The Suitors

Friday, 11:00 p.m.



I hadn’t had time to see Marie before dinner, still less to tell her about the arrival of the real estate agent, and I was counting on talking with her privately after dinner. Had she finally forgotten her dog in Rio? She seemed so entranced by Béno, who was questioning her eagerly about her profession, that I left her alone and took up a post in a corner of the loggia where I hoped to pass unnoticed until bedtime.

“So tell me, how does it work when the Élysée Palace or the Quai d’Orsay needs your services?”

“Well, the first thing I do is find out if it’s a ‘little chair’ job, in which case I always decline the offer.”

“A little chair? What do you mean?”

“It means the interpreter sits slightly in the background between two guests at a banquet to translate their conversation. I’ve been at this too long to be treated casually by my employers. Luckily, I can afford to be choosy, because I’m rather in demand.”

Never one to pass up an opportunity, our mother spoke right up. “ Béno, you cannot imagine how sought after she is! For example, the president asks for her for all his official trips. It’s no secret, after all, and if you look at the pictures of his travels, you’ll see Marie constantly at his side. Naturally! She’s both lovely and discreet, and she has mastered the art of wearing an evening gown!”

“Mummy, please stop the sales pitch, it’s embarrassing! And besides, you know quite well that I can be dismissed at any moment, at the slightest ministerial reshuffling …”

Turning toward Béno, Marie added, “Anyway, long story short, I mostly do consecutive and whispered translation. Although I am sometimes called upon for simultaneous work, as at the G8 or Davos summits.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, but I’d love you to do some whispered work for me. That said, I wouldn’t say no to some of the consecutive or simultaneous kind, either.”

When Marie let out a throaty laugh, I sprang to attention, as it were: it was a signal that those two weren’t making small talk anymore but playing with seduction.

“No, no—here, I’ll explain it to you. Consecutive means that when a CEO is speaking at a podium, he will periodically pause while I translate what he has just said. I therefore take notes while he speaks, but I’m lucky, I have a good memory, and I can hold on for up to thirty minutes if he doesn’t trot out too many numbers. For the whispered work, I sit next to my client, who doesn’t speak the language being used by whoever’s at the podium, and I whisper my translation in his or her ear. This whispered kind is often followed by the consecutive one, because usually the person to whom I’m translating sotto voce will then step back to the podium in turn.”

“Then that’s the kind I like the best, the one where you press up against me to whisper in my ear!”

Marie was done for. I could see that from the way she ran one hand through her hair in a sweeping theatrical gesture that always meant she was attracted to a man, a mannerism that had one day suddenly replaced her childhood habit of twisting a lock of hair around her index finger to give herself a silky mustache, which comforted her when she was sad and helped her to fall asleep.

And Marie had good reason to be done for. Béno wasn’t one of those antiheros tossed at us by today’s romantic comedies, those Don Juans in their fifties with their erectile troubles and their fears of growing old, the balding Jack Nicholsons, grumpy and swathed in bling, or the bitter, egotistical university professors whom women half their age—beautiful, sensitive, accomplished, independent, generous women—had endless trouble turning into acceptable suitors. In short, emotional cripples, with whom such women had to content themselves (if Hollywood was to be believed) after agonies of self-persuasion. Were men therefore in such bad shape that they had to be repaired like old cars before they could be used?

Well, Béno was not only handsome, young, ambitious, dazzling, and openly courting Marie, he also knew a few moves to set even the most sophisticated women dreaming. He began evoking the unusual places where he would have liked to take her: the pine-and-maple bowling alley (circa 1914) in the basement of the Frick mansion in New York; the Rocca di Papa slope near the pope’s summer residence at the Castel Gandolfo, where through an optical illusion, gravity seems to reverse itself and objects slowly roll uphill; the underground railroad station at the Waldorf-Astoria where an armored car concealed the special vehicle that allowed President Roosevelt to be driven around without revealing that he was in a wheelchair.

Then, like an entertainer warming up a room, Béno gradually lightened the mood of our little gathering. And he had his work cut out for him, because he had not only to elude Henri Démazure’s deadly questions about international finance but also to put the brakes on Odon, who was in full swing.

“… The French have always detested free-trade policies! I mean, they’re devoted fans of Louis XIV—and Napoleon, whose life makes for best sellers at bookstores, whereas Napoleon III and Louis Philippe don’t earn diddly. Anyway, the French take themselves for the aristocrats they decapitated! They think they’re living in a society of rights untrammeled by responsibilities, a leisure-oriented civilization of thirty-five-hour workweeks, the safety of which inspires them to travel around as boldly as if they were the titled adventurers of yore, off to discover Turkey! No, it’s true! You’ll notice that it’s always the French who set out on the most absurdly daunting challenges, walking across Guyana or the Frozen North, sailing around the Atlantic in a nutshell. Now in that department, they’re the champs.”

As Odon paused to take a deep breath, Béno turned to Frédéric.

“I hear you’ve composed a song about the Giraults, and you know, I’d be willing to grovel to hear it …”

“Aha!” exclaimed Frédéric who, like all good writers, preferred to play hard to get, to heighten the dramatic tension, even though he knew exactly what Béno was up to—namely, having some fun, and Frédéric was delighted to help him out.

“A song about what?” asked Lou.

“The Giraults, some friends of our parents who’ll be coming next weekend,” explained Marie.

“So, well, the song?” insisted Béno.

Then, as Frédéric vacillated, Gay, Laszlo, Charles, Marie, and I all shouted in concert, “The song! The song!”

“You’re very kind,” said Frédéric, “but just because I write songs in my idle moments doesn’t mean I want to sing them around a campfire in the evening.”

“What if I sang first to put you at ease?” asked Béno, who then launched immediately into a bit of opera, arousing our enthusiasm with a nerve and dash that we applauded vigorously, leaving Frédéric with no choice.

Foie de veau with the Giraults

What could be more rigolo

Than to sip sublime porto

In the evening chez Girault?

Jean-Claude and his fine bon mots

Fresh from that day’s Figaro

It was oh so comme il faut

This evening spent with the Giraults …



Riotous applause, stamping, the works.

“Once more, all together now!” cried Béno, playing to perfection the choirmaster revving up the parish faithful.

Once we had complied, and he had pulled off the feat of uniting us all in that surprising moment of good fellowship, we found ourselves happy but already unsure, hoping for a new suggestion from our emcee, which he in fact provided by proposing that we play some party games, thus relieving my mother from the onerous duty of entertaining us.

As I watched Béno emceeing, though, it occurred to me that my parents must have gotten older without my noticing, for it had been some time since L’Agapanthe had welcomed guests mischievous enough to think of playing games and even practical jokes, like short sheeting beds, and having a good time that way.

On the lawn sloping down toward the water, the automatic sprinkler came on, drawing our attention to the navigation lights of the boats and their reflections in the inky black sea.

Béno suggested a hidden words game, in which a guest would be sent out of the room while the rest of us chose a three-syllable word; we would then slip this word into all our answers when questioned by the designated word detective. Frédéric was asked to leave for a moment, and we chose the word “favorite.” When he returned, Frédéric sat in the center of the circle we formed around him and reviewed the rules.

“So, if I understand correctly, I ask you questions about anything I want, you’ll all slip the same word into your answers, and it’s up to me to discover what the word is.”

The scent of jasmine was heavenly. And there was a feeling of innocent excitement in the air, the kind that draws ohs and ahs from children when the lights dim for a movie or the curtain goes up onstage. Not all of us were ready with our lines, though, and we were nervous, the way we used to be in school when we had to solve a problem up at the blackboard. No one wanted to be chosen first by Frédéric, who took a wicked pleasure in dragging out the suspense by pointing at some of us as if hesitating whom to pick.

“Me, I’m not up to this, I don’t think I really understand how to play,” announced my father.

“Now don’t be silly,” my mother scolded him, fearing her husband’s candor would make him look like an idiot.

Showing his sense of fair play, Frédéric pounced on Béno.

“Since you are the master of ceremonies, my dear Béno, I’ll start with you. What did you hope to find by coming to this house?” he asked, flicking a sly look my way.

“What did I hope for?” replied Béno, looking over at Marie with an enigmatic smile. “Well, I hoped that my stories and sprightly conversation would meet with favor; it is always nice, isn’t it, to be appreciated.”

“Oh no,” exclaimed Lou. “That’s like what I was going to say. He stole my answer!”

“Would you just be quiet!” Mathias hissed at her.

“Ah! Mathias, thank you for catching my attention,” said Frédéric archly. “Let’s see, what would you say if I asked you what you do in your spare time?”

“I don’t rightly know, actually, because you see, I don’t really have any favorite pastime.”

“Hey, don’t work too hard!” sneered Lou.

Noticing that my mother was twitching with impatience to be questioned, Frédéric turned amiably to her.

“You’re next, Flokie. Tell me, when do you plan to stop stuffing us like geese with your diabolical menus of goodies?”

“Oh, but you know, in my mother-in-law’s day, her menus went on forever, people ate much more and never thought a thing about it, so in comparison, I’m actually doing you a favor, it seems!”

My mother had trotted out her reply so quickly and with such girlish glee that I was frankly astonished.

“Well, that’s twice someone has said favor,” mused Frédéric, “but not Mathias, so I’m not … wait a minute, he did say favorite, so that’s it, right?”

Caught up in the game now, we sent Georgina out of the room and picked Handi Wipe as our next word, which inspired Béno to come up with, “When you’ve already got something handy, why putz around with anything else?” and Lou to trot out, “Because I’m always equipped with tissues beforehand, I wipe my nose the second I’ve sneezed!” It was Charles who’d already gotten the biggest laugh, though, back when we’d settled on our chosen word.

“A Handi Wipe, what in heaven’s name is that?”

“Really, Charles, you’re such a snob!” exclaimed my mother.

“Excuse me?” he’d huffed. “Just look who’s talking!”





The evening came to an end when Béno—still going strong—asked Flokie for permission to invite Cheryla to lunch the next day.

“But of course,” replied my mother, completely under his spell, without really having any idea whom he meant.

For she pretended to adore music in general and the opera in particular, even though the only opinion I ever heard her utter on the subject was that Bach’s cantata BWV 51 as sung by Suzanne Danco—famous for her silvery, aristocratic tone—was the most sublime thing in the world. As for my mother’s knowledge of lighter fare, it stopped with Barbra Streisand and Liza Minnelli.

Trust my father to put his foot in his mouth. “Who’s she? You all seem to recognize her name …”

Odon and Gay were equally at sea, however, and relieved that he’d asked.

“I can’t believe this—she’s only America’s greatest star!” exclaimed Georgina, clearly a fan. “And what a stunning career: she’s been reinventing herself for twenty years now, changing her look every few years and setting fashions, like the recent flurry of interest in the kabbalah, which Cheryla studies quite seriously. She’s an icon who fills the Stade de France when she gives a concert in Paris, and that’s the fifth-largest stadium in Europe! I mean, next to her, Céline Dion just fades away!”

“Céline who?” asked my father.

“Oh, don’t make it worse,” Marie said with a sigh.

After bowing practically in half when he said good night to his hostess, Béno left the room, leaving us orphaned and adrift in a space he had claimed for his own. We felt as if we had somehow been drained of all energy. Especially Marie, now apparently completely enthralled by Béno, who had singled her out for a particularly meaningful glance before vanishing like a magician.

So enthralled, in fact, that I’d given up all thought of having any private conversation with Marie and was about to go off to my room when she informed me that Béno was planning on joining her later in her bed!

“What should I do?” she asked.

“As if you were really wondering! Go on, what do you expect me to say?”

“You think it’s a dumb idea?”

“Yes, but I get the impression that you’re too far gone to listen to reason.”

“You’re right. Isn’t he sublime, though?”

“Maybe even a little too much so.”

“Perhaps, but so what? I’m going to go for it. May I remind you that all this was your idea?”

“Don’t I know it! Well, here’s your chance, take it, and have a wonderful night.”





Saturday, 9:30 a.m.



Early the next morning I phoned Félix, who’d forgotten what it was he’d wanted to tell me the day before. Relieved to find him so cheerful, I asked him to describe what he was wearing so that I could picture him, all tanned since the last time I’d seen him, and then I closed my eyes, the better to hear his voice and the bright ring of his laughter.

After I hung up, I waited impatiently for Marie to come down to breakfast, only to see Frédéric and Mathias appear and discreetly get into a new tiff while pretending to review the day’s obituaries in Le Figaro. Because there was truly no love lost between the old guard and the beau past his prime, a pair as incompatible as clashing colors. With his out-of-date vocabulary, Frédéric persisted in using words like “automobile,” “bathing costume,” “icebox,” “big bum,” and “lady.” He always referred to Juan-les-Pins as a “village,” for example, when that seaside resort no longer bore much resemblance to the shady town square, church steeple, neighborhood bakery, and café-tabac evoked by such a bucolic term.

“I’m not going into the village this morning because it’s too full of idiots on Saturdays.”

Mathias, on the other hand, who was on the wrong side of fifty but wore jeans, T-shirts, and running shoes, still clung to a more youthful way of speaking full of slang he punctuated with expressions such as “that’s cool,” “too much,” and “it’s the pits” to camouflage his lack of linguistic sophistication. Probably a good idea, insofar as he was largely unaware of his faux pas in that department.

Lou made her entrance wearing a black bustier and matching sarong, an ensemble meant to evoke an elegant evening gown. Amused, I asked Frédéric, “You think it has something to do with the arrival of Cheryla?”

“And how.”

Enough time passed for Mathias and Lou to run a mysterious errand in Juan-les-Pins—to get the papers, they explained evasively, citing their desperate need to see that day’s edition of the Corriere della Sera—and for me to watch the entire household parade by before Marie and Béno materialized as if by magic toward noon, five minutes before Cheryla arrived.

In spite of what Béno had announced the previous evening, the Fondation Maeght had clearly not been part of his morning’s activities. Marie had dark circles under her eyes and, if I was not mistaken, telltale marks on her neck. Unwilling to risk betraying her secret idyll by publicly observing her too closely, I simply watched her reaction when I asked her, “Isn’t Cheryla arriving here a little early? I thought she wasn’t expected for lunch until two.”

“True,” replied Marie without even a glance in my direction, “but she was trapped in her room at the Eden-Roc, besieged by the paparazzi who’ve set up camp among the rocks, en masse. So Béno suggested she come for a swim here at the house.”

Marie’s attention was completely fixed on her lover, at whom she gazed unabashedly, leaving me to feel terribly sad and abandoned. Carried away by her playboy, Marie had forgotten me. Well, so what? There was nothing so unusual about that. And I, like her, had outgrown the need to demand my sister’s exclusive love and devotion. So why then could I not rejoice in Marie’s happiness, when only the day before I had advised her to find someone to love? Was it jealousy? Egotism? Was it my suspicion that Béno seemed only distractedly charmed by my sister? Unless I was simply finding it hard to accept that this whole “blind date” project, which I had launched with the expectation of reinforcing our sisterly complicity, might turn sour by eliminating me from subsequent developments, like that horrible game of musical chairs from my childhood, which always terrified me with the idea that I could be left high and dry.

A sudden surge of anguish and dismay left me breathless. That’s all I need, I thought: to burst into tears in front of everyone.

I announced casually that I was going to fetch some cigarettes from my room.

Strolling around to get some air, I couldn’t help noticing that the news of Cheryla’s imminent appearance had spread through the house like wildfire. L’Agapanthe was in a real ferment, even to the point of luring out into the open its most discreet and rarely seen inhabitants: the cooks, who were having a smoke at the bottom of the service stairs, just around the corner from the front courtyard; the gardeners, suddenly intent on raking the gravel in front of the house; and the chambermaids, all gathered in the linen room overlooking the front door. Not to mention the new head butler, who was pacing up and down the salon with a preoccupied air, no doubt instructed by the rest of the personnel to bring back an exhaustive report on the star’s arrival. As for Gay and Georgina, firm believers in mornings spent lounging lazily on the beach, they just happened to be in the loggia, which had drawn us all in for the occasion, like a watering hole in the desert.

Only Lou, immune to the light euphoria permeating the house, seemed out of sorts. Was she worried about the limelight our famous guest would surely steal from her, or was she simply refusing to appear impressed?

The crunching of Cheryla’s car out on the courtyard gravel threw into stark relief such a revealing silence that my mother felt compelled to speak up.

“She must be very me, myself, and I, no?” she asked Béno.

Béno, always Béno! I groused to myself in sudden indignation. Was the entire house now in orbit exclusively around him, his guests, and his opinions?

“By that you mean …?” I interjected, just to get my oar in.

“Well, an egotist!” replied my mother.

“As a matter of fact, no, she’s a doll. She’s shy and cultured, quite unlike her public image,” observed Béno so soothingly that my mother was instantly reassured.

Judging from the clatter of her heels on the travertine floor of the vestibule, Cheryla was descending the stairs. And we all pretended not to watch her do it. She appeared at last: slim and yet incredibly muscular, she looked quite sophisticated with her red lips and platinum blond hair. There was a look of intelligence in her eyes, and her chocolate-colored linen dress of striking sobriety—clearly haute couture—corrected any first impression of vulgarity. In short, she was a bombshell. What presence! What charisma! None of which prevented us from keeping up appearances by affecting an air of placid indifference, as befitted our status, while we greeted her and suggested that she might like something to drink—an offer Cheryla unpretentiously declined, however, eager for the refreshment of her promised swim.

“She made quite a good impression on me,” announced my mother as soon as Béno and Marie had escorted Cheryla off to the changing room down by the beach.

Firmly in Béno’s corner, my mother was clearly determined not to be offended by anything his friends might do, no matter how outlandish their behavior. Not even by the fact that Cheryla had thanked her with grateful effusions way too extravagant for a simple luncheon invitation, gushing “You’ve saved my life!” as if we had just granted her political asylum. She’d overdone it. And in so doing behaved exactly like the star she was. For I’d had occasion to notice that although wannabes of all kinds display an arrogance they imagine to be indispensable to the prerogatives of a star, the real ones usually seek to be forgiven for their cumbersome notoriety by trying to behave in what they feel is the proper fashion—even though they haven’t the slightest idea of what normal propriety is anymore.

And how could they? They’re used to stepping out onstage before tens of thousands of people, some of whom go into raptures or faint dead away; they’re obliged to sneak out of their homes in the trunk of a car and leave restaurants through the kitchen, and their slightest action is dissected by the press, which often buys information from certain members of their entourage incapable of saying no to easy money. In sum, there is nothing normal about their lives, so their ability to correctly determine how to behave in the most ordinary situations is often impaired, and they may find it hard—as it was for Cheryla with us—to behave naturally in all things, even when simplicity is all that’s needed.

“I loved her orange Croc leather shoes,” I said perversely.

My mother went on the defense: “Yes, a bit gaudy, I grant you, but very cheerful.”

“Yes, very … like her yellow hair …”

Frédéric burst out laughing, followed by Gay and Laszlo, while Lou, eager to rejoin Cheryla, let us know it was time to set out for the beach by pulling Mathias along by the sleeve. My mother never went down in the morning, so none of us expected her to accompany us, but I knew she was dying to go along, even though she was too much a prisoner of her own snobbery to admit to herself that she was as curious as any ordinary mortal about the star in our midst. And I knew that she would allow herself to come only if she could follow us as if this were nothing at all unusual, without anyone drawing her attention to the fact that her presence among us was truly exceptional. What did I want to punish her for? Putting L’Agapanthe up for sale, or her flirtatious enthusiasm for Béno’s attentions? Whatever it was, I turned toward her with a smile.

“Are you coming with us? I think it would be fun to get a closer look at her, don’t you?”

My cruelty was so wrapped in solicitude that it was almost the perfect crime, but I was filled with shame when I saw that spark of childish excitement die out in my mother’s eyes as she changed her mind with regret, turning away from us now to return to her room, where nothing and no one awaited her. Not even my father, who was going with us to the beach for a scuba-diving expedition he’d been looking forward to for a long time.

I tried to minimize the importance of what I’d done: at least this way, my mother would not have to witness the grand tour performed by Charles, who set out sputtering around the bay on the brand-new Jet Ski as soon as we reached the beach, thus driving into hiding all the fish my father was longing to see. Nor would she have to endure the fresh blunders of Mathias as he kept tripping up over his own native tongue.

“Everyone talks about mankind’s role in global warming, totally forgetting the role of the sun, which they completely denigrate—”

“I think you mean ‘deny,’ ” observed Frédéric, who positively enjoyed correcting him.

But humor and lightheartedness could not dispel the bitter taste of my unkind action, and I could not manage to take pleasure in anything. Not the foaming edge of the waves embracing the rocks of the bay. Not the sight of Cheryla, whose ravishing body strapped into a suit made entirely of laces had utterly dismayed Lou, who hadn’t anticipated having to go up against a woman twenty years older than she was. Not the conversation, which, hampered at first by the silent presence of the singer, grew more fluid once Charles rejoined us. He was so cheery and naturally at ease that he immediately enlivened the atmosphere by talking about London, where he lived, as did Cheryla, Béno, and Georgina.

While I pretended to take part in the conversation, I was looking at the sea, hypnotized by the mosaic of its shifting shapes and nuances. I felt down at heart. With good reason: watching Béno coddle Cheryla instead of my sister wasn’t going to buck up my morale. Especially since I had only to look away from that distressing spectacle for my mother to emerge from the dark corner of my thoughts, where she’d been biding her time, and reclaim the spotlight in wrenching scenes of her wandering the house like a soul in torment.

It was Lou who dispelled my morose mood. Passably entertaining when she was trying to vamp Frédéric and perhaps further her career, or when she tried to attract Cheryla’s attention by joining Mathias in a show of indifference, or when she boldly moved in to pepper the singer with questions, she now grabbed my attention for real when she kicked up a serious fuss by claiming to have lost a golden comb from her hair. She managed to mobilize the guests—one after another and including Cheryla—to help her search for it over by the diving board, where she’d supposedly lost it.

That’s when I spoke up, somewhat bemused. “Really, I know Lou is upset, but no matter how valuable this comb is, perhaps we needn’t all be busily …”

It was too late, as I soon saw. Because Cheryla was standing right next to Lou at the foot of the diving board when a yellow boat hiding behind some rocks on the Saudi property next door suddenly shot out to the bottom of our ladder. It was loaded with apparently well-informed paparazzi, who snapped a barrage of photos from all angles, shouting “Cheryla, how ’bout a little smile!” and “Lou, get closer to Cheryla!”

The attack—because that’s what it was—came so abruptly that I needed a moment to gather my wits, and even then, I really understood what had happened only when the boat scooted off toward the Russians’ place, which it skirted respectfully. Béno was the only one with the presence of mind to shield Cheryla from the photo lenses still keeping up a steady fire, and he was the first as well to suspect Lou of having set up this ambush. The rest of us, inexperienced in the pitfalls of celebrity, began to catch on only when we noticed how furiously he glared at Lou while apologizing awkwardly to Cheryla, to whom he’d promised privacy in a house well known for its discretion.

That’s when I remembered the errand Lou and Mathias had run earlier that morning in Juan-les-Pins, and their embarrassment about it. Silly me, I’d wondered if they were trying to score some drugs, but although I was bold enough to imagine that, I was too naïve to believe it, and finally concluded that having arrived empty-handed, like so many guests before them, they were now trying to find a nice little inexpensive gift for my mother, who clearly didn’t want anything. I would never have imagined, however, that our two guests might be negotiating a deal with paparazzi to sell stolen faked pictures for cold cash—and the promise that Lou would be photographed next to the star, to give a boost to her sagging career.

Horribly embarrassed, Marie and I apologized as well to Cheryla, who was obviously used to this kind of misadventure and who could not have been more courteous as she kindly assured us that she knew we’d had nothing to do with the affair. Turning my back on the other guests gathered, still a little stunned, around the singer, I spoke to Lou and Mathias.

“I’m going back up to the house. Are you coming with me?”

Was it something in my voice, or their certainty that they would have to pay the price of their treachery? They followed me in silence to the top of the lawn and said not a word in protest when I ordered them to pack their bags and leave the premises before lunchtime.

I was proud of my reaction. Because in kicking out those two boors I now deeply regretted inviting, I felt as if I’d avenged all those who, like me, had been afflicted with an old-fashioned upbringing and were thus condemned to be preyed on by shameless spongers and other obnoxious leeches, who take cruel advantage of our innate inability to fight dirty the way they do, forcing us to put up with all sorts of aggravation.

I still remember a story my father told me once to prove it.

A man approaches a Rothschild sitting at a table in the restaurant L’Ami Louis.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Monsieur le Baron, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Yes?”

“Here’s the thing: I’m dining with a man to whom I owe a considerable sum, of which I possess not one penny. Once he realizes this, he’ll seek to get rid of me, but I’m sure that if he thought that we knew one another, I would rise in his esteem and he would treat me gently instead of skinning me alive. So I would like to ask you to pretend to know me when I wave to you.”

Too polite to send the importunate man packing, Rothschild agrees. And so, after finishing his meal without having seen the other man wave to him, he feels duty bound to speak to him while leaving the restaurant.

“How’ve you been since I last saw you?” he says affably.

“Listen, my fine fellow, just because you’re a Rothschild doesn’t mean you can take liberties. And this is not the first time I’ve had to ask you to stop bothering me!”





Saturday, 1:30 p.m.



So, having dealt with the problem of Lou and Mathias, I realized that I should inform my mother of the incident, for she certainly had a right to know the details of the adventure I’d robbed her of through sheer meanness. After taking a deep breath, I headed for the bathroom where she was doubtless getting ready for our usual luncheon party. I knocked on the door. No answer. Except for a kind of muffled, indeterminate noise I found rather scary, so I entered the bathroom, where I was stunned to find my mother crouching in a corner with her head down and blood on her fingers, trying to stop up her nose.

“Mummy!” I cried. “What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”

I grasped her chin firmly, as if to remonstrate with a child, and raised her head, which she had kept stubbornly down until that moment. It’s only a nosebleed, I thought with relief, until I saw the lost look in her eyes brimming with tears.

“Mummy, please, get up, these things happen, we’ll take care of this,” I told her, in the midst of a silence that felt even more alarming than weeping would have been.

I put cotton compresses in her nostrils and ordered her to stretch out on the daybed that sat in the middle of the room.

“Lie down. I have news that will perk you right up.”

To settle her nerves and make sure she remained calm, I told her all about the episode of the paparazzi but made no attempt to find out why she’d been crying and what had brought on the nosebleed. I kept her company like that until lunchtime when, after redoing her chignon, she returned to her role as mistress of the house as if nothing had happened, welcoming Diane von Furstenberg and Barry Diller, Christian Louboutin, the landscape architect Louis Benech, Larry Gagosian, Ty Warner, the contemporary art collector Patrizia Sandretto Re Rebaudengo, and other members of the “cafeteria club.”





Luncheon, Saturday, July 22





MENU



Salade Niçoise

Deviled Eggs

Chicken Croquettes

Tomato Rice

Skate Salad with Lemon and Capers

Endive Salad with Roquefort

Poached Peaches with a Coulis of Crushed

Raspberries

Salted Caramel Macarons





The events on the beach and the news of Lou and Mathias being sent packing made a great impression on our luncheon guests, who pressed us with questions, thoroughly regretting having just missed out on an adventure right up their alley. My mother gathered Barry Diller, Rebaudengo, and Ty Warner at her table, while Marie and I had Béno, Frédéric, Charles, Gagosian, Louboutin, and Cheryla at ours. Cheryla’s embarrassment at having been the cause of the morning’s disturbances seemed to have broken through her reserve, because she began to tell us about her brother’s role as her stage manager and how her sister was in charge of her dressing room.

“How many pairs of shoes do you have, for example?” I asked her.

“Seventeen hundred.”

“Oh, my goodness, I see! And how many are Christian’s?” I continued, gesturing toward Louboutin, who was just tackling a deviled egg.

“Come on, enough!” said Béno with theatrical impatience. “Leave Cheryla alone!”

“And what happens when you buy clothes, how does that work?” inquired Marie, but Béno cut right in.

“She only shops at boutiques after hours, of course, or there’d be a mob scene!”

Why was Béno intervening between us and Cheryla? Did he find our questions out of order, indiscreet? Or was he trying to remain her exclusive spokesman? Given the number of rich and famous people in his circle, she was really only one celebrity among others, but then I realized that perhaps wealth does not prevent stinginess, so it was entirely possible that Béno wanted to keep his glittering friends for himself.

“… Do you know that her career sales over twenty-eight years add up to more than two hundred million albums? That she’s just begun a tour that will take her to 85 countries for 101 concerts? Which means that if she catches a cold, eighty people in her management team hold their breath, because if she cancels a tour date, millions of euros go up in smoke.”

And there we were, exclaiming in the usual astonishment expressed at such revelations. I still found it strange, though, that Béno kept insisting on talking up Cheryla instead of letting her chat with her table companions the way she seemed to want to do. Was I the only one who thought so? There was no point in turning to Marie, who was gazing at Béno like a moonstruck calf.

“… Her jet, the equivalent of a Gulfstream V, is a Global Express, made by Bombadier. Jay, her pilot, is a Vietnam veteran, a brilliant guy and supernice.… You know, she’s just back from South Africa where—she’s too modest to say so—she donated the profits from her first concert to Nelson Mandela for his foundation. And she visited two orphanages for children with AIDS and distributed food to the needy in Soweto.…”

But Frédéric had had enough and pleaded, “Cheryla, have pity—hire him as your press agent, enough already! Or we’re going to feel obliged to kiss your feet and won’t dare speak a single word to you anymore.”

And thank goodness for Frédéric’s outburst, because it shut Béno up and allowed Cheryla to get Charles talking about his gorillas.

“He’s racking up points, ol’ Goat’s Butt,” murmured Frédéric to me.

“ ‘Goat’s Butt’? Oh, yes, Ramsbotham, silly me!”

Our respite didn’t last long, however, because my sister’s lover suddenly asked Larry Gagosian, “Do you BI?”

“BI?” I repeated, utterly at sea.

“Sure! Better invitation, you’ve never heard that? It’s when you accept an invitation but intend to beg off if something more glamorous or fun comes up.”

Seeing that Gagosian hadn’t taken his bait, Béno smoothly went on, “When you think about it, actually, there are only two expensive tastes: philanthropy and modern art …”

Like many eminent specialists who’d rather avoid talking about what they know best once they feel relaxed, Gagosian didn’t pick up the allusion about contemporary art. Therefore, Béno had no other choice than to come up with something else.

“You know what folks say about people like your next-door neighbors? That they know so little about how to live that they’re not rich, just poor people with a lot of money. And that’s exactly my point!”

The laughter that greeted this last sally must have persuaded Béno that he had us in the palm of his hand. I saw him finally relax, like a migraine sufferer calmed by an analgesic. And I felt relieved as well, so oppressive was the tension I sensed behind his need to seduce every audience. And I must not have been the only one to feel that way, because taking advantage of this respite, we had a lively discussion right through to the coffee about satellite phones, a subject on which Charles was in his element. His comparative study of the different models currently on the market allowed Cheryla to measure the failings of her own phone, which presented the inconvenience of functioning only outdoors and unsheltered, meaning in full sunlight. In short, lunch was winding down. I slipped away just as Marie was assuring Cheryla that she would always be welcome at our house (including that very evening for dinner, if she would like to come) while at the same time casting a glance at Béno that left no doubt about the kind of nap she intended to take with him.

I thought about Béno while resting in my room. Why did I have such a feeling of having lost my sister forever? This certainly wasn’t the first time that I’d been witness to one of her affairs. And far from languishing, our sisterly bond had always formed my only real family, a family my son had joined, unlike my husband and the lovers Marie and I had had, who’d never really belonged. I had to admit that until then, men could count themselves lucky if they landed a small speaking role instead of simply a walk-on part. Béno, however, had grabbed himself a starring role from the first moment, throwing me off balance. Was this a sign that Marie and I had outgrown the age when we could settle for the family founded by our parents?

Yet the idea of loosening my bond with Marie made me feel ill. What if this affair were to last? I tried to peer into the uncertain future that seemed to lie ahead. What would the house be like under their care? Béno was a successful and ambitious man; he would doubtless modernize the place and give it a tastefully fashionable veneer. I had the feeling the beach, like an open-air nightclub, would acquire sleek furniture, canopied beds, and fresh style remixes of old standards selected by a sound designer for a lounge ambience. How awful! I thought, solely for the pleasure of falling back on a snobbism as comforting as a lighthouse in the fog. Crisscrossed by golf carts, as in the TV series The Prisoner, the property would also have its heliport, its home movie theater, and a workout center with a treadmill, a Power Plate, gleaming dumbbells, and mirrors everywhere. Oof, we’d be a long way from my grandparents’ gymnastics room with its abandoned trapeze, rings, vaulting horse, and grand piano.

This detour through our childhood brought me back to Marie. I imagined her, with Béno, as the proprietors of L’Agapanthe, where they would receive their friends, a crowd of handsome, rich, and famous stuffed shirts, whereas I would be only … their guest. An idea that would have made me shudder—if I hadn’t pulled myself up short. Really, I just didn’t know what I wanted! Béno was an ideal suitor, if we meant to keep the house. Thanks to him, L’Agapanthe would retain all its luster. In which case, he might well transform it into a show-business showcase, if he felt like it. Especially since, if I’d read him correctly, he would make it over into a highlight of the Cannes Film Festival, a venue touted on the Promenade de la Croisette like a password among the happy few invited to parties worthy of Fitzgerald’s Gatsby. What more could I ask?