Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

She kissed the side of my neck.

“Hmm, don’t let that happen with your own kids, buddy.”

It had been interesting watching her with Mélanie, Lucas, Arno, and Margaux, who finally came home later on. They could have been cold to her, could have resented her presence, especially at this thorny moment, where so many different, destabilizing events had sandwiched us with pain, fear, and anger. But Angèle’s shrewd sense of humor, her directness, her warmth appealed to them, I could tell. When she said to Mélanie, “I’m the famous Morticia, and I’m very happy to meet you,” there was a split second of awkwardness, but then Mélanie laughed outright and seemed genuinely pleased to lay eyes on her. Over a cup of coffee, Margaux had asked her about her job. I slipped out of the kitchen discreetly. The only person who did not seem seduced by Angèle was Lucas. I found him sulking in his room. I didn’t need to ask him what was wrong, I sensed it intuitively. He was being loyal to his mother, and the sight of another woman in our house, a woman I was obviously smitten with, offended him. I didn’t have the heart to talk to him about it straightaway. There was too much on my plate right now. I’d find a way. I’d talk to him. No, I would not be like my own father, putting a lid on everything.

When I came back into the kitchen, Margaux was crying silently and Angèle was holding her hand. I hovered at the door, unsure of what to do. Angèle’s eyes met mine. Her golden eyes were sad and wise, almost like an elderly person’s. I drew away again. In the living room, Mélanie was reading. I went to sit next to her.

“I’m glad she is here,” said my sister after a while.

I was glad too. But I knew she would be leaving later on that night. The long and cold drive home to Vendée. And me counting the days until I’d be seeing her again.

On Monday morning, the day before Pauline’s funeral, I meet Xavier Parimbert, the boss of a renowned feng shui Internet site, at his office near the avenue Montaigne. This meeting has been scheduled for a while. I don’t know the man personally, although I have heard of him. He is small and wiry, probably in his early sixties, with dyed hair like that of Aschenbach from Death in Venice and the spruce figure of one who watches his weight with an eagle eye. The same kind of man as my father-in-law-a kind I find I have waning patience with. He leads me into his vast silver and white office, waves off an obsequious assistant, sits me down, and gets straight to the point.

“I’ve seen your work, in particular the day-care center you designed for Régis Rabagny.”

At another time in my life my heart would have sunk at such a sentence. Rabagny and I did not end our business collaboration in a happy fashion. I feel certain he has not spread good publicity for me. But since then, Pauline has died and is to be buried tomorrow, and a hard truth concerning my mother has come boomeranging back, not to mention Arno’s little foray into insurgence. So I now find that Rabagny’s name brushes off me like water off a duck’s back, and I also find that I don’t really care if this dapper sexagenarian is about to bad-mouth me.

However, he doesn’t. He graces me with an astonishingly mellifluous smile.

“Not only is the day-care center impressive, but there’s another point that is, in my opinion, most attractive.”

“And what would that be? That it is feng shui?”

My irony triggers a polite chuckle.

“I am referring to the way you dealt with Monsieur Rabagny.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“You are the only person I know, apart from me, who has told him to go to hell.”

It is my turn to chuckle, as the memory of that day comes back. There had been a final, brutal onslaught on his part, once again about a matter that did not concern me or my men. Sickened by the sound of his voice, I had said very clearly into the phone, to Florence’s amazement, “Now fuck off.”

How Xavier Parimbert has any inkling of this escapes me.

He smiles again, as if to offer an explanation.

“Régis Rabagny happens to be my son-in-law.”

“How unfortunate,” I remark.

He nods. “I’ve often thought so myself. But my daughter loves him. And where love is concerned-”

The phone on his desk rings, and he reaches out an elegant manicured hand.

“Yes? No, not now. Where? I see.”

As the conversation continues, I turn my eyes to the deceptively simple surroundings. I know nothing about feng shui, only that it is an ancient Chinese art about wind and water affecting our well-being. Something to do with how our surroundings influence us. This must be the tidiest office I have ever seen, no clutter, no paperwork, nothing to upset the eye. On one side, an aquarium takes up an entire wall. Strange, squiggly black fish languidly swim up and down among the bubbles. Luxuriant exotic plants stand in another corner. A cluster of burning incense sticks gives off a subtle, soothing aroma. On the board behind his desk, I see photograph after photograph of Parimbert with celebrities.

He at last puts the phone down and turns all his attention to me.

“Would you care for some green tea and bran scones?” he says cheerfully, as if proposing a special treat to a reluctant child.

“Sure,” I reply, sensing that a refusal might not go down so well.

He rings a special buzzer on his desk, and a sleek Asian woman dressed in white comes in holding a tray. She bows, eyes downcast, and with practiced, graceful movements ceremoniously pours out the tea from a heavy, ornate pot. Parimbert watches with a placid expression. I am offered a stodgy-looking piece of pastry, which I assume is the bran scone. There is a moment of stillness while he eats and drinks in almost ecclesiastical silence. I bite into the scone and instantly regret it. It has the rubbery consistency of chewing gum. Parimbert takes great, swooping sips of his tea, smacking his lips with relish. I find the beverage far too hot to swallow with such enthusiasm.

“Now,” he says with one last smack, “let’s get to business.”

A Cheshire cat smile. The tea has left an unfortunate green residue speckled across his teeth, as if a lush mini-jungle had suddenly sprouted from his gums. I want to burst out laughing, and I realize in the same aching moment that this is the first time I have felt like laughing since Pauline died. Culpability takes over. The laughing fit subsides.

“I have a plan,” says Parimbert mysteriously. “And I honestly believe that you are the one who is going to carry out this plan.”

He waits sententiously. I nod. He goes on.

“I want you to imagine a Think Dome.”

He pronounces the last two words with tremulous awe, as if he had said “Holy Grail” or “Dalai Lama.” I wait and nod, trying to understand what a Think Dome is and praying I don’t look too dim-witted.

Parimbert gets up, hands thrust into his impeccably pressed gray trouser pockets, and paces across the polished floorboards. He pauses theatrically in the middle of the room.

“A Think Dome is a place where I would take only a handful of people-people selected very carefully-in order for us to gather and reflect in harmony. This place would be here, in these premises. I want it to resemble an Igloo of Intelligence. Do you understand?”

“Absolutely,” I say. Once again, the impulse to snigger is irresistible.

“I have not spoken to anyone about this. I want you to have carte blanche. I know you are the perfect man for this. That is why you have been chosen. And you will be paid very well.”

He mentions a sum that is on the generous side, although I still have no idea how large the Think Dome is supposed to be and in what material it should be completed.