She shakes her head like she knows. “Lacrimosa” from Mozart’s Requiem plays softly in the background. I hear the applause of an invisible audience. The word LIVE is flashing in the corner of my screen in red. “Of course you are. We all are, aren’t we? And it shows up, doesn’t it? Even when we don’t want it to. It shows up in the mirror.”
Now the camera switches to another woman, this one in a bleak-looking bathroom. This woman looks ravaged, sick, around my age. She’s also staring directly into the camera, at me, like I’m a mirror reflecting back her misery. Frowning at herself. Shaking her head slowly in time with the Mozart swells, as if she can’t believe her own face. I hear the woman in red, in voice-over: “Here at Rouge, we believe the secret goes far beyond exfoliation. The true secret? That lies somewhere else.”
Here at Rouge? The true secret? What is this, a fucking ad? Turn it off, I tell myself. But I’m still staring at my screen. The scene has shifted. Now there’s a red jellyfish undulating in a pool of dark water. I watch it pulse redly in a sea of black. My heart quickens. What the fuck? And then it’s gone. There’s the woman in the bathroom again, except now the room is bright white and she herself is glowing. Bouquets of red roses bloom beautifully on either side of her in tall black vases. She’s still staring at me like I’m a mirror, her reflection. But now she’s smiling at what she sees. Her skin is like glass, shining with a light all its own.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.
And her lips curl up on one side like she heard me. She holds up a red jar of cream. Right beside her glowing face, like it’s an apple. Didn’t I see jars just like that in Mother’s bathroom this afternoon?
“Where does the secret lie?” It’s the woman in red talking again. A voice-over that sounds not like it’s coming from my phone’s speaker, but whispering right in my ear. “Do you want to know?”
Yes.
“The inside,” whispers this voice. The red jellyfish in black water fills my screen again. And then like a flash, it’s gone. The glowing woman in the video smiles wide. She brings the red jar closer to her lips like she’s about to take a bite. Something about the look in her shining eyes. As if she, too, can actually see me sitting here with my back to the water. The future a void and I’m standing at the black mouth looking down. She sees all that. Sees and knows. Not just the truth of my face, but what lies beneath. “The human soul, of course,” says the voice.
I turn off the video, put my phone down. But it continues to play, because I hear: “And if you choose the way of roses, you’ll see for yourself.”
What? Where’s the sound still coming from? My eyes rest on that man with the laptop sitting a few tables away. Dark blue suit. Red handkerchief blooming from his pocket. He’s staring at his screen like I was just a moment ago, transfixed. This man? Watching the same skin video? He must be, I still hear the Mozart. He looks up now. The sound changed for him, too, of course, when I turned my video off. Why did it change? is a question all over his face. A handsome face, I can’t help but notice. Tan, angular, sharp. Very well hydrated. His brimmed hat and his suit remind me of old movies. The sort Mother liked us to watch together, mostly French New Wave and Hollywood noirs. A certain kind of man in those movies she loved. Mysteriously broken. Beautiful, but something off. Forever moving to a minor key. Always in the process of lighting a cigarette. Always half smiling through the smoke, sort of like this man is now. That’s Monty Clift, Mother might sigh, pointing at the screen. That’s Alain, she’d whisper reverently, meaning Alain Delon. Ooh, Paul Newman. Love Paul, she murmured. So much. She talked about these men like they were her personal friends. Now this man suddenly locks eyes with me, my phone hot in my hand. I feel myself instantly redden, blotches blooming hideously all over my face. Look away, I tell myself, but I can’t look away. My eyes are locked with his, cold and pale against his olive skin. He looks angry, maybe. Like he’s been caught at something or like he caught me at something. Something shameful. But then he sort of softens. Smiles, almost. Snaps his laptop shut. Raises his champagne glass to me, then drains it in one gulp, eyes on me the whole time. That’s Monty, Mother might say. That’s Alain. That’s Paul. He drops some money on the table and gets up, tipping his hat to me. Whether he’s greeting me or simply adjusting the brim is hard to say. He saunters away whistling Mozart, and I sit there watching him go, my skin prickling at the sound, my phone still hot in my hand.
3
Dreaded breakfast with Mother’s lawyer. When I get to the hotel dining room the next morning, Chaz is waving at me from a table by the window.
“Mirabelle,” Chaz says. “Been a long time.”
“It has,” I agree. Yet Chaz hasn’t changed. Pale violet suit of wrinkled linen. Tanned and emanating a musky cologne. Still standing on ceremony like someone in a French court, which I suppose he sort of is, being Mother’s lawyer. When I was younger, he reminded me a little of a perverted Rumpelstiltskin. I’d watch him ogle Mother. Take her in with a twinkly-eyed delight I found obscene, like she was a bowl of bright, erotic candy. Hi, Chaz would say to me. And I’d grip her hand tighter. Shy, Mother would say. And he’d nod sympathetically, though he was obviously annoyed. What did Chaz always say?
I’m your mother’s gentleman friend.
Now he looks me up and down as he used to when I was a teenager. Takes me in, so to speak. His face says I’ve made an impression on him. On his dick. Good for you. He nods a little. Good work. Impressive. Though of course I’m not Mother.
“So good to see you again,” he says, giving me what he believes to be the gift of his grin. “Got us a table by the water.” He gestures graciously to the seat facing the waves. I take the seat with my back to the ocean and stare at Chaz. I don’t say it’s good to see him. Mother would have smacked me for this. Manners! she would have snapped, probably even now. But it isn’t good to see Chaz. At all. If he looked troll-like to my young eyes, he looks more so now. A hobgoblin with a fake tan, conspicuously brown glossy hair. Though he does seem to be exfoliating.
“I ordered coffee,” Chaz says, as if offering condolences. “There’s a basket of pastries coming too. Croissants.” He tries for a wink. Because I’m from Montreal. And being from Montreal, I love croissants, don’t I?
Most mornings, I have what Mother called my skin sludge. A blueberry and spirulina smoothie into which I pour a copious amount of collagen. The smoothie is really just a vessel for the collagen, but I enjoy the ritual, watching the powder dissolve into the blue-green mulch. You drink that? Mother said the last time I visited. I was making one in her kitchen. She watched, looking disgusted but also curious. What’s all that white powder you’re putting into it there?
Just a little cocaine.
Well, now I’m interested.
“I’m not hungry, thanks,” I tell Chaz.