Kitabı oku: «Narcissus», sayfa 2
III
Eight hours later Tristan turned the key in the lock to the door of his apartment. Half a turn was enough; the girl from the night before had evidently simply shut the door behind her. The light from the city shone dark blue through the glass walls of his apartment. He put his hand on the switch and turned on the light. He dropped his leather briefcase on the sofa, then went over to the refrigerator and opened it. The sushi was still there. He grabbed it, and dribbled a little of the black soy sauce on the little rolls, so that the rice in them immediately soaked up the liquid and changed colour. Where had he put the wasabi? He went over to the cupboard, but the green paste was not there. He knelt down on the floor and opened the waist-level wooden doors. No luck. No sign of it on the oven either.
“There’s no wasabi in the house,” he said to himself, puzzled, and went over to the cocktail table that stood in the middle of the room. There was something on it that had not been there before. He grabbed the slip of paper. On it were written a few words and a phone number in a big round hand. Marie had taken fifteen minutes to get these words down on paper as she wanted. Tristan read them, emitting a short blast of air, which sounded like a stifled burst of laughter. Then he turned the slip of paper over and in clearly legible writing for his housekeeper Marta jotted down on it the word: wasabi. He raised his head, and in thoughtful mood, as night fell, briefly looked out of the window. Then he continued to write. He urgently needed two bottles of champagne. Marta knew the small shop that stocked his favourite brand. Then Tristan attached the slip of paper to the refrigerator, undressed and went into the bathroom. He had to hurry – in an hour’s time he was due to meet two colleagues in the Sky Lounge.
The waxen moon was just rising behind the pale skyscrapers of the City as Tristan entered the bar. Flanked by his two friends he advanced slowly past the plump floor cushions to the sound of muted conversation. His still damp dark-brown hair covered his face down to his cheeks. He hadn’t had time to shave, with the result that there was a light shadow across his face that presented a fine contrast to his blue eyes. Here in the gentle breeze of the city, which was just coming back to life for the evening, the three men made their way to their reserved table. They sat down. Marcus took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, just as though he was embarking on the second part of his working day, whereas actually all he was doing was ordering a gin & tonic. The other man ordered an absinthe.
“And for you, sir?” asked the waiter, who was dressed in formal attire.
“A rum cola – Cuban rum please.”
“Very good,” said the Indian waiter and turned away. As though on rails, he glided past more guests and disappeared in the direction of the bar. Marcus started to chat to the other man, Cirrus Baker. Marcus knew him from school. Cirrus didn’t work in the City; he was a freelance artist; he had a studio in the attic of an old brick building in Carnaby Street and was making quite good money for an artist. This was due, not least, to his eccentricity, which he always flaunted, whether he happened to be in a golf club or at a fast food outlet. Marcus was just giving him an animated account of the events of the morning.
“Excellent!” snorted the dandy, “That gives me an idea.”
Tristan stayed behind, as Marcus and Cirrus went for a short toilet break. He reached for the drink the waiter had just brought him, took a sip, and directed his attention to the guests who, despite the early evening hour, were already filling up this roof terrace.
A mixed crowd of perhaps a hundred people were milling about in the silvery light of the moon. Here, not three metres away from Tristan’s table, stood two stout businessmen – or at least their expansive gestures suggested that this was what they were. In a sudden onset of false bonhomie, one of them put his hand on the shoulder of the other and addressed him earnestly. At the same time he was waving his martini glass perilously over the heads of a young couple sitting on a chunky red foam rubber cushion. The drink was threatening to spill over at any moment, with potentially disastrous consequences for the girl’s white dress.
Further away, a group of models were standing around a lanky, obviously gay youngish man. He was wearing a strangely shaped hat, which to all appearances he had probably designed himself. But he was clearly a hit with the girls. Tristan rested his gaze for a moment on this little group of lovelies. Then he took another look around and was surprised at how many of these beauties were here today. All of a sudden he saw them everywhere: There at the bar stood an ageing mid-fifty-year-old man, with a tall redhead on his arm. Not far from them, no fewer than four blondes were having fun with two broad-shouldered gentlemen on a row of seats. It looked as though these two had not done badly for themselves either, to judge by their flashing wristwatches, or the forced laughter of the four women every time one of the gentlemen so much as opened his mouth. Tristan smoothed his jacket sleeve and scrutinized the scene before him more closely. The men hardly interested him at all. The models, on the other hand, who thronged about them, made him smile. Models, he thought to himself, are in our time what dancers in the French opera were in the age of Casanova. They were a group of girls of exceptional beauty, who had the dubious honour of being made the mistresses of the wealthy men of their time. When Casanova was alive, the aristocrats went to the opera in order to hear the audience whispering their name when the ballerinas made their entrance on the stage. At that time, as members of the Royal Academy of Music, the ballerinas all belonged to the court. Despite this, their ranks were filled with the loveliest and at the same time the poorest girls in the land, who were not even remunerated for their performances. They were delighted to accept this position, however, as it gave them the chance to be seen by the French nobility and become the mistresses of the men among them. Today, too, the rich and powerful flock round the catwalk models, as once their European predecessors did around the dancers in the theatre. In every country in the world they adorn themselves with the exquisite beauty of these girls. And that, he reflected, in spite of the fact that these days their beauty is measured only by their height and the regularity of their facial features and not by their feminine curves. Thus the taste of today’s industrial and financial aristocracy apparently resembles that of artists who, as Balzac has said, prefer the sketch to the finished painting.
Tristan couldn’t help laughing quietly to himself and had to confess that these days even he was no longer so enamoured of those womanly curves. Of course, once the girl with the cute little face had slipped out of her clothes, the sight that met your eyes was not a pretty one. It was not for nothing that the majority of these sad creatures asked for the lights to be almost totally dimmed, so that their ribs would not be thrown into relief by a shaft of candlelight. By contrast, the breasts on these naked, starving child bodies appeared much larger than they actually were. But how dreadfully bony the pelvises were! You were frightened of crushing them when you made love to these girls. Tristan didn’t believe any of these men when they claimed to be really satisfied in bed. But they evidently consoled themselves with the envious glances that came their way when they appeared in society with these girls. Then their bodies were draped in the latest fashion creations, which were only – literally only – tailored for them and which lent a truly ethereal aspect to their fairylike exterior.
How big their eyes always looked, thought Tristan to himself and felt rather sorry for these creatures. They were striving to achieve an ideal that was promoted in the media. It made them go hungry all their lives. Hungry for food and perhaps also, in the end, hungry for love. Because much as they personified the state of this starving world, they could never hope to be really loved like this, either by the men, who chose them out of vanity, or even by themselves. For Tristan was in no doubt that no one who became as wraith-like as these girls could possibly love themselves. So any compliment on their beauty was worthless in their eyes.
They thirsted for something deeper. But what did they have to offer that could give them hope? Tristan had got to know many fashion models in his life. But he had not been able to pass the time in an interesting way with any of them for longer than one evening. And usually he had had to do most of the talking himself even to fill up that one evening; to a certain extent he had needed to provoke the vanity they displayed so that he could then compliment them on their intellect. This was all lies, of course. His ideal of a beautiful woman was of quite a different order. But why worry? Everyone must live in the age into which they are born. The fifties would have been more to his taste, but in this life, for good or ill, he would just have to work with whatever was in vogue at the time. And, much as he regretted it, in this decade the world loved the faces of loneliness and of hunger.
“Tristan!” a voice suddenly brayed through the crowd – and Cirrus, the artist, appeared. He had opened his arms in a theatrical gesture as he mounted the two steps to their table. The smile on his face was the most radiant imaginable; even the moon paled before it. To Tristan the pupils of the man facing him appeared dark, and he was beginning to fear that he would be swallowed up by them when Marcus approached, drew up the other chair and laid his arm on Tristan’s shoulder.
“That was fantastic,” he grinned broadly. “Well? Anything caught your eye as yet?”
“I don’t know,” replied Tristan and reached for his glass, then called the waiter and indicated that he would like another drink.
“Tristan, Tristan...” Cirrus began, still with that appealing smirk around the corners of his mouth, “Tristan, I’ve just been chatting to Marcus about you in the gents.”
Tristan glanced at his watch and cocked his head to one side: “Well, you’ve certainly taken your time about it. What did you find to say about me?”
“You’re such a handsome chap, Tristan. I like the shine on your hair, the ironic expression in your eyes. Your chin, your physique. In a word, I have never before seen such perfection in a man!”
Tristan leaned over to Marcus, who nodded in agreement.
“How much did you pay him?” he asked in a whisper.
“In cocainum veritas,” he said with a sideways grin.
“Really, Tristan. When I first saw you my soul was stirred to its depths. In that moment I knew that the personality that seems to radiate through every fibre of your being is capable of changing what I am, perhaps even my entire life. So far I have created works of beauty, but now they seem nothing more than the prelude to the great work that I can now achieve. My art must make you my own. Let me paint your portrait!”
He paused, giving Marcus the opportunity to elegantly raise his glass and, with a grand gesture, drink a toast to Tristan. However, Tristan seemed lost in thought. His finely turned eyebrows were furrowed to form a dark shadow. Thin creases appeared beneath the corners of his mouth, though they were gone in a few seconds.
“Go on, Tristan, our friend here has been fascinated by your profile for weeks. Just think, he could make your youthful beauty immortal! Your face would age, but your image would remain as fresh as it is today.”
But Tristan was unconvinced and indicated as much with a hand gesture.
“Let’s change the subject. Sorry, Cirrus, but I haven’t got time to discuss it now.”
“I cannot accept this answer! Anyone else would be ecstatic to be immortalized by me!” protested the artist with vehemence. But Tristan could not be persuaded. There was a brief pause in which Cirrus, mortified, looked up at the moon with raised eyebrows.
Finally, Marcus, ever the diplomat, said “To our wrinkles, then,” and raised his glass. “They make us more handsome by the year, while the beauty of our women fades. So I suggest you paint our girlfriends instead, Cirrus, then we shall have something to remember them by when we end up marrying their daughters!”
Cirrus, though, after his disappointment, was in no mood for jesting. With suppressed rage he had turned his chair around and was focusing entirely on the scene that surrounded them.
“Excuse me,” said Tristan, getting up, “I’m going to get a breath of fresh air.” He took his drink and walked with measured tread in the direction of a young lady who had caught his eye during the conversation. In fact, the reason for his surprisingly dark looks just now had not been the artist’s offer to paint him. He would have thought this far too trivial to bother him. No, the reason had been the young lady who had walked past them without so much as a sideways glance and who was now standing at the far end of the roof terrace. He directed his steps quite slowly towards the long-legged beauty, as the ice-cubes quietly chinked against the inside of the glass in his hand.
She looked fabulous. Her dark-brown hair lay across her right shoulder, revealing her long, delicate, swanlike neck. Her skin shone white and cool against the moonlight, while the red of her evening gown, which scarcely covered her back, played around the contours of her body like a breath of warm air. Tristan stepped up to the railing beside her and grasped the chrome of the barrier with both hands.
He looked out at the city and took a deep breath. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed her look round at him, her eyes lingering on his face for an instant. So he turned towards her and smiled. Her face was even more beautiful than he had realized at first glance, when she swept past them. She looked at him searchingly with her big chestnut-brown doe-like eyes. Her eyebrows arched delicately above them. Her forehead was high and rounded like that of a child, whilst her straight and well-formed nose divided her face into two symmetrical halves, the sensuous focus of which was formed by her lips. These were so full and alluring that she really had no need of the lipstick that she had applied. As it was, they stood out from her alabaster skin like drops of blood in the snow.
“I thought it was incredible that a young lady like you had come here unaccompanied and I wanted to offer to keep you company myself. My name’s Tristan,” he said, as he bent his head to one side and the smile faded from his features.
She stared at him for a moment in astonishment, then composed herself, shook her head hesitantly and repeated slowly: “Keep me company?”
She cast her eyes down, then looked at him again and continued: “Thank you for asking, but I’m meeting someone.”
At that point he was struck by how fragile she looked. The thin material, which flowed down her body like water, only seemed to emphasize the vulnerability that he read in her face. Her body was so soft, quite unlike those of the fashion models that were standing around her. Her truly feminine form amazed him and he felt that his prayers had been answered. At the same time, however, he recognized that the others, with their sterile toughness, were stronger than this young lady here. He was afraid that if he touched her she would shatter into a thousand white pieces and be scattered over the floor.
“In that case I’ll wait here with you and leave as soon as your companion arrives,” he replied after a short pause. “I mean, of course, if I may.”
She had turned towards the city again, but at these words she politely looked back at him. At last she said: “All right, then please stay,” and gazed out into the night once more.
“Isn’t it a pity that it never really gets dark in London?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you see, I’m from the country. To be more precise, I’m from a village on the continent. And when night falls there it’s dark. Here, though, it’s never dark.”
“You’re not from here?”
“No.”
She beamed at him as if he had just made her dearest wish come true.
“My parents come from Italy. My name is Eco, Isabella Eco.”
“Oh really? Then your parents and my parents were almost neighbours. My name is Tristan.”
“Tristan – and what comes next?”
“Nothing. It’s just Tristan.”
“Good, I shall call you Tristano,” she said, laughing.
The waiter was just passing. Tristan stopped him.
“Two glasses of champagne – you drink champagne, don’t you?” he asked her casually and put his half filled glass on the tray. The ice in it had melted.
“Hmm,” she muttered, and turned away in embarrassment.
“Please don’t be offended if I buy you a drink, but I had to get away from my two friends. Can you see them over there?” He pointed to Cirrus and Marcus, who seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument about something. She saw his friends and nodded.
“Those two guys will never forgive me for absenting myself unless they see me drinking champagne with you.” said Tristan and laughed.
“What is it about him?” This was the question the artist, some seven metres away, was asking of Marcus at this moment.
“What, about Tristan?" said Marcus.
“Yes,” replied the artist, “he’s so completely different from the people you meet these days.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I hardly know him, but I get the impression that he never really lets anyone get near him.”
“It’s not that.” Marcus contradicted him, smiling. “It’s just that he can’t stand listening to idle chatter. This superficial chit-chat about women, money and power he finds intolerable. An awful lot of it goes on in the bank, as you well know,” Marcus leaned back and looked around him, “and in places like this.”
“And the women?” said the artist with a wry smile. “If all the chatter is getting on my nerves, I go to the women. But I guess he doesn’t let any of them really get close to him.”
“Oh yes he does, and how.” Marcus laughed out loud. It was a short and meaningful burst of laughter that instantly combined both confidentiality and betrayal in one sound. “He makes them laugh, charms them, gives them hope with a look and finally wins them over. It’s as though he’s dancing with them, he knows so well how to go along with their every movement, even before they know they’re being led. I’ve never known a woman that hasn’t fallen for him.”
Marcus paused and turned thoughtfully towards Tristan, who was chatting with the woman in the red evening gown.
Then Marcus sighed and continued, with a smile:
“But h ow can he help it if the next morning he no longer fancies the woman he’s kissed?"
“Do you mean, he doesn’t like to commit himself?” asked Cirrus.
“Every man is searching for a woman he has something in common with; someone who, in a way, is a reflection of himself. Tristan is no exception. Each of the women he gets involved with and who I get to know reflects one facet of his character. It always turns out, however, that it is just that – one facet. The moment this dawns on him he drops her. Often it’s only the physical attractiveness that they share with him. If that’s all it is it probably won’t last more than one night. If it’s more than that, it could be a few weeks before he turns away in disappointment. But I’ve never known one to stay with him for longer than a month.” Marcus raised his arm and tried to beckon to Tristan and his companion to come over.
“Please take no notice of them,” whispered Tristan, as he touched Isabella seemingly inadvertently and joined her in looking out at the city.
“What do your friends do?” asked Isabella.
Tristan took the two glasses from the waiter, who had returned, pressed some money into his hand and passed Isabella her glass.
“One of them’s an artist,” he replied.
“An artist? I love art!” she exclaimed.
He raised his glass and looked deep into her eyes: “Then here’s to the fine arts!”
She repeated the toast and for a moment was transfixed. Tristan took a sip and had to make an effort not to cough. He could not believe that this stuff was from France.
“Is this really champagne?” asked Isabella, who had no way of knowing what Tristan thought of it, as he was keeping his facial muscles totally under control. This couldn’t possibly be champagne – at best it was Italian sparkling wine.
“It tastes like Prosecco!” she continued, visibly amused and chuckling quietly.
Tristan joined in her laughter and said: “There you are, you see, I tried to impress you and save money at the same time. I know that waiter. Whenever I order champagne he always pours me Prosecco instead. But you’re the first person to have caught me out. It takes a true Italian to do that!”
Abruptly she stopped laughing and narrowed her eyes.
But he just laughed and shook his head, then drank the rest of his champagne. He put the glass back on the Indian waiter’s tray and said to him: “Okay, my friend, and now bring us the right one!”
The young waiter looked surprised and hesitated for a second, then Tristan went on:
“Bring us a Prosecco, there’s a good chap.”
Now Isabella laughed out loud too, prompting some of the guests to look across to them questioningly. Speaking softly, Tristan said to them: “Whatever you do, don’t touch the champagne.”
At that moment, the onlookers fell back to make way for a tall, well-built South American, who went straight up to Isabella. She embraced him and he kissed her in a familiar way on the cheek. Then he exchanged a few words privately with Isabella. With his arm round her, he finally turned to Tristan and asked: “And you are...?”
“This is Tristan,” interjected Isabella.
“Pleased to meet you!” Tristan offered to shake hands with the swarthy giant and went on: “I’ve been keeping Isabella company, so as not to leave such a delightful young lady waiting on her own.”
The South American raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.
“Oh well, my work here is done; I’ll have the two Proseccos brought to you.” With these words, Tristan took Isabella’s hand and drew her gently but firmly to him. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and said: “See you soon!”
“See you soon,” she replied with a smile.
Tristan nodded to Isabella’s companion and went back to his friends. On the way he met the waiter, slipped him a little money and put his business card under one of the Prosecco glasses. Then he told him to serve the drinks, and returned to the table where Cirrus and Marcus were sitting. It was no surprise to find that these two were now accompanied by three fashion models, as well as three bottles of champagne. He greeted the girls, one of whom had such dark red hair that he almost envied Cirrus his choice. When Tristan joined them Marcus looked up from an animated conversation with two brunettes and called out: “Ah, we were looking for you! Meet Michelle, Sam and Sasha!”
Tristan greeted each one of them in turn and soon afterwards found himself in a conversation with Sasha, a twenty-two-year-old photographic model from Ekaterinburg. As she excitedly told him all about her latest photo-shoot in Paris, in her broken English, he was gazing at her nose, which really was a delight. She was covered with freckles and screwed up her face in such a bizarre fashion every time she laughed that Tristan brought it to her attention.
Sasha had already had two glasses and obviously couldn’t take much more, so Tristan didn’t hesitate to start counting her freckles with his finger. While doing this he gently held her neck with his other hand and ended up with his face so close to hers that she tittered nervously. But when she became aware of the envious glances she was attracting from her two friends, she stopped and pursed her lips invitingly.
Tristan noticed this, grasped her chin and turned to face the other two.
“She’s got more freckles than there are stars in the sky tonight, Marcus.”
Thereupon Cirrus burst into loud laughter and Tristan asked him to count them for himself.
“Look for yourself,” he said, then took Sasha’s hand and the redhead’s at the same time and passed one of them over to Cirrus, while carefully removing the other from the proximity of his friend. The redhead sat down next to him.
“Hello Sam,” said Tristan and glanced at the corners of her mouth, which had turned up with pleasure. Her sparkling white teeth flashed him a smile.
“You have the loveliest Botticelli curls,” he said. She laughed, without understanding him.
“May I top you up?” he asked and went to pick up her glass, which was almost empty.
At this moment Isabella appeared behind the redhead. She stood there and looked at Tristan questioningly for a moment. Her companion, clearly rather annoyed, whispered a word in her ear and went on ahead to the cloakroom to fetch her coat.
Tristan stood up and reached for Isabella’s hand, but she only made contact for a fraction of a second – just long enough to slip the business card between his fingers. Then she was gone. He stared at the card in astonishment, as doubts began to arise in his mind. But then he turned the card over and saw that on the back she had left her phone number, immediately under his own. A smile crept across his face, as he put the card in his inner pocket and sat down again to fill Sam’s glass.
“Who was that,” she asked, with an expression that was both ingenuous and unsuspecting.
“Just a friend,” he said and kissed her hand.
