The Last Resort (10 page)

“Viens ici, chou chou,”
I immediately called out to him. This did not seem an appropriate moment for introductions. I wanted to wait, so that I could speak with Fernanda first.

It was in this tone, with a sophisticated sort of detachment that seemed quite appropriate to the situation, that Rafael Molinet Rojas began to tell the story of all that happened during his stay at L’Hirondelle d’Or. And it went more or less as follows . . .

The Dinner

The primary circumstances under which a woman mayappear in public are the following: city errands (shopping, attending mass, etc.), strolls, social visits, dinners, receptions, and entertainment events. Unless she is absolutely alone (in other words, only when she is in her own home), the elegant woman must always take special care with regard to her appearance, so as not to suffer the indignity of being caught by surprise in a situation of extreme
déshabillé.

—Countess Drillard,
On Being Elegant, On Being Lovely
(from the nineteenth-century French edition)

October 14: The First Dinner

She had decided to dress for the occasion: black pants, white silk shirt with three pleats in the middle, very little jewelry aside from two small pearl bobby pins that were far more valuable than they appeared, and a gold bracelet. Tucked under her arm was a book,
Les malheurs de Sophie
—not because she was especially interested in the childhood misfortunes of the Countess of Ségur but because the hotel library, to which she had repaired in the hopes of finding a book-shield to bring with her to the table, had a rather meager selection. In any case, if dressing for dinner alone in a restaurant could be considered an art, it was one that Mercedes Algorta had mastered in very little time. There was nothing about her appearance that seemed to say “I’m bored,” much less “I’m available,” even if it was true.

Be that as it may, nobody in the dining room of L’Hirondelle d’Or that evening seemed even remotely capable of jeopardizing the lady’s virtue, and Mercedes was almost relieved when she noted this. The dining room decor could only be described as faux-country: The floors were laid with baked-clay tiles, and the walls were painted in a lavender hue that, depending on the intensity of the flickering candlelight, seemed almost indigo in the darkest corners of the room. The tablecloths and the glassware did their best to add to the country-rustic ambience, but the overall design scheme came together in that special way that seems like casual, serendipitous harmony on the surface but in reality is a highly painstaking, meticulous, and expensive decorating feat. Mercedes had arrived early, and she picked out a table next to the window. After studying the menu, in that conscientious if slightly forsaken manner of someone steeling herself to eat her entire dinner alone, she decided to go for the prix-fixe dinner option, a total of 803 wisely distributed calories that consisted of two endives, a grilled turkey breast, and a frozen-yogurt confection—all of this, of course, presented in a very haute cuisine manner. She felt a sudden urge to open the book she had brought with her so that she wouldn’t have to bother focusing her eyes on some faraway point on the horizon, but she wasn’t certain that it would really be the proper thing to do, especially at dinnertime. At all costs she wanted to avoid falling prey to the kind of behavior so often exhibited by people who dine alone. She had observed them before, on various occasions, and she invariably found them pathetic. Either they were too conscious of their status as loners, and made a very concerted effort to look neither left nor right nor anywhere around them, or else (and perhaps these were the more veteran solo diners) they would promptly forget that they were alone at all and looks up as their thoughts wandered. And while the former group seemed uncomfortable, the latter was even more conspicuous. After another moment, Mercedes decided to open
Les malheurs de Sophie
and read a line or at least scan the page, even if she didn’t manage to retain a single word.

The room was scarcely lit but for a series of short, stout candles that seemed to pop out of the most unexpected nooks and crannies, and their light cast a ripple throughout the room: red on the upholstery, yellow on the tablecloths. Everything was blurry and silent, including the waiters who came and went, serving the three tables that were occupied by patrons. Mercedes did spot, sitting at the table farthest from her, the Belgian couple with whom she regularly exchanged a slight nod of the head in the massage room or by the pool. A bit further down, however, she was amused to observe the entrance of some newcomers, a group of Germans. But they seemed too young to interest her for more than a few moments at the most. She had met so many like them at other times in her life, on fox hunts with her husband. They had the inimitable air of those people born with a “von” between their first and last names, as if that little three-letter word were as obvious an attribute as their manner of speaking in such obviously loud voices or their uninhibited, extremely healthy appearances.

For that reason, she did not stop to observe the fact that the men wore very informal attire whereas the women had dressed up in evening gowns that were far too sophisticated for a rustic country retreat like L’Hirondelle. The only person missing was the individual she had seen down by the pool, the one who reminded her of the Marquis de Cuevas. It wouldn’t be long before he came down to the dining room, though; this was made clear by the half-filled bottle of red wine sitting on a table close by. Perhaps when he entered they would exchange the same greeting that she had already exchanged with the Belgian couple: a slight inclination of the head, a smile, and nothing more. Mercedes leaned back in her chair, allowing her shoulders, which until that point had remained erect and alert, to rest in a more comfortable position.
What luck,
she said to herself.
What luck that everyone present is so very innocuous.
There was nobody in the dining room who interested her in the least, nor was there anyone who could possibly be capable of altering that tranquil atmosphere that others might mistake for tedium and which she suddenly found utterly and deliciously indulgent. Smiling, she pushed the book away. She would not need to use it as a shield—not tonight, and not on any other day or night for the rest of her vacation, all alone at L’Hirondelle, far, far away from Madrid and everyone there.
Bless you, October,
she thought to herself,
for being such a dreadfully boring month of the year.

Two very similar interruptions suddenly broke the reverie at either end of the restaurant. Both doors to the dining room opened at the very same time, invasions that prompted Mercedes to turn, ever so slightly, to see the man she thought of as the Marquis de Cuevas enter through the door to the garden.
He’s like a man from another time,
she thought. You didn’t see people like him very much. His figure was entirely amusing and utterly appropriate for a night just to the south of Fez, Morocco. She entertained herself by studying him, not bothering to look at the other door to the dining room and certainly not noticing the four people who walked through it at that particular moment. This was because she was far too busy wondering where this man was from (
Spain? No, definitely not, even if he does have a dog with an eminently Castilian name,
she thought) and where he had dug up the tailor who had created that gray suit with such incredibly wide lapels. It was made of a fabric that looked remarkably like—whale skin, yes, that was it. A flat gray color just like the skin of a whale, with a few bright white specks of dust that revealed the penumbra of the dining room to be every bit as fake as that rustic ambience someone had tried so hard to achieve. Someone had hidden a series of ultraviolet lights in various spots around the dining room, the kind of lights that bring everything white into bold, glowing relief, especially those things that are not supposed to be seen, like faces. And teeth. And the whites of certain people’s eyes, so very translucent that they suddenly resemble the eyes of a monster that has suddenly emerged from a very dark and sinister corner.

The Art of Correspondence

With respect to friends, acquaintances, or habitual purveyors, one need not possess the talent of Fenelon or the Marchioness of Sévigné to write a proper letter. All that is required is a command of one’s language and impeccable spelling. . . .

Recently, however, it has become quite chic to slip in one or two words in English, or some other language, when writing to friends. Preceding the signature, for example, many people include something such as “yours,” but such a practice is only recommended when writing to one’s very closest confidantes.

—Baroness Staffe,
Ladies and Their
Correspondence
(Paris, 1890)

The Arrival of a Fax from Fernanda

The following fax was delivered to the room of Rafael Molinet just as he was getting ready to go to dinner. At first, he thought of bringing it with him to read as he ate, but then he decided it would be much wiser to give it a quick once-over on his way down to the dining room. There would be plenty of time later on to study it calmly and in greater detail.

PAPRIKA AND DILL
Cocktail parties, dinners, and other social occasions
(Excellence Need Not Be Expensive)

October 14

Dearest Uncle Rafael,

I have come down to the office to send you this fax (speaking of which, you might want to consider modernizing your lifestyle and embracing new technologies—faxes are so passé!) because Alvaro-husband is so maniacal about the telephone. My God, if I were to call Morocco from home, he would simply throw a fit. You can’t imagine how he gets with these things.

Well, my dear, I see that you and I are two peas in a pod after all: a couple of scullery maids! So you want me to tell you all about Mercedes Algorta, do you?

Fasten your seat belt, darling, because the world is nothing but a fishbowl, everybody knows everybody it seems. Now, do you remember that very intriguing story I told you about in London? The story about Isabella and Jaime Valdés, her little friend who choked to death in the most ridiculous way? Well, if you had been paying a bit more attention, you would remember that Valdés’s wife’s name was none other than Mercedes Algorta. I know that you get all the Spanish last names mixed up, but I told you—in Spain people pick them à la carte and Mercedes has always been Algorta, not Valdés. How hilarious that you have run into her in the middle of nowhere! It isn’t really like Mercedes to go off on her own to a hotel. I suppose she wanted to get away from everything for a little while. Madrid is a pit of vipers and everyone will keep gossiping about her and Isabella until some other, more interesting scandal rolls around, so she was very smart to disappear like that. And since she’s loaded, she can indulge herself if she wants—Valdés, when he was alive, cheated on her night and day and made her life a living hell, but he left her a fortune. Your poor niece, on the other hand, is back at home, disgusted with life, and chained to a kitchen.

But that is the way things go, and anyway, I can’t get carried away. I’ve got way too much work to do. If you want more information, call me at home—try me in the morning; that’s when Alvaro is out. He would never believe me if I told him that I spent all day talking to my long-lost uncle, and knowing him, he’ll think you’re some little boyfriend I’ve started seeing on the sly . . . although now that I think about it—let him think I’ve got a boyfriend! A woman should always keep her husband on his toes, don’t you think?

All right, Uncle Rafael, have a grand time, and if you see Mercedes send her my regards.

Hugs and kisses,
Fernanda

P.S. I enclose herewith a little article from one of the gossip magazines featuring your friend Mercedes with Valdés and Isabella, the three little lambs all together. I don’t know if it will come out in the fax, but at least it will give you an idea about what the dear departed Jaime Valdés (may he rest in peace) was like. The photo was taken at a party just a few months before he died. And by the way, can you make out the bracelet on Isabella’s right wrist? There’s a story behind it: solid gold, from Cartier. Mercedes had spotted it at a Christie’s auction, but Isabella beat her to the punch and got old Papa Steine to give it to her as a Christmas present. Looking at it just now I remembered the story right away. Mercedes told me all about it when it happened; she was absolutely furious at Isabella—I mean, Isabella was supposedly her friend, and look what she went and did. Don’t you see? It was like an omen of sorts: The Isabellas of this world, they start off stealing your bracelets and end up stealing your husband.

More kisses, F.

This was the fax, as jumbled as I expected, but it was enough to give me an initial idea of who my characters were. It really is fascinating when the pieces of a puzzle begin to fit, one by one, and with this bit of additional information I was able to get a basic idea of what type of person the girl’s husband was, for example. Nevertheless, I didn’t focus on him first. I am very methodical about certain things, and I wanted to concentrate my attention on the bracelet that Fernanda had mentioned. Unfortunately, that part of the postscript came out a bit blurry in the fax. You couldn’t see much of anything at all. So I then turned to study the figure of Valdés, which had come out much clearer. Of course, I was thrilled to discover that he was very much as I had imagined him. One of those suave, attractive types who look the other way when they know they’re being photographed. Tall, big-boned, holding in his stomach in an attempt to hide an incipient curve that,
malheureusement,
would never be allowed to degenerate into a series of fatty folds. Photographs of dead people, even blurry ones like this, always have something of the cruel antithesis to them, I think. There he was, the poor guy, two or three months away from death, worried about the spare tire around his waist. And he could have saved himself all that trouble, all those pains he must have taken to look younger than he was: the vegetables without salt to control his cholesterol, the hair tonic for premature balding, the gym—deadly boring, if you ask me. And then all sorts of pills and vitamins . . . and look where Jaime Valdés ended up. He would never have the chance to become a handsome fifty-year-old or a sixty-year-old fretting over his prostate, and yet there he is sucking in his gut in a blurry photo, his arm around the waist of his wife, with Isabella apparently smiling at him over her shoulder. All of it so pointless, so stupid.