The Other Story (22 page)

He discovered incomprehensible lists of names, places, dates. Entire paragraphs that had been crossed out and rewritten. Nicolas pored over them, hoping for one detail, one clue. But nothing came. His mother had tied a red ribbon around a dozen letters that had her maiden name and an address in the sixth arrondissement on them. He guessed they were the first love letters from his father to her. He did not want to read them. He felt as if he were lifting a curtain on their past intimacy. In the next pile were bills, sums, and invoices. Some of them involved surprisingly large amounts. The tax documents also displayed figures that startled Nicolas. He had no idea his father had earned so much money. He also discovered his father had often paid his income tax too late. He read several long-winded letters to the officials at the tax department, in which his father explained in great detail the complicated reasons why he had not been able to pay what he owed on time. The letters were flawlessly written, with perfect grammar and spelling, which had not been his father’s forte. Nicolas understood his mother had probably written them as her husband dictated.

He went on to the photo file. The first one he pulled out was of his parents, dated on the back 1980, taken by a certain Maxime Villanova. A large black-and-white glossy portrait of them, standing up against a white background, no doubt shot at the
Paris Match
studios, where his father had worked when he met Emma. Nicolas had never seen the photo before. Théodore Duhamel, at twenty years old, younger than Nicolas was now, and Emma were magnificent. They wore black leather pants, boots, and black shirts opened to their navels. They had the same long, tousled hair, and pale, perfect faces. They looked like rock stars, an eighties version of Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe.

The following photograph was from a series Nicolas had often seen. He and his father posing in front of the Jaguar, his father smoking his cigar, a proprietary hand on his little boy’s shoulder. Then came another unknown one. Nicolas was five or six. They had attended a summer wedding at Arcangues, and they had arrived late. Nicolas smiled as he remembered all those faces turning back to look at them as they walked into the church, his father holding himself tall, like a crowned king, wearing a salmon pink jacket and trousers, with no shirt. His naked tanned chest drew gasps from the other guests, especially the women. Nicolas was dressed in a white-and-blue sailor suit. Emma was not in the photograph. Perhaps she was the one who took it. There were more photographs, which he glanced over, conscious of the quick beat of his heart: the ill-fated Hobie 16 in front of the Hôtel du Palais, on the Grande Plage in Biarritz; Emma and her sister, Roxane, at a fancy dress party; his aunt Elvire the day of her wedding with Pablo, in Sevilla; Nicolas as a baby in a pram at the Jardin des Plantes.

And then there was an old black-and-white one of a plump, dark-haired young girl cradling a toddler in her arms. He had no idea who it could be. The girl did not look like anyone he knew. Nicolas turned it around. He recognized his grandfather’s handwriting. “Théodore. Paris, 1961.” The round-faced teenager was Zinaïda Koltchine with her illegitimate child. She was gazing down at the baby with evident pride, but also, thought Nicolas, with an expression of curiosity mingled with wariness. She was very different from what she would later become—a slim, sophisticated bourgeoise. How could she have transformed herself to such an extent? wondered Nicolas. She could only have gone that far because she desperately wanted to. It seemed that when she left the USSR forever in 1961 to become Nina Duhamel in Paris, she also left her former life behind her. Nicolas put the photograph in his wallet.

Looking through the “Important Papers” file, Nicolas stumbled upon a copy of Zinaïda’s birth certificate. Nicolas read that her parents, his great-grandparents, were named Natacha Levkin (born Petrograd, 1925) and Vladimir Koltchine (born Petrograd, 1921). He wondered about them. Were they still alive? Did they know who the father of the baby was? How had Zinaïda met Lionel Duhamel, a wealthy young businessman fifteen years her senior? What had Lionel known about his teenage wife’s past?

Nicolas took the birth certificate and put it in his pocket. As he sat there in his mother’s kitchen, he remembered, for the first time in thirteen years, the conversation he’d overheard in his grandparent’s apartment on the boulevard Saint-Germain just after his father disappeared. Lionel’s apologetic tone: “I know you hate it when I bring up Leningrad.” Had Théodore Duhamel ever questioned his mother, and what had she told him? There were no answers. But those queries became the starting point, unbeknownst to him, of the novel that Nicolas was going to write. They were the foundations he was slowly laying down, without even realizing it, of Margaux Dansor’s story.

As he placed the box in his mother’ desk and put his damp shoes back on, Nicolas slowly began to see what he had to do in order to understand who his father was, and where Fiodor Koltchine had come from.

N
ICOLAS LEAVES THE ROOM
quietly at dawn, when the sun starts to diffuse its golden rays through the curtains. He has not slept, even for a few minutes. His entire body aches and his head throbs painfully. The thought of Malvina’s pregnancy disturbs him to such an extent, it feels like a hangover, which is not the case, even if he did spend most of the night in the bar. He had been too appalled to get drunk. How had he let himself get into this situation? Nicolas wants to bang his head against a wall. He was convinced Malvina was on the Pill. He had even seen her take it before she went to bed. He had asked her once, in the beginning of their relationship, last year, whether she was taking it, because he hated using condoms, and she had replied, yes, she was. He had never doubted her word. Had she forgotten to take it? Had she wanted to do this, to become pregnant with his child? Had she done this to trap him? He remembers how her eyes shone with that strange gleam when she had said, rapturously, the pregnancy test in her hand, that she was going to have his child.
His child.

He walks down to the beach area. There is no one in sight. It is far too early. There are no deck chairs, no parasols. He sits on the edge of the concrete slab, his feet dangling in the water, and watches the sea. She cannot have this child. It would ruin both their lives. It would ruin the child’s life.

His head in his hands, he goes over the events of last night. After the doctor left, Malvina cried with joy, hugging him with all her might. He was too stunned to utter a word. She had called her mother, and he went to stand by the window, shaking. The conversation went on and on. She cooed and giggled ecstatically. He stood there, a rigid statue, horrified. She finally hung up.

“My darling love,” she whispered beseechingly, “come to me.”

He said firmly, “Malvina, we need to talk.”

She frowned. “Don’t ruin this lovely moment.”

“We need to talk, now,” he insisted, trembling, hearing the anger distort his voice. “This can’t wait.”

She got up from the bed and wound her arms around his neck.

“We’ll talk in the morning, okay? We don’t need to talk now, do we?”

He sighed with exasperation. “We need to talk right now, Malvina. This can’t go on. I’m not going to sit here and not talk about it.”

He tried to pry her clinging arms off his neck. She backed away and stared at him, narrowing her eyes.

“Why are you so furious? This is such good news!”

“Good news?” he nearly screamed. “What the fuck?”

“This baby is the best thing that’s happened to you, Nicolas Kolt.”

And with that, she disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the water running.

“Malvina!” he shouted, rattling the door. She had locked it.

The anger erupted. He could not spend another minute with her in this room. He grabbed his BlackBerry, some cash, and, for some unexplainable reason, the Hamilton Khaki watch, then left, slamming the door. He was so incensed that he did not nod back to the gay couple and the Swiss couple, who were on their way to the bar for predinner drinks. He did not see them. He saw nothing, except how he had been duped. He went to stand on the terrace near the pool. Luckily, there were only a few people there. He sat down on a chair and felt his thighs tremble. What was it? Fear? Rage? Perhaps both. A waiter came to ask him if he wanted something to drink, and he shook his head wordlessly. There was only one person he wanted to talk to right now. There was only one person who could understand him and listen to him. Delphine. He pressed the speed-dial key linked to her name. He imagined her, looking down at her phone, seeing his name flash on her screen. She did not pick up. He got her voice mail, and the sound of her voice still made his heart flutter. He left no message.

Nicolas sat there, shivering with despair. Then the screen lit up and her name appeared. She was calling him back. He fumbled to take the call.

“Sorry about that, Nicolas. Phone was at the bottom of my bag, as usual!”

He was so overjoyed to hear her, he nearly choked.

“Delphine…”

“I read that Taillefer article this morning. Ouch.”

“Yeah. I read parts of it. Not the whole thing.”

“Don’t read the whole thing. Where are you?”

“In Italy. And you?”

“In Normandy. With a friend. How’s the book coming along?”

He paused, then said, “It’s not.”

She waited for him to speak. She knew how to do that. How he missed her sense of timing.

“Malvina is pregnant.”

She said carefully, “Was this planned?”

“No!” shouted Nicolas. “No, of course not!”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know!” he almost wept. “She’s overjoyed. She wanted this. I was conned. I’m such an idiot.”

“You need to talk to her.”

“She won’t listen! She thinks this is the best thing that’s happened to her! She’s fucking overjoyed!”

Delphine kept her calm. “You must be feeling miserable. But let me ask you this. You’re not going to like it, but I must ask you all the same.”

“Go ahead,” said Nicolas.

“Are you sure this is your child?”

He was shocked.

“Well, there is no way of knowing, of course, but I do think so. She is faithful; at least I think she is.”

“You may want to think about a paternity test.”

Nicolas laughed grimly.

“Delphine, you don’t get it. I do not want her to have that child. I’m not going to wait till the child is born to check if it’s mine.”

“So you don’t want this baby at all?”

“No!” he shrieked, beside himself with anger. “I do not want this baby. At all!”

He became aware that the people behind him were staring. He turned away from them.

“Why?” she asked in her calm, quiet tone.

“Why?” he echoed, lowering his voice. How could he tell her? Would she find him even more pathetic? Of course she was going to find him pathetic. He was totally pathetic. Is there a man standing next to her? he wondered. Some guy who’s eavesdropping on all this? At the end of the conversation, the guy would question her. She would sigh and say, “That was my ex, the writer.” Normandy, she had said. He imagined one of those old-fashioned, charming hotels in Trouville, or Cabourg, an antiquated room with a balcony and a view of the gray-blue sea. At this hour, they were getting ready for drinks downstairs, and Delphine was wearing that green dress he loved, the one that set off her auburn hair and white skin.…

As he was still not answering, Delphine went on gently: “Do you love Malvina, Nicolas?”

“No,” he said, immediately. “No, I don’t love her.” He yearned to say, I love you. You. You. I have never stopped loving you. Delphine. You. I have not stopped thinking of you. I miss you so much, it is killing me. He did not say those words, but it seemed to him they had been uttered all the same, and that somehow she heard them as they lingered, unspoken and omnipresent, hanging in the silence between them.

“Then you must tell her,” said Delphine. “You must tell her that there is no future with her and this baby. You must tell her now.”

Now, as he looks out to sea, Nicolas thinks of Delphine’s words, her advice about telling Malvina. It is now Sunday morning, and they are to leave tonight at six o’clock. A car is picking them up to take them to the airport. He has all day, their last day, to talk to her. After his conversation last night with Delphine, Nicolas paced up and down the terrace, his hands clenched. Going back to the room was out of the question. Having dinner with Malvina was, as well. But where could he go? He was locked up in a golden-caged prison of luxury with the elegant guests who were now arriving at the bar in yet another procession of designer dresses and jewels. He did not want to say hello to any of them, so he looked away, to the sea, to freedom. He did not care if Dagmar Hunoldt was there, somewhere behind him; tonight, he had nothing to say to her. Tonight, he had no patience. Dr. Gheza, in a resplendent white blazer, asked him if everything was all right and if Signorina Voss was better. Nicolas replied, unsmiling, that yes, thank you, she was better. Dr. Gheza announced, with a Chesire cat–like grin, that tonight was Samba Night, an exclusive concert for the happy few, with a Brazilian band coming to play just for them. He was very much hoping that Signor Kolt and Signorina Voss would join in the fun. Before Dr. Gheza could add another word, Nicolas cleared his throat, muttered, “Excuse me,” and promptly walked away from the bar, to the dismay of Alessandra and her mother. He wandered into the lobby, trying to give a purpose to his step, and sat down despondently on one of the sofas, picking up a magazine and leafing through it without seeing it. What was he going to do with himself this evening? The last person he wanted to see or to speak to was Malvina. Yet how could he get away from her for a couple of hours? They were on an island. He was stuck. He did not even want to check his BlackBerry, which lay in his pocket, ignored. The woman behind the reception desk smiled at him. Her name tag read
Serafina.
An idea came to him. He leaped to his feet. He asked Serafina if there was any chance he could dine somewhere else than at the Gallo Nero. She replied, still smiling, that of course that was possible. A boat could take him anywhere he wished along the island’s coast. There were some charming restaurants on the other side, only thirty minutes away. Should she make reservations for him? No, no, he said, delighted to hear this. No reservations. When was the driver free? Serafina said that Davide was at his disposal and ready when he was. Nicolas was overjoyed. Where should he meet Davide? At the pontoon, she told him, thinking that Signor Kolt really did have the most magnificent smile. He thanked her and then went straight to the James Bond elevator. He could hear the Brazilian band starting up with “Mas Que Nada.” Who cared? He was escaping. He chuckled with glee. Down at the pier, a tall young man his age, wearing a black jacket, awaited.