEN I REACHED THE SIXTH
floor, I was greeted by a dark-skinned Pakistani—or maybe a Sri Lankan—with a wide and immaculate smile. His lashes, which were almost artificially long, shaded his eyes and gave him a sweet, trustworthy look.

He asked for my room number in a courteous tone as I got off the elevator, and quickly led me to a deep-red door without any markings.

There, Ysiam made no sign of wanting a tip and simply asked:

“Would there be anything else, Mademoiselle?”

“Umm, no . . . I don't think so.”

I didn't need anything, unless he wanted to punch the gentleman waiting for me inside. I would have liked to put distance between myself and the situation, to be able to laugh at it. But I was just a ball of nerves, ready to pop at the slightest noise, at the briefest shadow or burst of light on the crimson door. I was tense as I thought of the room and its contents, childishly imagining all my worst nightmares.

Ysiam left me alone and, after a few seconds of holding my breath, I slid the magnetic card into the slot. The door clicked and let out an electronic beep. All I had to do was turn the doorknob to meet my fate.

 

STUNNED.

Overwhelmed.

Charmed.

 

THE ROOM WAS EMPTY BUT
gorgeous. It was decorated in Belle Epoque style with a plethora of precious and colorful objects, the kind you can still find in vintage shops or at the Saint-Ouen flea market. It reminded me of one of those early-century photos depicting an Orientalist scene. Murals featured flowers and flitting insects. The armoire, the table, and the dresser were each made from different exotic woods, which I was at a loss to name. But the accent pieces most recalled the era in question: several Gallé lamps in multilayered, ornamented glass, as well as a number of small erotic bronze statues, mostly of satyrs pressed against voluptuous, naked virgins. The focal piece was an enormous moucharaby wood-panel screen.

I contemplated my fascinating surroundings for a long moment. Not seeing anyone, I was about to take off. So Louie Barlet got off on playing with me like a rag doll or a video game avatar? Just as he'd ordered me to come to the Sauvage Gallery only to promptly leave, so he had summoned me here now without even bothering to show up.

Feeling angry and powerless, I started to cry, when suddenly an anonymous shadow slipped a folded sheet of paper under the door.

Take off your clothes.

The command was written in the same handwriting as the note I'd shown Monsieur Jacques a few minutes earlier.

Without stopping to think of the coincidence, I grabbed my bag and turned the ornate door handle . . . only to discover that it was locked. Sweet Ysiam, or maybe someone else, had made it so a person could come in but not out. I did not immediately panic. After all, I was familiar with the place. I didn't spend as much time here as Sophia, but Monsieur Jacques knew my first name and that I was up here. Our earlier exchange guaranteed that my presence had not gone unnoticed.

Still, fear seized me. I began to shiver. My neck grew stiff. I was scared from my head to my toes. Even my cheeks began to burn.

I picked up the antique rotary phone and dialed the number for reception: 00. It rang and rang. No one answered.

Thinking Monsieur Jacques might be wandering the halls, I let out several discreet cries for help. Aware of how ridiculous the situation was, I kept my voice low.

“Monsieur Jacques? Monsieur? Is anybody there?”

The only reply I got was the hushed silence of the deserted hallway, where each step was muffled by extravagantly thick carpeting. Without getting my hopes up, I tried the giant key in the old lock, but it was much too big. The concierge hadn't lied. I was alone in this hermetically sealed room stuffed with furniture and decorations. Even the window looked painted shut. No way of turning its handle. Through its frosted glass, I could make out the elegant, illuminated lines of the Sacré Coeur.

Do not bring your phone.
Stupidly, I had obeyed, and now I was cut off from the outside world. Short of breaking the window and throwing myself from the sixth floor onto the square below, forming a sinister red flower on the ground, I would be a prisoner in this room so long as my host desired. How long was this masquerade going to last?

I started banging powerlessly on the door when something surprising occurred behind me: the colorful wood panels lining the walls turned around all at once, clearly being manipulated by some synchronized electronic mechanism. They were replaced by full-length mirrors.

I was not alone, no. I was now in the company of an endless series of my own reflection. Every angle, every side, all my grace and disgrace were joined together. I understood that this display was a reminder to do as I had been told: “Take off your clothes.”

“Is that how you get off? Watching? That's your thing?” I called out to the invisible voyeur.

Of course, all I got in reply was an echo of my own voice, altered by anger, muffled by thick upholstery.

I took the silver notebook with all the notes out of my bag and shook it like a street prophet brandishes a Bible:

“It excites you, doesn't it, imagining what I'm thinking about? Imagining my ass, too, am I right?”

The silence heightened my anger.

“Do you really think that you can educate people by violating their privacy like this? Do you really think that writing a few dirty thoughts about me somehow makes me your
thing
? Well, I don't belong to you! I will never belong to you! I'm David's! Do you hear? I belong to David!”

A few minutes went by during which nothing happened either in the room or outside. I trembled, and a few tears lit my lashes. After a while, I decided to obey. If I wanted to leave, it was my only option. I was furious. God knows how long Louie would keep me here if I didn't do as I was told. All night? And if that were the case, how would I explain my absence to David? I would have to tell him everything, then  . . .

I undid my shoes, a pair of Louboutins from David. Its flower-shaped buttons had attracted the fashionista Rebecca had awakened in me. The rest of my outfit was more subdued: skinny jeans and a raw silk top whose boatneck showed off my collarbones. I slowly took it all off until I was only wearing my underthings: intricate lace panties and matching bra, through which one could make out my dark areolae and the tuft of hair between my legs.

I knew it was all a big turn-on for the person hiding behind one of the mirrors or watching via hidden camera.

All I saw was the same old Annabelle who looked back at me from the bathroom mirror every morning. The same oversized hips. The same overly abundant thighs and buttocks. The same rounded abdomen.
Thou shalt love thy body
? And apparently it had to be seductive!

As if in reply, the lights suddenly dimmed without my touching them. The bulbs shifted their intensity, darkening the general atmosphere while spotlighting me in a hitherto unseen light. Every limb, every curve, every bit of me looked different, softer, more harmonious. I was exactly the same, the same height and weight, and yet I was prettier than I'd ever seen myself.

The temperature must have gone up because, though I was nude, I did not feel cold. I was shivering, but not because of the atmosphere; rather, because of internal agitation that registered somewhere between anger and worry.

I could feel at the time

There was no way of knowing.

Familiar guitar chords and a singer's high-pitched and slightly muffled voice played from hidden speakers around the room. I knew the song. But from where? When? I couldn't remember. This kind of smooth soul-rock, with its fairly dated electronic acoustics, wasn't really Fred's thing. When it got to the refrain, I recalled the title and understood the hidden message:

More than this

Tell me one thing  . . .

More than this.

More than this.
Bryan Ferry's whispered vocals could only mean one thing: he wanted to see more.

Was I still only acting in the interest of getting this meeting over with? Or was there something else? Desire? No. I was caught up in the momentum. Driven by impulse, the fruit of such contrary and confusing emotions.