His, Body and Soul(5)

It’s not worth thinking about anymore. Actually I should go and pay my respects to his father if I don’t want to come across as a freeloader.

I spend the evening with Marceline Desbordes Valmore, Mrs. Granchamps’ prescription to, as she put it, relax my judgment. It’s poetry. In French, moreover. I have to admit that it’s not my favorite. But it is fascinating. Her way of painting passion, forgetting one’s self…it’s deeply moving…and very exotic.

My dreams are tormented and disturbing. I’m running naked down the staircase, which never end. At the bottom I can see the stranger, who keeps moving towards the door of the waiting sedan. I wake up sweating, incredibly anxious. I decide to stop with all this romantic poetry and chance encouters in the foyer.



This evening I’m going to meet the famous Delmonte. I decide to keep my schoolbooks with me to show him what a serious student I am. I started looking into housing options in this city and it seems pretty much impossible to find a place at a reasonable price. It would really be ideal if I could stay here for a few more months. I put on the outfit I use for my professors. Perfect ponytail, which makes me look like a dynamic and healthy young woman, jeans, white blouse and navy blue ballerina shoes. It’d be impossible not to take me seriously.

I ring the doorbell, wearing my most sincere smile. The door opens and I direct my smile towards the other person. He looks at me curiously.

“I’m here to see Mr. Delmonte…”

“Evidently,” he says, opening the door. “Come on in.”

He leads me through the solemn front hall. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m standing in the middle of the living room. I’m not in my element here. I feel like I’m one of those girls from the makeover shows who are scrutinized by passers-by. He looks right at me. He enjoys my discomfort. He, however, could fit right in anywhere he went.

“Is your father here?”

“You can find him at Père Lachaise.”

“Maybe tomorrow would be a better day?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The conversation isn’t off to a great start. Yet I feel I have to go on.

“When can I come see him?”

“I’m afraid it’s not possible.”

For crying out loud! Why do I have to deal with this guy? Is he dumb or does he just want to make me feel uncomfortable?

“Maybe he’ll…”

“He’s dead, Mademoiselle. He’s been buried in the Père Lachaise cemetery for over ten years.”

I’m embarrassed. And full of hatred for him. I don’t know which feeling is stronger. He’s obviously enjoying this. He keeps looking at me, as if he finds my embarassement even more delightful. I’m completely red, no doubt about it. I want to explode. How can he be so cruel? I want to leave, it’s too much. I turn, furious, when he places his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. You are so amusing when you play the role of the model student….I didn’t introduce myself. Charles Delmonte.”

He holds out his hand, confident, and I stare at it stupidly as it takes my own. I look at him, surprised. So he’s my landlord. The multimillionaire that everyone speaks of so reverently. He asks me to sit down on a red velvet chaise lounge. I stammer:

“I’m Emma, Lexie’s cousin, I’m a student…”

“I know, Mademoiselle Maugham. I was wondering when you were going to come visit me. Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes…”

I don’t know what to say. I’m still very embarssed and strangely troubled. It’s all this red…and this man. His quaint manners and his way of acting like he was twenty years older than me. He hands me a glass that looks like white wine and sits down next to me. I’ve almost calmed down. At least, I no longer have to deal with him looking at me.

But he looms near me, our bodies don’t touch but we’re close enough that I can feel his warmth. I can’t concentrate, it’s too hot. And I’m thirsty. I swallow down the entire glass. It’s too sweet to be truly refreshing, but not bad.

Oh no, I think he’s choking. I whack him on the back with all of my might. He’s coughing, unable to breathe…how terrible, I’m killing my multimillionaire landlord!

“Stop, Emma, please! Stop hitting me, I’m not that kind of guy!”

I misunderstood. He was choking alright, but with laughter. I watch as he catches his breath.

“Excuse me. I didn’t know that I was dealing with someone who loves Château d'Yquem so much.”

Note for later: Google this famous Château. In the meantime, I decide to laugh politely. Let’s get back to our objective: make a good impression on the landlord, however old and seductive he seems.