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.