The Other Story (13 page)

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 share 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.

“
Grazie,
” he says.

“
Prego,
” she replies.

Malvina is upstairs, still asleep. She has no inkling of the events that unfurled after she snuggled into the large white bed. Once her breathing became regular, Nicolas retreated to the safety of the toilet, where he felt sheltered enough behind the locked door to check his BlackBerry. He first looked at his Facebook page. The elusive Alex Brunel had posted another photo. There was Nicolas, unmistakably Nicolas, sitting at the bar, facing Giancarlo. He had been photographed from behind, from the higher terrace, but he was recognizable; one long black sideburn could be glimpsed, and the square shoulders in the dark green jacket. Two hundred and ninety-six friends had already “liked” it. Nicolas did not read the comments. The photo filled him with dread. He hated being stalked. Last year, a disturbed young person had e-mailed him numerous photographs of herself naked, her body covered with dozens of his books in different editions. When he had not responded, she managed to secure his home address, and he had found her lurking around rue du Laos. There had been nothing amiable about the way she glared at him from afar. Recently, a middle-aged man wrote to him several times to politely declare he was going to throw acid in Nicolas’s face at the next book signing. These isolated episodes had been dealt with by Alice Dor and the police, but they had made Nicolas nervous. Nicolas nearly deleted the photo from his timeline. He toyed with the idea of blocking Alex Brunel, so that he or she could no longer post on his wall. But for the moment, there had been no threats from Alex Brunel. Nicolas had tiptoed back to the bedroom. All was quiet. He looked out to the balcony. A beautiful night. Maybe he should order limoncello? The room-service waiter would awaken Malvina. Earlier on, she hadn’t wanted to go on making love. She explained she was still feeling queasy, that she needed sleep. What about a dash to the bar? He left the room, closed the door in silence, and ran to the bar like a bat out of hell. Giancarlo welcomed him with a broad smile and handed him an icy shot of limoncello. Nicolas swallowed it in one go. It felt marvelous. He had another. It felt even better. The bar was empty, apart from a group of people farther off, near the pool. They were smoking, laughing, and dancing. Nicolas glanced up at the restaurant terrace to see if the mysterious Alex Brunel was waiting stealthily in the shadows, brandishing a smartphone to take another picture, but there was no one to be seen. Nicolas decided to call François, who had never gotten back to him. It was midnight, and François had a family now, a wife and kids (Nicolas could never remember their names), but he could not put it off any longer. After a couple of rings, François’s taped voice was heard, that serious and earnest voice Nicolas missed. “You’ve reached François Morin. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Thank you.” Nicolas left a long-winded, clumsy monologue. He tried to be witty, like in the old days, and failed. He hung up, feeling miserable. After a third limoncello, a desperate recklessness filtering through him, Nicolas called his mother’s mobile for the fifth time that day. Answering machine. No one at the rue Rollin, either. Why was she not at home at nearly one in the morning? Why was her mobile turned off? This was unlike his mother. What if something had happened? When he at last looked away from his phone, the blond American actor was standing next to him, swaying slightly on unsteady feet.

“Howdy,” the actor drawled, clapping him on the shoulder. “What about a refill, dude?”

Before Nicolas had time to draw breath, the actor was already ordering Caïpiroskas from Giancarlo. There was nothing else to do but drink. Nicolas could not face the idea of the silent bedroom and the sleeping Malvina. The evening had been a disappointment. The Rolex incident had left a bad taste in his mouth. No harm in a couple of drinks. He still had two days to enjoy at the Gallo Nero. Why not drink a part of the night away? No one was there to tell him not to. What was the actor whining about? His marital problems? His waning career? Whatever it was, it sounded as if it was coming from far away, muffled, distorted, like from the end of an endless tunnel. Nicolas nodded and drank. The American did all the talking and just as much drinking. The night deepened. Under the bittersweet coating of sugar and lemon, Nicolas felt the vodka permeating through him, heating his limbs, softening edges, drawing a fuzzy cobweb over his vision. He watched the group of people dance and sing while the American rambled on. It seemed that the same music played repeatedly: “Hotel California,” by the Eagles. Nicolas heard a warning signal in his head when he nearly tumbled off his stool. Delphine’s voice echoed in his mind.
Nicolas. You’re drunk. Again.
He ignored both the signal and Delphine’s voice and drank on. The rest of the bar episode was a blur, until Cassia Carper turned up in her electrifying dress and shoes. She had a phone glued to her ear. Who could she be talking to at this time of night, using that voice, so low, so throaty? She ordered champagne, and sipped it alone, standing up at the bar, next to him, still talking, but Nicolas noticed she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, her glance trailing back to him again and again. Every time he looked at her shoes, it gave him a thrill. Then, somehow, there had been Cassia Carper’s hand on his leg as she leaned over to sign her bill, her white hand and its red nails, splayed out on his knee, deliberately, like a possessive starfish, and he had felt the warmth of her palm and fingers seep through his jeans. The chain of events had become confusing. The American actor vanished. Nicolas found himself with a glass of champagne in his hand and Cassia Carper’s tongue in his mouth. How long that situation lasted, he could not tell. By the time Nicolas got back to his room, it was three in the morning. He could not walk straight. His magnetic card was not working or he was too inebriated to use it properly. He fumbled about in the dark for a long moment. Just as he was about to give up and fall asleep on the threshold, the door clicked open, and he went straight to the bathroom, as quietly as possible, but every noise he made resonated thunderously, at least in his head. He stripped with difficulty, stepped into the shower, and turned the cold water on full blast. He felt better. He dried himself off and drank thirstily from the tap. Then he looked at his BlackBerry. There was a little blue spotted signal on the screen. A BBM. From Sabina. He locked the bathroom door. There was hardly a chance Malvina would wake up now, but he wanted to play it safe.

There were no words in Sabina’s message, just a photo. The photo was so unreal that Nicolas had to peer at it several times in disbelief. Was he imagining things? Was he that intoxicated? He stared as hard as he could. No, he wasn’t imagining anything. There were Sabina’s thighs, opened wide to the mesmerizing triangle, a tangle of honey tendrils, and two fingers dipped in the sweet pink wetness.

“Would you like some more tea, Signor Kolt?”

The waitress smiles at him again. Nicolas nods and watches the hot liquid filling his cup. He knew he could not keep that photo. It was too dangerous. So he had looked at it for a long time, crouching on the marble floor of the bathroom. If only he’d still had his iPhone, he could have zoomed in for a savory close-up, which the BlackBerry did not manage so well. The flashing red light had announced a new BBM from Sabina. “Your turn.”

Nicolas discovered, dismayed, that the act of photographing one’s genitals and obtaining a satisfactory result was not an easy deed. The Caïpiroskas and champagne had not helped, either. At first, Nicolas was able to capture only his hip bone or his belly button, but finally he got the angle right. His penis resembled an unappetizing undercooked hot dog. His scrotum had the wrinkled aspect of purple-hued cabbage. There was no way he could send those pictures to Sabina. After what seemed hours, he managed a shot of his waning erection and sent it off, convinced Sabina had no doubt fallen asleep. But her answer appeared immediately. “Make yourself come. I will do the same.” It did not take him long, and he did think of her, and of the pink intimacy on his BlackBerry, although the memory of Cassia Carper’s slippery tongue sped things up.