Hotelles (45 page)

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/19/2009

 

I WRAPPED EVERYTHING UP IN
haste. All I had left to do was write his name and address on a blank sheet of paper and tape it on the front of the package:

LOUIE BARLET

I wasn't sure which address to put. But since Louie had wanted to live in the shadows, this one made the most sense:

 

     
118 Avenue Georges Mandel

75016 Paris

 

My hand was shaking, my writing sloppy. Still, it was legible enough to make it into the right hands. Hands I imagined tearing the paper before running to me, this time free from fraternal obligations.

I deliberately did not include a time and place to meet. Shouldn't it be obvious? Ten o'clock. He knew where.

As for the room, he wouldn't need his eyes or brains to guess, just his memory. And his nose. I borrowed Mom's rose perfume, which I found in its usual spot on the dresser in her bedroom. I sprayed the package generously. Rose like Château de Malmaison. Rose like Josephine. Rose like the scent of a woman who only wants her Bonaparte.

It was getting late, danger drew nigh, and yet I had not finished with what I had to write. I jotted the following lines in haste on a loose sheet of paper without crossing anything out:

David,

We never truly examine our motivations behind sharing our lives with one man or one woman.

I'm afraid that in your case, with respect to me, you knew all too well.

I do not want to become another, even if you love me like mad, even if you manage to fashion me into the one I am to replace, but without the “faults.” Contrary to what I said in my message to Armand, I am Annabelle, Elle, not Aurora. We may look the same on the outside, but our hearts could not be more different. I want to live. I want to enjoy every second.

I will leave you to chase her spirit, and I shall honor my own.

I am truly sorry if some of my future choices hurt you. Let's call it even, then.

Much love,

Elle

 

I slid my letter into an envelope. I reached under my dress for the pictures of Aurora, which I had tucked under the elastic of my underwear, and included it in the message. I put a stamp on the front and set it on the living room table. I was sure that somehow David would end up finding it.

Finally, I went to the antique rotary phone and dialed the general number for the Barlet Group. I didn't even remember having memorized it.

“Yes, hello, it's Annabelle Lorand, from BTV.”

“Hello, could you give me your number, please?”

“Yes, zero, six, eighteen.”

I had chosen it, of course. My birthday. Today. June eighteenth. The day that turned my world upside down.

“Perfect. What can I do for you, Mademoiselle?”

“I need you to pick up a letter from 29 Rue Rigault in Nanterre.”

“Destination, please?”

“118 Avenue Georges Mandel, in the 16th Arrondissement in Paris.”

“Very good. Is it an urgent package?”

“Yes.
Very
urgent,” I impressed.

“Got it. Have a nice day . . .”

“Wait! Could you pick it up at 27 Rue Rigault instead?”

“Yes, of course. What's the resident's name?”

“Madame Chappuis. Laure Chappuis.”

“Okay. 27 Rue Rigault, then.”

“That's right. Thank you.”

 

MADAME CHAPPUIS WAS NOT THE
least bit astonished to see me in her home wearing a wedding dress, my makeup smeared in black streaks over my cheeks, nor that I was there just after one o'clock, when the ceremony was supposed to be taking place; even the unusual favor I was asking of her came as no surprise. The only thing she cared about was my mom and her condition. For her, that explained everything. Laure Chappuis loved her neighbor. Like a friend, maybe even like a sister. It could be seen in the two fat tears running down her withered cheeks, taking a little powder with them on the way. After decades of blunt friendship and snide comments, on this day she finally allowed herself to express her true feelings and lose the sourpuss mask.

 

SHE PROMISED TO TAKE GOOD
care of my package and closed the door without another word. Though it had not been my intention, I had just pushed her a little closer to her grave as well.

In my own way, I was escaping the one in which David had wanted to imprison me.

39

M
y name is Annabelle Caroline Lorand.

But everyone calls me Elle. All my friends, anyway.

I was born on June 18, 1986, at exactly ten p.m.

 

AND AT EXACTLY TEN P.M.
on June 18, 2009, on the very day, minute, second of my twenty-third birthday, I stepped into the Josephine de Beauharnais room of the Hôtel des Charmes. My teenage years had dragged on for too long. And as I entered the room, I knew it was time to leave them behind. Enter and shed this skin that no longer suited me. My budding love had slowly been stripping me of it. Enter and banish the indecisive shape of a young, chubby girl in order to become the accomplished woman that Louie had always seen in me. Polished. Refined by his discerning eye and able hands. Leave my old self behind and bloom.

Born from my own sex.

 

AFTER LEAVING NANTERRE, I SPENT
the day wandering Paris in my patchwork wedding dress, holding my ballet flats in one hand, my bare feet on the hot asphalt. The sun was shining; it was already summer. Summer and its crowded terraces; summer and its skimpy outfits that show off thighs, middles, shoulders; summer and its pickup artists, who emerge from hibernation with the sun's first rays. As I meandered, I let myself be flattered. It was like a sweet echo of the happiness growing inside me. A fire waiting to be unleashed. Tonight.

“Hey, girl! Marry me!”

“Sorry, not today.” I laughed.

“Come on, don't be like that, marry me! You got the dress, the class, everything! I'll be your man! We can make a ton of babies.”

And the guy did a suggestive hip movement as he bit his incisors into his lower lip.

At least people noticed my outfit here. But males in heat weren't the only ones to do a double take when they saw me. For little girls, I was a fairy-tale princess. For teenagers, a punk-rock bride. For adults, a kind of madwoman, a crazy person, maybe even someone dangerous like a junkie, better to avoid me; some even changed sidewalks when they saw me coming.

I didn't care. I ignored the attention. I was exhausted, but I felt great. The concrete had worn my feet, which seemed to float above the hot ground, as though carried by a cushion of air. I wasn't afraid of anything anymore because I now knew where I was going. Toward unbound happiness. I thought of Mom and knew without having to hear it that she would have encouraged me to seize this moment and live my life.

 

BACK IN THE KITCHEN IN
Nanterre, I had taken a few ten-euro bills from the old coffee grinder. “Emergency treasure,” Mom had called it. I used it to buy a few Monacos and a little snack in a bistro.

The place was pretty rustic, and still had a phone behind the counter. The proprietor, a redheaded woman in her fifties, shot me a complicit smile as she handed it to me.

“Here, sweetheart! You have five minutes to tell him no.”

“I'm saying yes right now!” a drunk from the other side of the gleaming bar cried. “Did you see this girl, Simone? She reminds me of my Vero . . .”

“Ha! Exactly, your Vero said no. So just leave the girl alone, okay?”

I called Max Fourestier Hospital. Mom's condition was critical but stable. Every passing minute could be the one, but it was impossible to tell when it would happen. I gave the nurse Sophia's number, telling her to call in case of emergency. At least until the following day. After that . . . I had no idea where I would be or if I would even be reachable.

After this crucial check-in, I went back to my walk, crossing the center of Paris, feeling carefree. I was as light as my heart was full of emotion.

I stopped in front of the Louvre des Antiquaires and ogled the antique canes. Good-bye, vintage watches. Now I only had eyes for elegant walking sticks whose fine silver, ruby, ivory knobs had fascinating stories to tell.

 

I DON'T REALLY KNOW HOW
I made it to Rue du Chemin Vert. I instinctually recognized the row of bazaars and kebab shops. Then the sign and bordeaux-colored awning. When I rang the bell, ten pairs of male eyes turned in concert and stared at my silk-and-felt-clad silhouette. I thought I recognized one or two faces from my previous visit.

I carefully avoided the
Pink Pussy
books and went straight for a copy of
Secret Women
that was sitting on one of the tables marked
literature
. I still had fifty pages left and decided to purchase a second copy.

I spent my last euros on the book and headed back out past the Père Lachaise cemetery. I set up shop on the first bench I found in the sun, in the tree-lined and shady Boulevard de Ménilmontant. Amid the white noise of traffic, I had no trouble diving right into my reading.

First of all, I found the end of the book disconcerting. The main character, the author who goes looking for his wife, who has disappeared into a city's subterranean labyrinth, ends up accepting his new condition as an erotic slave for the cult of women. And now that he's Cyprie and Sophie's thing, he is committed to their idea of creating a new community of Amazons.

The parallel with my current situation was obvious. I, too, was ready to surrender myself completely and without reserve. My thirst for discovery seemed unquenchable. But much like the novel's narrator, I wasn't only interested in the wanton. I was abandoning myself to Louie, but it was not simply a reaction to his treatments, the capitulation of my overstimulated senses. Nor was I submitting myself to the unmentionable out of love. I finally understood: it was a blossoming of my whole being. Like peeling fruit, each new electric touch had removed a layer, session after session, until my quivering flesh was completely naked. And loving. Until my feelings were completely out in the open.

The light ended up convincing me. The flounce of my dress was scrunched up around my thighs. My eyes were closed. I let the heat pour into my skin, which became more and more sensitive with every passing minute. The afternoon drew on like a dream. I heard the voices of passersby, and a few snippets from my nights at the Hôtel des Charmes. I felt as though I were visiting all of its rooms, one after the other, and that each one awoke in me a new sensation, a novel desire. Behind each door, I found a letter left for me by my Alphabet Man. Could it be that the hotel had exactly twenty-six rooms? I liked the thought, and let my mind wander, giving in to reverie.

I also imagined someone delivering my silver package to Avenue Mandel. Louie opening the door and then exploring the contents of the box, his beautiful emaciated face twisted in surprise.

Melted into a grave smile.

 

AROUND DINNERTIME, I TOOK THE
metro for our rendezvous. I got off at the Notre-Dame-de-Lorette station and could have avoided Rue de la Rochefoucauld to get up to Pigalle. But something told me to turn left on Rue Saint-Lazare until it intersected with Rue de la Tour-des-Dames. I was only a few steps away from Duchesnois House. From where I stood, the panic that had taken hold after my earlier disappearance seemed to have subsided. The guests had probably all left long before, after they had run out of consolations and words of encouragement.

I only noticed two rental trucks, both with their back doors wide open, one filled with untouched comestibles, the other with planks and metallic tubes from one of the platforms or tents. I wondered if Madonna, whose private concert was supposed to be the shining moment of the reception, had also been inconvenienced by my defection. Or if someone had warned her.

There I was, contemplating this situation, when a thick silhouette coming out of the circular courtyard bumped into me.

“Elle!”

I started running. Armand, who was once again wearing his corduroys and a vest, chased after me.

“Elle! Come back!”

Thanks to the street's fairly pronounced downward slope, and despite the layers of silk between my legs, I had no trouble losing him. By the time I reached the intersection with the Rue d'Aumale, it was clear he wouldn't catch up with me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him retreat, probably to tell his master about my recent appearance.

It was stupid of me to go. But I suppose it had been necessary. You can only leave your old skin behind after having duly burned it. I'd needed to measure what I had decided to lose in order to value what I was about to gain.

I wondered if I should call Sophia, then decided against it. What could she tell me that I couldn't guess? I was leaving David's wrath behind me, and there was nothing anyone could say to change my mind. Rather than dwell on a past that was impossible to rewrite, I was much happier to think of the present, which was lively and sweet, and filled with promise and new sensations.

 

HONESTLY, I COULD NOT SIT
still. The more the hour approached, the less capable I was of staying calm, much less sitting down. I got some pho from a Vietnamese takeout place and ate it standing up, a few steps from the hotel, stuffing each forkful into my mouth as though my life depended on it.

Over the course of the final hour, the shops started closing one by one. I walked through the neighborhood, doing the same loop over and over, noticing little changes with each rotation. I felt more and more as though I belonged here. I was at last becoming an Athenian. Perhaps I wasn't as accustomed as Louie at reading every architectural detail as though it were speaking to me, but I was becoming affected by its poetry. The neighborhood was inscribing itself in me, just as my name had once been written on it.

On that note, I did not regret having left my second copy of the
Secret Women
on the bench on Boulevard de Ménilmontant. Soon some stranger would find it and get lost in the stupefying city where women were the masters. That mysterious reader would decide whether to become one of them or one of their toys. I didn't care: it was up to him or her.

 

TEN OH-ONE. 22 + 1
= 23. I am twenty-three years old.

I push open the gilded door of the Josephine. Monsieur Jacques gave me a keycard, no questions asked. He almost seemed relieved to see me. I am now also part of this hotel. Along with Marie, Margaretha, Caroline, Esther, Lola, and the others. I am one of them now.

The room is as it was when I visited it two weeks ago, with my athletic client. But then I only saw it in the dark, and here it is bathed in the light of the setting sun. The star only disappeared three minutes ago, if that, and the building is covered in its dying glow. The window is open. The light dives through it, licking the gilding.

 

LOUIE IS STANDING IN THE
middle of the room.

Naked. Fragile.

He is waiting for me.

He also looks different in this light. For the first time, he is also presenting himself to me without artifice. Not even his eternal cane. Just him, at the mercy of a new history that is just beginning. Just him and his suddenly vulnerable attitude. He is open like the blank pages of a new notebook that we will write together. Despite my invitation, neither one of us shall order the other around, from here on out. We shall only be as we are now: eager to discover each other and accept the present moment, ready to let whatever must blossom between us burst forth. No expectations. No plots.

 

SILENTLY, HE WATCHES ME ENTER
the room. He puts a finger over his lips. All words are superfluous tonight. I stop a few paces from him. I'm savoring the moment. I want to feel myself against his skin, muss myself up with his desire, roll around in our sweat, our scents, and gild myself in his love.

The light has chiseled him into a statue of white skin and long muscles, a perfection of flesh that I long to grasp and bite. I am discovering him for the first time. In his entirety. In his grace. I am reveling in his harmony. Who says that only a woman's body is fascinating?

My appetite for him is whole, intact, devouring, a warm ball that thumps in my chest, my belly, my sex. Soon, I won't be able to contain myself. Soon, it won't just be a question of bodies groping, kneading, converging. Soon, we will love each other.

But we don't need to rush things, his eyes keep telling me.

 

AS THE SUN SLOWLY FINISHES
its descent behind the white meringue of the Sacré Coeur, Louie's body is plunged into darkness. All that remains in the light is his profile and his upper left shoulder. On this latter, I am only just noticing a new tattoo: his initials in old English script woven around a black-ink climbing rosebush. No colors, just lines and shadowy shades of gray. A thorny branch shooting out from the bush runs through the hollow of his clavicle to the base of his neck, where a timid bud blossoms. It must be a recent addition; otherwise I would have seen it before, peeking out from under his shirt collar.

And here he is before my very eyes: the Alphabet Man who will write his own language on me. He will find the right words. Not to play with me but to express, inhale, and feel.

 

HIS PRESENCE ALONE MAKES THE
air vibrate like the quiet music playing all around us, innervating every particle of dust:
Words like violence break the silence, come crashing in, into my little world.

The various aspects of the room's decor seem to dissolve, becoming one of the floating particles. Soon, everything else disappears; there is only him. And me. And this light.

 

HE SLOWLY STEPS TOWARD ME.
He isn't in a hurry. Neither of us are. We have all night to study the lines between us, the rough draft of our narrative.

His eyes dive into me, piercing me sweetly. Incandescent points at once light up deep inside me. They blaze, they burn me.
Painful to me, pierce right through me. Can't you understand, oh my little girl?
Louie hammers the point home, tapping his finger on his lips in time to the electronic music, signaling his instructions. I grasp my lesson: our bodies, and only our bodies, shall be allowed to express themselves. They alone are up to the task of bandaging wounds and filling the cracks that have been keeping us apart.