“Bonjour,” he says.
“That’s Stephan. He’s my favorite writer.”
Stephan lives in the apartment, too. He never ever leaves it, apparently. He is the only French person in here. He has been writing for years and, in the opinion of all the editors he has sent his prose to, he is the most untalented writer of his generation.
“That’s exactly why I love him. He doesn’t compromise.”
Stephan’s skin is yellow, turning green, like his eyes. He looks sick.
“He never eats. That’s worrying,” Muriel says, sighing in a maternal way. Or at least as maternal as someone like Muriel can get.
He wears nothing but an old, very dirty bathrobe, and his skinny limbs coming out of it make him look like a dying insect.
“Lynn is from New York,” Muriel tells him. She speaks slowly and loudly as if he were her deaf grandfather.
“New York! Yeah! Bagels!” That’s all he has to say about New York before resuming the frenetic typing.
“He doesn’t do drugs. He is naturally like that. Isn’t he great?”
“He is fantastic,” I say and I look around the office. I have been looking for traces of Nicolas’s presence. The apartment is in such a mess that it would be hard to say who lives here and who doesn’t. It should get mentioned in travel guides: If you are in Paris, look cool and are searching for a free place to stay, just move to Muriel B’s flat. All welcome!
“The flat used to belong to my grandmother. They gave it to me when she died. She had such terrible taste. Very bourgeois.”
“Shouldn’t we call Nicolas?”
“Relax, Lynn. One thing at a time. Today, we’re getting to know each other. Tomorrow, we can talk business and money.”
By now, I have learned quite a few things about Muriel B. She frequents lesbian bars, runs a crazy bankrupt company and lives in an even crazier apartment. She still knows nothing about me but assumes that I can help her.
We’re back in the living room. The Fat Breeders have found something more interesting to watch than MTV. Carolina has gotten out of bed wearing nothing but a tiny electric-blue G-string, hiding absolutely nothing of her long, beautiful, ebony body.
She stretches and rubs her sleepy eyes and smiles when she sees Muriel. She does a few joyful leaps to take her in her arms. You would swear she still believes she is eight years old and doesn’t yet notice that she has a pair of amazing breasts.
“Hello, darling!”
“Pourquoi tu me parles en anglais?”
“This is Lynn. I told you about her. She’s Jodie Blanchett’s daughter.”
Carolina doesn’t need more information. She bends over me and gives me a big kiss on the lips. And yes, I feel her naked breast against own less perky ones. I can feel the blood coming to my cheeks and I am sure that I am red as a tomato.
“J’ai faim!” Carolina yells and leaps happily toward the huge stainless-steel fridge.
Muriel shrugs her shoulders. “She’s hungry all the time. And she stays so thin. She’s lucky.”
Carolina comes back with Irena and Jacky’s frozen yogurt. She dips a spoon in it and sucks it provocatively. Muriel pats her bum.
“Where does she put it?” Muriel says.
“One wonders,” I mutter.
The Fat Breeders must love it here. I’m sure that they are going to write songs about Carolina’s butt.
Muriel pushes Carolina playfully. “Go take a shower. You smell! I need to talk to Lynn.”
“I don’t smell. It’s her that smells,” Carolina says, pointing her spoon at me. She realizes she might have been a bit too rude so she’s back licking the spoon provocatively to make me like her again.
Abruptly Muriel takes my hand and drags me to the bedroom.
She closes the door behind us. She leaves the heavy curtains closed and switches on the bed-top lights.
The room smells of sweat. I can actually feel the lack of oxygen. I am very uncomfortable.
Muriel sits on the corner of the huge bed. She pats the space beside her to invite me to sit.
“Are you hungry?”
Actually I am starving. I am so hungry that I feel light-headed. Add to this the caffeine and the stress, and I am about to burst.
“No, I am fine.”
I sit very cautiously beside her. She makes a slight hop to get closer.
“For what it’s worth, I like you.”
“So you said.”
“I mean I really like you. I feel…you are like…my big sister.”
She gets even closer. I don’t believe sisters look at each other that way!
“I think we could work together.” She hops even closer.
I try to move away slightly, but she puts her hands on my leg. “You, me, Nicolas. We can be a great team. Do you like Nicolas?”
I can feel the weight of her hand on my knee. It’s sliding up now. I close my eyes. “He idolizes me. It’s very flattering.” She tickles my thigh with the tips of her fingers. “He is so cute, isn’t he?” I hear her say.
I grab her hand and put it back on her own lap.
“He is rather cute,” I confirm clumsily.
“Pity he is gay.” She puts her hand back on my knee.
Gay!
“Gay?”
“Gay! Comme un phoque!”
She looks up at me. She caught me by surprise and it excites her.
“Of course he is gay. Everybody is gay.”
She takes advantage of my stupor and goes for the kiss, only she stops when the door opens. We look like two lovers caught by the husband—or the wife—who knows?
“Ah, quelle salope!”
Carolina drops her yogurt pot and runs to the bed. Before I can explain that it’s not what it looks like, she jumps on Muriel and throws a couple of punches. But instead of fighting back, Muriel laughs her head off.
Oh, God!
I stand and step away from the bed.
“I…I need to go back to the hotel.”
They don’t listen. They just fight on the bed, and now Carolina is laughing, too. They find everything hilarious.
I walk out of the room. The Fat Breeders are watching them fighting. They are in heaven.
I walk to the door. As I pass in front of the office I can hear Stephan, the worst writer of his generation, yelling, “Bagels!”
I put up the Do Not Disturb sign and lock the door to my room. I don’t ever want to go out again. Here, in the room it’s safe and comfortable. Out there is madness. Crazy Japanese girls, Pierre the banker, frozen-yogurt Carolina and the Fat Breeders.
And Nicolas!
He betrayed me!
Somehow…Okay, so I haven’t quite figured that part out yet.
But come on. He took me on his scooter. Everyone knows a scooter ride means something. It’s like a secret bond. You cannot seduce a girl with your scooter and then tell her that you