The Most Beautiful Book in the World (9 page)

“No, I don't want.”

“Yes, I am going to leave to you the only thing of value that I possess.”

“No, Madame Favart, no.”

“Yes, I am leaving you my Picasso.”

The young girl stood with her mouth gaping.

“You have noticed the painting above the parakeet cage—well, it's a Picasso. A real Picasso. I tell everyone it's a copy so that I won't have problems with envy or burglars; but you can believe me, Kumiko, it's a real Picasso.”

Petrified, the young girl went pale.

Aimée shivered for a second. Does she believe me? Might she suspect it's a simulacrum? Does she know anything about art?

Tears gushed from the girl's slanting eyes, and she began to whimper, desperate, “No, Madame Favart, you must keep Picasso, you get better. If you sell Picasso, I take you to Japan, new treatment.”

Phew, she believes me, thought Aimée, and she immediately cried out, “It's for you, Kumiko, for you, I insist. Come on, let's not waste time, I've only got a few days left. Here, I've prepared the documents. Go quick and get some witnesses out in the corridor, that way I can leave with an easy conscience.”

Aimée signed the necessary documents in the presence of the doctor and the nurse; they added their initials. Shaking with tears, Kumiko gathered up the papers and promised to come back the next day as early as possible. She took an unbearably long time to leave, and kept blowing kisses to Aimée until she had disappeared at the end of the corridor.

Relieved, alone at last, Aimée smiled to the ceiling.

Poor goose, she thought, go on and dream about your wealth: you will be even more disappointed once I'm dead. And then you'll really have a good reason to cry. Between now and then I hope I never see you again.

No doubt that God in whom Aimée did not believe actually heard her, because at dawn she fell into a coma and, a few days later, although she never realized it, a dose of morphine ended her life.

 

Forty years later, Kumiko Kruk, the wealthiest person in Japan, global queen of the cosmetics industry, now an ambassador for Unicef, an old woman adored by the media for her success, her charisma, and her generosity, stood before the press and justified her humanitarian actions:

“If I invest part of my profit in the fight against hunger, and to make medical care available to the poorest populations, it is in memory of a dear French friend from my youth, Aimée Favart, who on her deathbed offered me a painting by Picasso that enabled me, when I sold it, to found my company. Although I was practically a stranger to her, she insisted on giving me this priceless gift. Ever since that time, it has seemed logical to me that my profits should, in turn, go to help other strangers. That woman, Aimée Favart, was all love. She believed in humanity like no one else. She passed her values on to me, and that, more than any precious Picasso, is without a doubt her greatest gift.”

 

 

 

 

 

T
o be honest, nothing would have happened if I hadn't changed my hairdresser.My life would have gone on as peacefully as before, with every outward sign of happiness, had I not been so impressed by Stacy's extraordinary look when she got back from vacation. Completely renewed! She'd been a middle-aged middle-class frump, worn down by four kids, and now her short cut had transformed her into a pretty, sporty, go-get-'em blonde. At the time I suspected her of having cut her hair in order to distract attention from some successful cosmetic surgery—that's what all my friends do when they've had a facelift—but, once I'd satisfied myself that her face had not undergone any sort of surgical act, I acknowledged that she had found the ideal hairstylist.

“Ideal, darling, absolutely ideal. The Atelier Capillaire on the rue Victor Hugo. I'd already heard about it a while ago but you know how it is, same thing with our hairdressers as with our husbands: we can go for years thinking we've got the best one around!”

I refrained from making any sarcastic remarks about the vanity of the name of the place—“Capillary Studio,” indeed—but just wrote down that I had to ask for David and tell him Stacy sent me—“He's a genius, darling, an absolute genius.”

That very evening, I warned Samuel about my upcoming metamorphosis.

“I think I'm going to change my hairstylist.”

He looked at me with surprise for a few seconds.

“What for? You're fine as you are.”

“Oh, yes, I know you're always pleased with me like this, you never criticize me.”

“You can fault me with being an unquestioning admirer . . . But what is it you don't like about your look?”

“Nothing in particular. I just need a change.”

He took careful note of my declaration as if beyond its frivolity lay some deeper consideration; and his watchful stare drove me to change the topic of conversation and then to leave the room, because I had no desire to offer myself up as subject matter for his perspicacity. While my husband's redeeming feature may be his extreme attentiveness toward my person, at times this weighs upon me: my most insignificant words are parsed, analyzed, decrypted to such a degree that to make light of it I often tell my girlfriends that I feel like I've married my psychoanalyst.

“Don't complain!” they all say. “You've got money, he's good-looking, he's intelligent, he loves you, and he listens to everything you say! What more do you want? Children?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then you've got every reason to be happy.”

Every reason to be happy. Are there any other platitudes I hear more often than this one? Do people say this just as often when referring to others, or do they just use it for my sake? The moment I start expressing myself with even a hint of freedom, I get the phrase tossed into my face: “You have every reason to be happy.” It's as if people were shouting at me—“Shut up, you have no right to complain”—then slamming the door in my face. And yet I have no intention of complaining, I'm just trying to give accurate—and humorous—expression to slight feelings of discomfort. Maybe it's something to do with the tone of my voice, similar to my mother's, a little damp and whiny, that gives people the impression I'm complaining? Or could it be that my status as a rich well-married heiress precludes me from sharing any sort of complex thoughts in public? Once or twice I was afraid that in spite of myself I might let my secret transpire through my words. But this fear hardly lasted longer than a shiver, for I am sure that I can control myself to perfection. With the exception of Samuel and myself—and a few specialists, silenced by professional discretion—not a soul knows of my secret.

Thus, I went to the Atelier Capillaire on the rue Victor Hugo and, honestly, I had to keep focused on the miracle they'd performed on Stacy in order to put up with the reception they inflicted upon me. Priestesses draped in white robes bombarded me with questions about my health, my eating habits, the sports I practiced, and the history of my hair, in order to establish my “capillary appraisal.” After that, they left me for ten minutes on some Indian cushions with an herbal tea that smelled of cow manure, then finally they introduced me to David, who announced triumphantly that he would be taking care of me, as if he were inducting me into a sect now that I'd successfully passed some exam. The worst of it was that I felt obliged to thank him.

We went upstairs, where a superb salon with pure, simple lines had been arranged in a style that said, “Watch out, I've been inspired by the millennial wisdom of India.” At that point an army of barefooted vestal virgins offered to take care of me: manicure, pedicure, massage.

David studied me carefully, while I observed the way his shirt opened onto his hairy chest, and I wondered if this were a requirement in order to become a hairdresser. Then he declared: “I'm going to shorten your hair, make the color slightly darker at the roots, then flatten it against your scalp on the right hand side and enhance the volume on the left. Totally asymmetrical. You need something like this. Otherwise your face, which is very regular, will end up in prison. We need to liberate your fantasy. We need air, quickly, air! Something unexpected.”

I smiled in response, but if I'd had the courage to be honest, I'd have got up and left right then and there. I hate people who have perfect aim, anyone who gets anywhere near my secret, to the point where they might come close to detecting it. But this time I reasoned that it would be better to overlook such comments, and make the most of this Figaro so that he'd give me the sort of look that would help me conceal my secret all the better.

“What an adventure,” I exclaimed, to encourage him.

“Would you like us to do your hands at the same time?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

And that is when fate played its hand. He called out to a certain Nathalie, who was putting beauty products away on the shelves. No sooner did Nathalie lay eyes on me than she dropped the jars she had in her hands.

The crash of shattering glass destroyed the pervasive serenity of the scalp sanctuary. Nathalie blurted an apology and fell to her knees to begin sweeping up the mess.

“I didn't know I had such an effect on her,” joked David, to make light of the incident.

I nodded, although there was no fooling me: I had been all too aware of how Nathalie panicked, as if it were a blast of wind on my cheek. It was the sight of me that had frightened her. Why? I didn't get the impression that I knew her—I'm a fairly good physiognomist—but I cast about in my memories all the same.

When she was back on her feet David said, in a gentle voice tense with irritation: “Right, Nathalie, Madame and I are waiting for you.”

She went pale, and wrung her hands.

“I . . . I don't feel well, David.”

David left my side for a few minutes and went into the changingroom with her. A few seconds later he came back, followed by another employee.

“Shakira will take care of you.”

“Is Nathalie ill?”

“Women's trouble, I imagine,” he said, with a scorn addressed to all women and their incomprehensible moods.

When he realized he had allowed a whiff of his misogyny to escape, he took hold of himself and subsequently filled his conversation with charm.

When I left the Atelier Capillaire, I had to admit that Stacy had been right: David was an absolute genius with color and scissors. I lingered next to every shop window where I could see my reflection, and gazed at a lovely, smiling stranger, whom I found very pleasing.

It took Samuel's breath away when he saw me walk into the living room—well, I had delayed my entry somewhat to make sure I was ready. Not only did he compliment me, never taking his eyes off me, but he also insisted on taking me to the Maison Blanche, my favorite restaurant, so that everyone could see what a lovely woman he'd married.

All this effusion of joy eclipsed the incident with the manicure and the panicked young woman. But I figured I didn't have to wait until I really needed a new cut to go back to the Atelier Capillaire, so I decided to try some of the other treatments on offer: and the same thing happened.

Three times over, Nathalie went to pieces on seeing me, and found ways not to come anywhere near me, to avoid greeting or serving me, and to hide herself away in the back rooms.

Her attitude was so astonishing that I was intrigued. The woman must have been in her forties, like me; she was lithe in her movements, with a narrow waist and fairly large hips, thin arms, and long, powerful hands. With her head tilted to one side, she would go down on her knees to lavish her care on her clients, a picture of humility. Although she was working in a trendy, elegant sanctum, unlike her colleagues she did not take herself for a minister of luxury; on the contrary, she carried herself like a devoted servant, silent, almost slave-like . . . If she had not fled from me, I should even have found her to be very convivial company . . . After racking my brain into the remotest corners, I came away convinced that she and I had never met, nor could I suspect I might have been at the origin of some sort of professional setback where she was concerned, for while I am president of the Foundation of Contemporary Visual Arts, I am not involved with hiring and firing.

After a few sessions, I was able to pinpoint her fear: she was afraid, more than anything, that I might notice her. She did not seem to feel either spite or animosity toward me; she simply wanted to become transparent the moment I appeared. Consequently, I saw no one else.

I came to the conclusion that she must be harboring a secret. As an expert in dissimulation, I could trust my own judgment.

And this is how I came to commit the irreparable: I followed her.

I sat myself down behind the curtain of the brasserie adjacent to the Atelier Capillaire, with a hat on my head and my face hidden by huge dark glasses, and I kept a look-out as the employees left the building. Just as I expected, Nathalie waved a hasty goodbye to her coworkers, and went alone down into the metro.

I rushed down after her, pleased that I had thought to anticipate by buying a supply of tickets.

I was so discreet that she did not notice me either in the carriage or when changing trains; the rush hour helped, too. Jolted back and forth by the movement of the train, shoved here and there by the other passengers, I found the situation absurd and entertaining. I had never followed a man, let alone a woman, and my heart was beating fit to burst, just like when I was a child trying out a new game.

She got out at Place d'Italie and went into a shopping center. I feared several times that I might bump into her because she was clearly a regular there. She was very quick at buying what she needed for dinner and, unlike in the public transportation, she moved about boldly and comfortably in her surroundings.

Finally, with her shopping bags in hand, she set off down the little streets in Butte-aux-Cailles, a working-class neighborhood consisting of modest little houses—revolutionary, once upon a time; a century ago, poor workers crowded into these small houses, neglected, far from the center, at the very edge of the capital; nowadays, the recently wealthy bought up all the property to pay for the impression—given the sum involved—of owning a
hôtel particulier
right in the heart of Paris. Could a simple employee possibly live here?

She reassured me by going beyond the leafy, residential streets and on into the zone that had remained working-class. Warehouses, factories, vacant lots cluttered with scrap metal. She went through a huge gate of weather-beaten boards, crossed the courtyard, and vanished into a tiny gray house with worn shutters.

There. I was at the end of my investigation. I may have had fun, but I hadn't learned a thing. What else could I try? I studied the names on the buzzers of the courtyard's inhabitants and the warehouses. Nothing meant a thing to me; in passing, I did recognize the name of a famous stuntman, and I recalled seeing a program that showed how he prepared his stunts, in this very courtyard.

And so?

I was no further forward. Although I'd had fun trailing her, it hadn't taught me anything. I still didn't know why this woman panicked whenever she saw me.

I was about to go back the way I'd come, when I saw something that forced me to lean against the wall not to fall over. How was this possible? Could I be going mad?

I closed my eyes and then opened them again, as if I could wipe away the trick my imagination was playing upon my brain. I leaned forward. For the second time I looked at the figure heading down the street.

Yes. It was him. I had just seen Samuel.

Samuel, my husband, but twenty years younger . . .

The young man was striding nonchalantly down the hill. On his back he had a schoolbag, full of books, that weighed no more than a sports bag. In his ears a walkman throbbed with a music that gave a supple swing to his step.

He went past me, gave me a polite smile, crossed the yard and went into Nathalie's house.

It took me a few minutes before I was able to move. My brain had immediately grasped the situation, while the major part of me resisted it, refused it. When the young man walked by me, with his smooth, white skin, his thick hair, and his long legs with their loutish, rolling gait, the desire I felt for him was extremely powerful, as if I were abruptly falling in love; and this did not help me accept the truth of what was going on. I wanted to grab his face in my hands and devour his lips. What was happening to me? Ordinarily I was not so . . . Ordinarily, I was just the opposite . . .

This chance encounter with my husband's son—his exact double, only twenty years younger—filled me with amorous exaltation. I should have been jealous of this woman above anything else, but instead I wanted to throw myself into her son's arms.