The Other Story (27 page)

His voice sounded like his voice from “before,” his normal voice. His Papi voice, of the old days. Gone was the whining of a moment ago.

Nicolas nodded, hardly daring to breathe. He was afraid of ruining the moment. So he remained silent, biting his lips. The shouting took up again down the corridor. He prayed it would not distract Lionel Duhamel.

The old man said, with the same calm, dull voice, “That letter came, that summer. At the end of July. You read it, didn’t you, Théodore?”

“Whose letter?” whispered Nicolas.

“Alexeï,” said Lionel Duhamel tonelessly. “The letter Alexeï sent.”

A long pause.

“Who is Alexeï?” asked Nicolas gently.

The photograph slipped to the floor and the old man started to bawl silently, mouth gaping open, tears splattering down his plump cheeks. His frame was racked with sobs. He began to moan loudly, holding his head between his hands, rocking back and forth. Nicolas sprang to his side, grasping his arms, trying to calm him.

“Stop it!” spat the old man, furiously pushing him away. “Get away from me! Get away!”

The gnarled hands clutched at his throat, and Nicolas was shocked at the vibrant strength left in those old bones. For a brief and horrible instant, he thought he was going to black out. His vision grew wobbly; he could hardly breathe. At last, he was able to shove himself away and dislodge the viselike grip around his neck. Lionel Duhamel wheezed and spluttered. His eyes were enormous, bloodshot, filled with hatred.

“Papi, it’s okay, relax,” Nicolas whispered soothingly, terrified that a doctor or a nurse might turn up because of the racket and tell him off, or, worse still, order him to leave. He found the photograph under the chair and slid it back into his wallet. He rushed into the bathroom, took some Kleenex, and dabbed the old pink face. “Calm down, Papi. Please calm down. Everything is fine, I promise, just relax.”

Lionel Duhamel blew his nose, still quaking, but the tears had stopped. He asked for some water. Nicolas filled a paper cup. He watched the old man gulp it down.

“Are you all right, Papi?” he asked, patting a sagging shoulder.

The flabby pink face seemed to swell with fury.

“Who are you? I’ve never seen you before!” hissed Lionel Duhamel, his eyes still huge, injected with red. “Get the fuck out of my room, or I’ll call the police. Get the fuck out!” Nicolas left as fast as he could, racing through the long, brightly lit corridors, past the wheelchairs and the TV, down three flights of stairs, out into the cold air, where he gasped with relief. He ran all the way to the rue Pernety. He got there breathless, dizzy, still reeling from the violence of the scene. His throat hurt and he had difficulty swallowing. Delphine was not home yet, and Gaïa was with her father for the evening. He fished around in his pockets for the keys. No keys. On his key ring, he had the rue Pernety key as well as the rue Rollin one, and also a spare set to his mother’s car, which she lent him from time to time. He must have dropped them on the way home or, worse still, left them in Lionel Duhamel’s room at the hospital. He tried calling the hospital, asked for the third-floor ward, but it was busy. He ran all the way back, cursing. There were no keys on the glistening sidewalk. When he got to the third floor, he was not allowed back in by a snappy nurse, who said visiting hours were over. She grabbed his arm, but he ignored her, pushing past, yelling that he had left his keys in his grandfather’s room.

His grandfather had been put to bed and was fast asleep when he slid the door open and slithered into the room. He turned the bed light on, frightened that this might wake the old man up (how could he face those dreadful eyes one more time?), but Papi did not budge, snoring peacefully away, as if nothing had happened, as if he had not tried to strangle his grandson. There were no keys. Nicolas searched every inch of the room and bathroom, in vain. He looked into the wastebasket. It had been emptied. He saw himself unwrapping the flowers. His keys had been in his hand, for some reason, and he must have thrown them away with the paper. He left the room and went to find the snappy nurse. At first, she remained unhelpful. Then she began to be aware that Mr. Duhamel’s grandson was more than agreeable to look at. He had the loveliest smile, beautiful lips and teeth, gorgeous eyes, such an interesting color, the color of a misty morning. He was so tall, so dark, what a change from those decrepit gnomes she dealt with all day long. Of course she would show him the shaft in the cellar where the rubbish was emptied every evening. She said she hoped he would find his keys in that awful mess. She told him her name was Colette.

Armed with gloves, Nicolas waded through a nightmarish man-size bin full of the waste produced by a geriatric hospital—stained cloths, used diapers, food-encrusted bibs, dirty napkins—his mouth and nose clenched against the horrific stench, fighting the urge to retch, until he found his keys miraculously stuck to the flowers’ wrapping paper.

He thanked Colette, then walked home slowly in a daze, the stink of the bin on his clothes and hair. Delphine was still not there, but she had sent a text message saying she was on her way. He undressed and took a long, hot shower. When Delphine came back, he said nothing about his day and about what had happened with Lionel Duhamel. He couldn’t sleep that night. He went into the kitchen with the black-and-white photograph of Zinaïda and Fiodor, and his father’s birth certificate. He drank some water and sat down at the table. He sat there for a long time. The words came back to haunt him, like Lord McRashley’s silent army of bats.
She never wanted you to know. She didn’t want anybody to know. That letter came, that summer. At the end of July. You read it, didn’t you, Théodore?… The letter Alexeï sent.

N
ICOLAS STRIDES UP TO
the room, the piece of paper Dagmar Hunoldt gave him still in his hand. What do those ridiculous sentences mean? He scrunches the scrap up into a tiny ball and shoves it into his pocket. How could she possibly not know who he is? And why had he been so meek? Sitting there sheeplike. He nearly kicks himself. The next time he sees her, he will just ignore her. It will be like looking through thin air. Yes, that’s it. Dagmar Hunoldt does not exist. She’ll have to come begging if she wants him to acknowledge her.

When he enters the room, frowning, Malvina is on the bed, a tray on her lap. She looks beautiful, although her beauty is the last thing to touch him at the moment. She smiles at him.

“There you are!” she says.

He sits down on one of the white armchairs facing the bed. He finds he has little patience left. It has been nibbled away by his lack of sleep, by Dagmar Hunoldt’s incomprehensible behavior.

He is going to be blunt. For him, there is no other way.

“I don’t want this baby, Malvina.”

Her face hardly moves. He was expecting it to drop, to crumble. It remains perfectly smooth.

She takes a sip of tea. Then she says quietly, “We’re going to get married, and you’ll see, you’ll be so happy. I know it.”

He is too stunned to speak. When the words come out, they sound like a roar.

“Are you crazy, Malvina? Are you out of your mind? Marriage?”

She smiles serenely. “Yes, marriage, Nicolas. We’re going to make this little person very happy. We’re going to build a lovely home for him, or her.”

He grabs her arm. The tray tilts sideways on her knees. Tea spills, staining the white sheets brown.

“Be careful!” she cries. “Look at the mess you’re making.”

He drags her out of bed. She is standing in front of him, wearing a short white T-shirt, appearing tiny, faced with his height. A frail slip of a woman. But there is no fear in the small face turned up to his.

“The mess!” he hisses. “Let’s talk about the mess, Malvina. Let’s talk about your mess. If you don’t mind.”

“What do you mean?” She is pouting like a little girl. Like Gaïa used to.

“I mean, how the hell did you get pregnant? I mean
that
mess. Your mess.”

She shrugs and looks away. “I don’t know. Maybe I forgot my Pill.”

“I see. Maybe you forgot your Pill. Great. Wonderful. You forgot your Pill, you’re pregnant, and now you want to get married. Right?”

“Yes!” she says, stamping her foot. “What’s wrong with that? I love you. We love each other. We’re having a baby. Don’t you see the beauty of it?”

And now the tears come, as he had expected. He lets her cry; then he takes her elbow again, but more gently this time, and leads her back to the bed, sits her down. He has to tell her he does not love her. That he never did love her. That he still loves Delphine. That he respects her, that he has enjoyed their time together, that she is a fine, emotional, intense, interesting person, but that there is no way he is ever going to marry her and bring up that child. Has she any idea what she is talking about? She is a child herself. How can a child have a child? He thinks of her and a baby, on the rue du Laos, and closes his eyes with horror. A baby! Bringing up a child. The responsibility of it. A child changes a life forever. She should know that. He should tell her. And him, a father? How can he be a father? He doesn’t even know what a father really is. His own father died so long ago. Marriage! How can she even pronounce that word? She is like a little girl, dreaming of Prince Charming. He remembers her talking to her mother last night on the phone. She sounded elated, like this was the most wonderful thing that could possibly happen to her.

Malvina sobs into his shoulder and he holds her close. The words don’t come. He thinks of her fragility, her loneliness. Malvina moved to Paris for him. She gave up her life in London, her studies, her friends, all for him. She never made any friends in Paris. She just sat at home and waited for him. He thinks of her ex, Justin, and how that guy destroyed her, broke her wings, posting scornful, odious messages on her Facebook wall for all to see, telling her over and over again how useless she was, how stupid, how lost and pathetic she was, that she had never made him happy, that he had obliterated every single memory of his relationship with her, that she was a nonentity, that she might as well jump out of a window or stick her face in an oven and turn on the gas.

The words stay buried within him. He feels trapped, as if a metal door has clanged shut right into his face. He closes his eyes with despair.

“Are you so very angry?” Malvina says softly.

“This is a shock,” he admits as nicely as possible.

“I know. I can tell.”

She walks to the window. In that body, he thinks, that slim body, there is a minute bundle of cells that is growing and thriving with every passing second. Her cells, his cells, their baby. He cannot bring himself to believe it. Or accept it.

“I can give you more time,” she says, looking out to the blueness. “For you to get used to the idea of being a father. I won’t put any pressure on you. You need to finish your book.”

“My book?” He laughs spitefully. “There is no book.”

“What do you mean?” she says, turning back to him, alarmed.

He says, robotlike, “There. Is. No. Book.”

Silence, and then she says, “I don’t understand. What have you been writing for the past year?”

“Nothing. I’ve been pretending to write. I’ve been lying to all of you.”

Her eyes are round with shock. “So what have you been doing all this time?”

“Nothing!” he yelps. “Nothing!”

“But everybody thinks…,” she begins.

“Yes, everybody thinks!” he echoes, waving his hands.

“Why?” she asks simply.

He snorts. “Because. Because!” he yells.

“What are you going to do?”

“I have to tell Alice.” The mere thought of that makes him want to howl.

“I’m sorry,” says Malvina.

“About the baby?” he retorts, a little too fast.

She scowls. “No! About the book.”

“Malvina, we still need to talk about this. About how I feel. Do you understand?”

She nods. “We can take it slowly,” she says. “We don’t have to get married right away. We can wait till the baby is born. And once the baby is here, I’ll take care of everything, I promise. I know you will love this baby. I love it already! Have you thought about names yet? I’m so excited. Oh, my darling Nicolas. I’m the happiest girl on earth. Please don’t look at me like that.”

Later, at lunch, Nicolas notices how Malvina is glowing. Gone is the sullen, glum creature spying on his every move, checking the way he looks at other women. Even when Savannah undulates by, wearing a bikini the size of a stamp, when the Spanish lady removes her top and exposes charming, pert breasts, and when the Natalie Portman sisters prance in and out of the pool in an adorable aquatic ballet, she remains impervious, gazing at him with idolatry, a proprietary hand on his arm. She has not looked at her iPhone once, a miracle, as she usually monitors every single item posted about him on the social networks. She is like a queen. Her radiance says to all, Yes, I am having Nicolas Kolt’s child. Yes, I am the chosen one. I am that woman. I am the one. He wants to crawl under the table and weep.

This was meant to be a restful, inspiring escape. Yesterday afternoon, after François’s devastating phone call, Nicolas begun to understand that this was not the case. He somehow knows, with dread, that it is not over. There is more to come. What, he cannot tell. But all his guards are up. His armor is on. It is as if the lovely scenery, the sun, the guests, the staff are all part of a play. It is a sham. They are all onstage. Behind the coat of luxury, tragedy lurks. Only this time, Nicolas gears himself up for it. He is ready.

“Mind if I join you, pal?”

Nelson Novézan, wearing a stained blue T-shirt and grimy jeans, slides into an empty chair at their table, plucks a grissino from the bread basket, and grins at them.

“That Taillefer article was something,” says Novézan, his mouth full. “She’s such a bitch. She hates my guts, too.”

“Really?” asks Nicolas.

He is secretly relieved that Novézan has sat down, uninvited. His presence, however offensive, creates an unexpected and welcome barrier between him and Malvina. Novézan appears to be in a friendly mood. His usually sullen face is beaming. He pats Nicolas confraternally on the arm.