This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by X. A. J. Morêt-Bailly
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter 1.Modern women on a retro weekend
"That's what it meant to be thirty, a made woman. She would forever be a woman who cannot dance, a woman who only had one love in her life, a woman who had not canoed down the canyons of Colorado or hiked through the plateaus of Tibet. These thirty years, they were not only a past she dragged behind herself, they had settled all around her, in her, they were her present, her future, they were the substance she was made of. No heroism, no absurdity would change anything to that. Of course, she had plenty of time before her death to learn Russian, read Dante, see Bruges and Constantinople; she could still throw here and there in her life some unforeseen incidents, some new talents; but it would nevertheless remain until the end this life and not another; and her life was indistinguishable from herself."1
"How weird, I have no recollection at all of this paragraph," Xavière thought as she turned off her iPad. Out of the various novels of Simone de Beauvoir she'd read as a student, She came to stay was not her favorite, but since its heroin was her namesake and the reason why her mother had chosen to name her Xavière, she'd believed she remembered it fairly accurately. But today, these particular words sounded new, and strong. "Probably because I resembled Xavière more than Françoise the last time I read this book... But heck, I don't know if I agree with her!" she mumbled, while around her the other passengers of the plane were busily getting ready to exit. The San Francisco-Paris was nearly an hour late that day and everyone was eager to finally evacuate the sweltering cabin. With the precise and efficient gestures of the seasoned traveler who's accumulated miles per million on her frequent flyer account, Xavière closed her computer bag, pulled her Tumi out of the luggage compartment, and followed the stream of passengers toward the exit. The familiar and vaguely nauseating smell of the terminal – Roissy airport, a poem in and by itself - immediately filled her nostrils and set in her throat. "Holidays!" she thought excitedly, a bright blond star in the middle of the grey crowd.
Meanwhile, in another part of this same huge airport, Lena had the same look of joyful anticipation on her face as she waited for her suitcase by the baggage carousel. The little Swede, cellphone to her ear and oversized sunglasses in hand, was wriggling to adjust an outfit that could best be described as sophisticated and complicated, while keeping an eye on the rolling belt that was disgorging a stream of luggage of varied dimensions and colors. "Här!Här kommer min väska!" she exclaimed as the largest and most conspicuous suitcase imaginable made its appearance. Immediately, the man in an elegant suit behind which she had strategically positioned herself grabbed the bag and handed it to her in one fluid motion. "Tack ska du ha!" she thanked him with a nod and a smile, noting that he was not as handsome on his front side as he'd seemed from behind. No matter: Xavière and Galatea must already be waiting for her outside, it was time for her to be on her way.
Once outside, she hesitated a moment, then noticed a bright red Mini Sport - this could only be Galatea's! Just as she was about to reach the vehicle, a will o' the wisp with a tuft of jet black hair jumped out of it and threw herself into the arms of a tall blonde in jeans and a navy blue peacoat: "Xavière hiii!" "Galatea, haaa!" "I come at the wrong time, it seems!" Lena commented, planting herself dramatically on one leg, arms crossed and a falsely sulky pout on her face. "Nooo" exclaimed Galatea with contagious exuberance, "On the contrary! Look at this incredible coincidence! We are all three in the same place at the same time! Finally!" "A coincidence all the more remarkable that Lena and I were both more than one hour late, and you were supposed to pick us up punctually..." Xavière observed wryly. "Yeah, look how everything just falls into place, all by itself! Come on, let's get going, girls – La Guerche is awaiting us!"
From Roissy Airport to the castle of La Guerche, in the French region of Indre-et-Loire, Google Maps tells us that exactly 363 km must be traveled to the south-west, through the fair cities of Paris, Orleans and Tours, driving successively along monotonous residential suburbs, through the vast cultivated plains of the Beauce region, and finally through an increasingly forested, hilly and picturesque countryside. So much so that the traveler is gradually prepared for what awaits him when finally, coming out of a turn, the village of La Guerche and its castle present themselves to his eyes. In the present case, the incrementally dramatic landscape was naturally accompanied, or exacerbated, by the palpable excitement bubbling in the red Mini. The three friends had not seen each other for nearly a year, and happily anticipated a weekend of relaxation and partying with friends:
"So tell me, girls, do you have any idea how many people there will be?" asked Lena, for whom this "weekend Guerchois" was a first.
"The latest I heard from Bénigne, he thought there would be about fourty of us." Xavière said. "It's a good number: when we're too many there is not enough time to really talk with everyone, but you need a group of a certain size to have a good party, especially given the size of the castle."
"Fourty people? Wow. Seriously, this whole thing is crazy - a nobleman, or heir of a nobleman, who invites all his friends and their friends to party in his castle, twice a year! I still can not believe it. No: I think I'll believe it when I see it with my own eyes..."
"Well then, get ready to be blown away!" Galatea laughed. "It's the miraculous outcome of the fortuitous meeting of an open-minded noblewoman and a leftist hippie in the seventies... Their children could only be generous, fun and party-loving, I guess. Anyway, Bénigne is for sure!"
"Oh yes, generous... especially when it comes to pleasing girls!" Xavière added, laughing. "Speaking of which, my dear Galatea, would you perhaps have one or two juicy stories to share with us? How are the Parisian men this year? My life as a respectable woman and mother of one is desperately monotonous right now... Distract me a little!"
"What? And why is that? The Silicon Valley is not rich enough in golden boys to distract the beautiful Xavière from her routine? And among all these French expatriate dads you meet at your daughter's super-posh international school, there is no one that makes your heart beat a little faster?" Galatea answered without missing a beat. "I mean, my stories with my colleagues and business guys, you know them already... And my official is the same as always, loving as always, the perfect son-in-law as always, and just as annoying as always - so nothing new on this side of the earth, I'm afraid."
"Don't worry, girls, I have a whole list of prospects to discuss with you!" Lena chipped in triumphantly. "All of them blonde, all of them handsome, all of them purebred Stockholmers - and all of them, of course, sons of very good families! In other words, all candidates to be the man of my life and future baby daddy!"
Galatea and Xavière exchanged a glance and in the same breath answered: "Yeah, what's new?"
On this beautiful Friday of September, the road was clear and the kilometers sped by quickly, so that it was still daylight when the time came to leave the highway and get onto smaller country roads. And the sky was just taking those sweet shades of orange and pink announcing sunset when the castle suddenly stood before the small car, grand and modest at the same time in its attire of light gray stone. The castle of La Guerche as it stands today, as many old buildings in France, is the result of a multitude of successive modifications, repairs, restorations, reconstructions and enlargements. Providing a coherent description of this site is therefore not an easy thing: come from the west, where the road crosses the river Creuse, and the facade of the castle bordering the river will appear as obviously medieval with its tall corner towers, pointed turrets, vertical walls, stern windows and rectangular symmetry. If however, as our friends, you arrive to the castle from the east through the village, crossing a gate flanked with modest guard towers and driving through a shaded park, it's a courtyard of Renaissance style that welcomes you: L-shaped building with a large welcoming porch, gravel courtyard in the center of which a stone fountain renders a discreet homage to Alpheus and Arethusa, tall windows in majesty. Above the main entrance, two niches have been dug to accommodate small statues of Joan of Arc and Jeanne Hachette. The overall feel is quietly pleasant and harmonious, devoid of the defensive and threatening dimension that characterizes the riverside façade.
"Ta daaa!" Xavière exclaimed as she jumped out of the car. "What do you think, dear Lena? Isn't the decor up to your grandest dreams?"
"I don't know what decor means, but I'm sure it's the case..." Lena said, looking up as her mouth was taking the shape of an O. Her eyes and mouth widened even further when their host, Bénigne, came out to greet them. Tall, a little lanky, with blue eyes, messy light brown hair and a big mouth with an irresistibly crooked smile, Bénigne was the very image of the nice unpretentious guy. The kind of person who loves everyone, so that everyone can not help but love him in return. "Men... Han är visst inte alls ful... He is not bad-looking at all..." Lena muttered under her breath.
"Hey, hi, you must be Lena? Welcome to the castle of La Guerche! Xavière, Galatea, please show her the way. Hurry up, most people have already arrived! Go pick your mattress and put your stuff away, then come back downstairs, the visit is starting soon."
"Every time we are treated to a guided tour," Galatea slipped to Lena. "What's nice is that it is just as interesting the second or third time than the first, as Bénigne's cousin is an inexhaustible well of stories... plus you get to know everyone at once!"
A small but lively group had already gathered at the foot of the grand staircase of the square tower when the girls came to join. Silence fell as a very tall young man with ruffled hair and a protruding Adam's apple, stationing himself on the first step, took a deep breath and, with the characteristic eloquence of the seasoned guide and passionate historian he was, began his presentation of the castle: "When André Villequier, direct vassal of Charles VII, began building the castle of La Guerche in 1450, the Hundred Years War had just finished. To understand the architecture of the gatehouse, towards which we will now start walking, you must understand that the castle is built on the banks of the river Creuse, a strategic position: the Creuse was indeed the boundary between the Capetians and Plantagenets during the Hundred Years War. But it is also a border between the regions of Poitiers and Tours, and the Touraine region was richer than the Poitou region on the other side. As a consequence, the royal salt tax was much higher in Touraine than in Poitou, fueling traffic on the river. The castle's defensive vocation of border control reads clearly on the river side facade: look at those arrow slits, those canon ports, those machicolations, and of course the drawbridge..."
During this speech, the small group had gradually moved from the square tower (center point of the house as it gives access to the kitchen, the lounges and the grand staircase leading to the bedrooms and attics) to the gatehouse. The newcomers, those who for the first time had been invited by Bénigne, one of his cousins, or by a participant in a previous weekend, walked at the front with the concentrated and vaguely stunned expression of victims of some violent time shock - really, what a contrast to the city life they had left behind only this morning! At the back, the regulars quietly greeted each other: Xavière and Galatea happily reacquainted themselves with this small group bound by the unique complicity these "weekends Guerchois" had created between them. There were Jerome, the globe-trotting oil engineer with his joyful enthusiasm and hilarious anecdotes; Samia, the Belgian researcher who had just returned from a mission to study malaria in Africa; Martin, the son of the Norwegian Ambassador in Paris, now a consultant for McKinsey in London - an adorable nerd with sweet dreamy eyes hidden behind steel-framed glasses; and many others.
From the gatehouse, the small group took a narrow winding stone staircase down to the vaulted rooms of the basement: prison, artillery casemates and granaries in a row. The highlight of the visit was a room in the shape of a dome with amazing acoustics, probably meant for storing grain. While his cousin was pursuing his explanation, Bénigne had started getting impatient: "And... this is where the visit ends, and where we begin our famous game of hide and seek. Let me remind you the rules: it is forbidden to speak, the half of the group to my left will try to get out of the basement without getting caught, while the other half will try to stop them by catching them and bringing them back to the prison - 1, 2, 3, lights out!" he exclaimed triumphantly as his cousin stopped speaking. The level of excitement suddenly jumped up a few notches as everything and everyone was suddenly plunged into the deepest darkness. Hastily retreating a few steps, Lena felt the icy, damp wall against her back. Around her, she could hear murmurs, muffled laughters, rustling sounds, hesitant footsteps. The atmosphere was both icy and electric, intense. Something brushed against her bare arm and she jumped out. "Shh, it's Bénigne! Come on, the exit is this way..." A warm hand grasped hers and, with hesitant steps, she started walking, her free hand stretched forward to ward off potential obstacles. Behind her, she heard a muffled cry. In front of her to the right, a few hurried steps were followed by the sound of someone falling. The vaulted walls and massive pillars echoed, amplified or stifled sounds in strange and wonderful ways, and Lena felt herself shiver with fear and anticipation. It was difficult to judge their progress because she only had a vague idea of the exact direction of, and distance to the exit, but something was telling her that they would not reach it without encountering someone else - another prisoner if they were lucky - or a pillar, or perhaps a wall.
Just as she was formulating this thought to herself, several things happened simultaneously: something or someone hit Bénigne hard, pulling his hand from hers and projecting him back abruptly; someone behind her panicked and let out a sharp cry; and something grazed the top of her head. "A bat!" she thought, immediately diving to the side. She stumbled and fell, scraping her arm on the wall. A moment later, silence and a relative calmness had returned, but it was obvious that danger was close - Bénigne's silence, even though he must be close, was evidence enough. Lena silently stood up and, pressing herself against the wall, resumed her progression in what she hoped was the direction of the exit. Her scratched forearm burned a little - "Now I am the one leaving my mark on the walls of the prison," she thought, remembering the prisoners' engravings that Bénigne's cousin had showed them earlier. She finally reached a corner and, remembering that the stairs leading to the ground floor started near a corner in the first cave, fingered the wall forward with hope: there, a corner! And it was definitely a step she felt, there under her foot! She rushed up the stairs and, dazzled by the sudden light falling from a large chandelier, emerged in the gatehouse which a few other "prisoners" had already reached, and where a fractious and buoyant atmosphere reigned. Jerome and Xavière, who were animatedly debating the game's various possible strategies and their respective effectiveness, interrupted themselves when they saw Lena's disheveled look:
"Well, it looks like the newbie encountered some difficulties along the way!" Jerome exclaimed with the cheerful frankness that characterized him.
"She even left Bénigne behind," added Xavière. "Too bad when he'd positioned himself so strategically close to you before turning off the lights. How in the word did you manage to lose him?"
Lena blushed a little and didn't answer, pretending to check her scratch. Already other prisoners were emerging from the depths of the castle and rushing excitedly to share their stories. Then it was the guards' turn, many of whom wore beautiful bumps as testimony of slightly too enthusiastic embraces with the pillars, or impromptu hugs with swift prisoners. In the end, everyone walked back to the main house. A small group gathered in the gray lounge around two guitar players, and soon scout and bawdy songs filled up the air in a joyous succession; in the next room, another group was playing pool; others, a beer in hand, had slumped in armchairs and were busy putting the world to rights. Among the latter group, too tired to really pay attention to a conversation held in a too fast and informal French, Lena was wondering where Bénigne was: he had most definitely come out of the basement towards the end, but had immediately disappeared again... Not far from her, Xavière was engaged in a fierce debate on the compared situation of women in France, Sweden and the United States: "Everyone in France think women have a better life in the Nordic countries and even the United States, but having lived there I assure you that it is not the case. The endless maternal leave in Sweden is a disaster, and as far as the USA are concerned, given the cost of daycare, lots of women stop working - or don't have children. Frankly, from my point of view, France is really not badly off." Heated by a discussion on a topic that was dear to her, her long blond hair was flying and her blue eyes flashed. "She's really beautiful," thought Lena. She could also hear Galatea's low laugh in the next room, where she was the center of male attention as always, as she was playing pool. "And Galatea is never short of energy, especially when there are boys around." Lena thought again, stifling a yawn.
Standing up from her chair, she was getting ready to take leave for the night when Bénigne suddenly burst into the living room and walked straight to her. Taking her hand in his and plunging his eyes in hers, he put something in her hand and asked: "Gente damsel, you never cease to amaze me: I was told to expect a sophisticated Swede, but I believe this simple piece of jewelry belongs to a small slanted-eyed girl who arrived tonight..."
"Uh, I am adopted from Korea, but I am indeed Swedish." Lena stammered, confused. Glancing down, she looked at the object Bénigne had dropped in her hand: "Oh, my medallion! I hadn't realized I'd lost it! It probably came off when I fell... Oh, thank you so much!"
"A medallion? What medallion?" asked Galatea, who was just entering the room with a swaying gait.
"You know, my birth medallion, the one I always wear," Lena said, showing it to her.
Galatea seized the medallion and looked at it. It was a round medal mounted on a chain, representing the profile of a gray lion's head, circled in red against a black background. Although very special, the jewel didn't indeed give any sense of preciousness - being painted, it was not even possible to tell what metal it was made of.
"Hey, it's fake!" teased Xavière, who had come closer. "Plus, it doesn't go with anything!"
"Ugh, you don't know nothing, dude!" Lena retorted, deadpan. "This is a super important symbol. It is the emblem of a Korean secret mafia whose members are actively tracked in Korea, even today."
"Oh really? Then where did you get this thing from? Did you become a member at birth, and your parents sent you away to infiltrate Sweden?" Xavière quipped.
Lena straightened herself up as tall as she could and gave her a condescending look: "Nope. But like any self-respecting mafia, they were involved in child-trafficking. Obviously."
"In any case, to be in this condition after being worn so long, it must be famous quality." Galatea observed, pragmatic.
"But definitely not Lena's style." Xavière concluded laughingly. "Sorry we cheated you on the goods, dear Bénigne!" With that, Bénigne laughed, Lena blushed, and everyone decided to go to bed.
Stereotypically, it's the crowing of a rooster that woke up the girls the next morning. Dawn, with its famously rosy fingers, was caressing the most austere façade of the castle, on the river side, on which the girls' bedroom windows opened. This room alone, like most rooms of the castle, was large enough to hold an entire standard Paris or New York apartment. The floor was covered in crimson brick, there was a huge fireplace, and the walls were thick enough to have stored enough summer heat to keep the castle warm for several more weeks. Yet, by modern standards, it was cold in the room that morning: Xavière was first to push back her blankets and run towards the only bathroom before the inevitable line started to form. Her ablutions completed, she walked down to the kitchen. Because she loved to cook, she generally enjoyed being part of the team that prepared food for everyone. The menu was simple and invariable given the volumes to prepare: pasta bolognaise or carbonara for Saturday lunchtime, quiche and salad on Saturday night, pancake brunch on Sunday morning - after which everyone was busy tidying and cleaning before getting on their way home.
This time however, Xavière didn't feel in the mood to stay in the kitchen, and it is above all the prospect of a large bowl of coffee that was pulling her in that direction. As she told Bénigne's mother, who was already there: "I already feel like I spend my life cooking for Karl and my daughter at home, so enough of that! Today, I am doing something else. Let's see... Playing tennis? Trimming the chestnut trees? Snatching ivy from the facade? Chopping wood? How do you want us to make ourselves useful this time, Mrs de Crouy?"
Bénigne's mother was a generous woman, and insightful too: "Well Xavière, what's happening to you? This is the first time I see you not wanting to do something... You who are so determined and sure of yourself, it is not like you either to be asking me what to do."
"Ah, it must be the crisis of the thirties, or perhaps middle-life crisis, I don't know!" Xavière joked, sitting by the large oakwood table and setting her bowl on the rustic oilcloth. "Now, I can hardly complain: I have a nice, Brad Pitt lookalike guy, a little girl who everyone says is my spitting image, and a real career in a sexy industry. No, really nothing to complain about... and besides, I don't really see what else I could ask for. Except perhaps more time to train my mare and compete internationally with her - but isn't this just one of those inevitable compromises you have to make in life?"
"What exactly have you been doing since you moved to the United States, I don't think I know?"
"I work in so-called venture capital. In other words, I review startups and business plans, and decide whether or not my company, General Electric, should invest in them. Then I follow-up on the investments that have been made, keeping my fingers crossed that a minimum of those ends up badly... It's pretty glamorous because it's Silicon Valley, with all its vibrancy, the feeling of being close to where innovation happens, all that. But in practice, my role is primarily that of a censor - a little bit like a bouncer at a club who decides who is admitted to the party. And the intellectual investment is fairly limited in the end. As for my real and practical impact on the world, let's not even get there..."
"But besides that, you have lived in Paris, Stockholm and now in San Francisco. And you have some great friends with whom you're going to spend a wonderful weekend. What could be better?" Galatea had just entered into the room and throwed her arms around Xavière's neck, embracing her until she choked on her coffee.
"Come on, like you don't know my dilemma, Galatea: I have always done everything very well and everyone envies me, but I'm bored... Karl has no major fault but we mostly try to stay out of each other's way, motherhood annoys me much more than it fulfills me, and professionally well... I'm not going to change the world, and what I do just doesn't thrill me. It's trite, but I'm frustrated - and yet I don't see what else I could aspire to. The only thing that really makes me vibrate is when I'm on the back of my little Sophyra for a 160km endurance race... Perhaps I am just addicted to endorphins and adrenaline?"
Frowning and putting on a half-straight face as she sat down at the big table, Galatea said: "I think what you need is a hare: someone or something that makes you dream, motivates you and gives spice to your life - without you necessarily having to catch it. In fact, it's even better if you can't catch it, because this way it stays fresh and magic in your mind..."
"Ah, right there, girls, you're going too far for me - I can not endorse prompting a woman in a relationship to fantasize about other men!" interrupted Bénigne's mother laughingly, not really shocked though, a former flower power girl as she was. "But you know, Xavière, you don't need an objective reason to be upset, or want more, or something else. In fact, it is probably the best motor in life. Now it just remains to define what you want, and do not have today. For example the skills to trim a chestnut tree?
"Indeed, this is an absolute deficit in my knowledge base, which I'll try to fill today!" Xavière smiled as she finished her coffee.
When she came out on the porch, a few rays of sunshine were just touching the fountain, over the chestnut trees that surrounded the courtyard. The day promised to be radiant, one of those autumn days that make you long for a walk in the woods with your feet shooting away dead leaves, or a trail ride on a happy horse in the cottony early morning fog. "Too bad Sophyra is far from here." Xavière thought as she lifted up her arms and stretched with a little grunt.
While the "weekends Guerchois" organized by Bénigne and his cousins initially had for sole purpose to have a good time with friends, the concept had quickly evolved to include the completion of minor maintenance tasks. The idea had come from the guests themselves, who on one hand felt indebted to Bénigne's family, on the other hand enjoyed the vigorous physical exercise – a rare treat for these urban intellectuals: most participants were indeed friends from grande ecole - a very French concept referring to the handful of highly selective (and usually urban) institutions that produce the elite of French engineers and managers. Xavière, Galatea and Bénigne were thus all three graduates of HEC, supposedly the best European business school; Jerome, Martin the Norwegian and several others were in turn alumni of the famous Ecole Polytechnique, known for producing the cream of engineers. Around this core, multiple free electrons had hitched on over time, friends of friends or acquaintances made through work or during an internship: thus Lena, invited by Xavière, or the Belgian Samia whom Galatea had introduced to the group the previous year. All were welcome as long as they were, as Bénigne plainly expressed it, "cool, relaxed, friendly." And you had better be when it came to sleeping on bare mattresses in rooms without heating, sharing one bathroom with fifty people, or feasting on simple dishes prepared with first price ingredients.
Because it was fall, most of the work planned this time had to do with the park: pruning and collecting firewood, sweeping driveways, performing small masonry. All this interspersed with tennis games and a little lazing around in the sun. By mid-morning, everyone was busy: while Lena and Bénigne had teamed up for a double on the tennis court, Galatea had joined the team of tree trimmers, and dazzled every single male with her prowess as a climber - or her scathing comments. Martin, Xavière and Samia were dissipatedly and cheerfully painting the window frames of the building that once served as a stable, and was now a coach museum:
"So Martin, still in cahoots with capitalists and dictators?" Samia asked.
"And how about you Samia, still penniless and up to your neck in bureaucracy?" Martin retorted.
"Now, now, children." Xavière tempered, "Tell me rather about your most recent trips. You are probably my only two friends who really know Africa, so please join forces instead of bickering... Phew, at least you two get to experience true adventure, and contribute to the advancement of the world..."
"Yeah, right, the African adventures of a McKinsey consultant, that must be really exciting and full of adventure... not!" Samia said sarcastically.
"Of course, not everyone can work for the eradication of malaria by dedicatedly going in the field in hope to collect firsthand data. Some of us try instead to give good advice to governments and businesses, in order to achieve sustainable economic growth, too." Martin replied somewhat learnedly.
Xavière smiled, dipping her brush into the paint - these two would always amuse her. Both had a big heart, and each was contributing in his way to the development of Africa. But while Samia was a public health researcher intense about getting her hands dirty in order to understand populations' real issues, including in the poorest corners of the continent, Martin, in his capacity of management consultant for one of the most prestigious firms in the world, worked mainly with high-level counterparts. The only person missing in this conversation was Jerome who, as engineer on an oil rig, spent much time along the African coast and was an endless source of colorful anecdotes.
Suddenly, happy shouts could be heard from the tennis courts: Xavière, Samia and Martin turned around to see Bénigne and Lena with their arms up in the air, visibly elated. A second later, Bénigne had pulled Lena, who didn't resist it much, in a tight hug - their embrace lasted just a moment longer than was necessary, and Xavière commented: "Those two are going to have fun tonight at the party..."
As it turns out, with everyone busy as they were, the evening in question came very fast: soon it was time to put away all tools and get ready for the dance. One of the lounges, whose floor didn't creak too badly, had been equipped with a sound system and a stroboscope to become a dance floor. In the adjacent room were several sofas and a pool table and bar. Finally, the lounge closest to the kitchen was where one could find some solid energy: savory quiches, salads, fruit and various sweet cakes were offered to the appetites of the workers now converted into party animals.
As a significant proportion of these belonged to the old French nobility, a lot of rock was danced: Versailles-style rock n' roll - marking the rhythm with the right hand firmly holding that of the partner, left hand behind the back, heels striking the ground - or traditional six-beat rock n' roll as gracefully danced by Xavière. As she swirled to the beat of "Don't stop me now" or "Love really hurts without you" – long legs molded in skinny jeans, round butt with a supple sway, thin and overly arched waist, tanned shoulders and arms with well-defined muscles, not to mention the thick ponytail waving to her every move - she was the picture of health, of energy, of a triumphantly athletic youth.
Galatea, on the other hand, was the queen of the dance floor when Xavière no longer was - that is to say, when the good old rocks gave way to pop and dance rhythms. Not that she danced in a particularly creative, or demonstrative, or even sensual way - but there was something about her that made it impossible to any man or woman around her to look elsewhere. Was it her broad smile with bright perfectly aligned teeth, contrasting with her dark skin - a tad carnivorous, as the mischievous Xavière liked to put it, but so engaging? Or her sparkling and expressive green eyes? Or perhaps the memory of the multiple ambiguous remarks and half-subtle small jokes she couldn't help but let out as soon as there were men around her? Whatever the reason, the lyrics of the song "Sexy, naughty, bitchy me" on which she was currently undulating fit her like a glove:
"I pick all my skirts to be a little too sexy
Just like all of my thoughts they always get a bit naughty
When I'm out with my girls I always play a bit bitchy
Can't change the way I am sexy naughty bitchy me
I'm the kind of girl that girls don't like
I'm the kind that boys fantasize
I'm the kind that your momma and your daddy were afraid you'd turn out to be like
I may seem unapproachable but that's only to the boys who don't have
The right approach or ride that makes a girl like me wanna hop in and roll
People think it's intimidating when a girl is cool with her sexuality
I'm a 180 to the stereotype girls like staying home and being innocent
My mouth never takes a holiday
I always shock with the things I say
I was always the kid in school who turned up to each class about an hour late
And when it came to the guys I'd lay, I'd always pick the ones who won't figure out
That I am clearly a rebel to the idea of monogamy"
When the song ended and she headed for the exit, more than one man took a step to follow her, but tonight she was ignoring them all. Bypassing the large pool table and the busy players surrounding it, she grabbed the iPhone she'd left on the fireplace's mantelpiece and sank into a sofa. For the twentieth time that day, she opened the instant messaging application, dragging her thumb across the screen to force the update. The phone buzzed and a name appeared in bold at the top of the screen. Ah, finally! He'd answered! With the smile of a cat before which a blackbird just landed, she jumped up and went to sit outside on the porch, desert at this time. "Boy, you're hooked, hooked, hooked! As a pike!" she whispered to the night sky. Ah, the sweet thrill mixing jubilation to have reached her goal, and sexual excitement at the thought of what was to come, how nice it was! Thinking back about the frustration expressed by Xavière that morning, she reflected: "Me, my career is going nowhere and my boyfriend is a pain, which is worse, but at least I know how to cheer myself up!" She had no sooner had this thought that its subject suddenly appeared in the flesh, seemingly out of nowhere:
"Hey, you haven't seen Lena?"
"No, she's disappeared. She must be somewhere with Bénigne... I imagine the worst!" Galatea laughed. "You know her better than I do, but I thought she was rather prudent?"
"She is, so this surprises me a bit of her. Back when we got to know each other in Sweden, she was the type to look, tease but not touch. It seems that Bénigne ticks enough boxes on her long list of the qualities of the ideal guy." Xavière giggled, dropping beside Galatea. "But what about you, what are you doing all alone in the dark? Are you moping, or day-dreaming?"
"Neither one nor the other, my dear, I am enjoying myself! My most recent target has finally taken the first step which inevitably..."Galatea handed her phone to Xavière: "Here you go, he is not very original with his "What are you doing this weekend?" but I forgive him this time!"
"Yes, this time - and once you'll have "concluded", as you say, you will begin to find him tacky and will realize that he is not as smart or intellectually powerful than you thought - come on, I know the pattern! You're a female Don Juan, is all you are!" Xavière commented with the confident smirk of someone who knew what she was talking about.
"... And I will become all lovey dovey with my official again, which is to the benefit of everyone!" Galatea added with a mischievous smile.
"And who is he, this poor guy who has just fallen into the net of the voracious Galatea?"
"The CEO of one of the CAC402 companies. Married with three kids, bored with his wife. I met him at a party organized by my company." Galatea worked for the French leader in nuclear energy, Avero, and at her hierarchical level it was not uncommon to be asked to fine parties gathering leaders of the French industry.
"Classic profile for you, eh? Don't rush it too much, enjoy it, these are the best moments!" Xavière laughed.
"No risk that I rush it, I'm in Seoul next week to negotiate a big contract. He'll have to marinate a bit... Ah là là, I'm quite exhilarated: this guy is really fascinating, a true big gun: smart, very smart even, with an upward-moving career, very cultured, an art collector by the way... Enough to distract me from that idiot CFO of the World Bank - a freaky thing, I swear, a lot less funny. The kind of guy who starts by very seriously offering me a job, but then decides that after all I'm cute and he'd rather go out with me. Exit the job at the World Bank, and it's just the second time this happens to me..."
"Yes, you'd already told me, it's a shame. He still hasn't given up, this one?"
"Ugh, no, and I don't dare telling him off completely. What can I do, only men of power truly attract me, and it turns out that I attract them too – that's just the way it is. The problem is that either they fall in love with me without me being aware, or when it is reciprocal they lose all their aura as soon as they give in and fall to the level of basic guy, with the same compromises and cowardice..."
Galatea spoke in a direct manner and without frills, but Xavière knew that her best friend suffered from the situation: while professionally she fought hard without achieving significant success, on a personal level power fell into her arms, literally - but only temporarily satisfied her, when it didn't instead come in the way of her career goals.
"Seoul? That's cool, have you talked to Lena about it? I don't think she's ever traveled to Korea, but she was born there so she might be interested..."
"No, I need to speak to her about it. We'll have time tomorrow, on the way back. Phew, this Korean deal is a big opportunity for me, at least I hope it will be. Everything in my life is a drama right now, frankly it's ridiculous how I'm boiling internally but nothing happens. Like a pot of water with nothing else in it: I boil, but the only thing I produce is steam... With this deal, though, if - and I mean if - they give me a free hand and I succeed, I might finally have my chance to make a splash, and get noticed in a big way.
"Well, I sincerely wish you good luck. Me, the most exciting thing that awaits me professionally in the coming weeks is a tech conference in San Diego..." Xavière sighed.
A brief silence fell, almost immediately interrupted by the irruption of a disheveled Lena: "Hey girls, Bénigne proposes a game of "I have never", are you coming?"
Galatea and Xavière looked at each other: "Great!" Galatea exclaimed enthusiastically, while Xavière grumbled: "Completely stupid!" but willingly stood up. When they entered the middle lounge, a small group was already sitting in a circle on the varnished wooden floor, the dim light falling from the chandelier barely illuminating their faces. The atmosphere, in short, seemed conducive to alcoholic confessions. Lena went to sit next to Bénigne and Galatea exclaimed: "Come on, guys, no need to wait any longer! Let the game begin!" And, seizing a bottle of vodka, she started filling the cups that Bénigne was passing around. When everyone was served and comfortable, Bénigne started, with a nod to Galatea: "I have never... cheated on my official boyfriend or girlfriend!" Galatea gave him a cursory glance, and emptied her glass along with Bénigne himself. Since nobody else had been drinking, she immediately went on: "I have never... kissed more than one girl or boy in the same evening!" Again, Galatea and Bénigne were the only ones to drink.
It went otherwise, however, on the next round, when Bénigne said: "I have never... teased someone, or let someone believe I was truly interested in them, without subsequently concluding!".The atmosphere warmed up a little as several participants raised their glass. Lena was the first to drink, blushing, and immediately took over: "I have never... fantasized for months about someone without daring to take action!" "This one is for me!" Xavière announced as she finally drank. "I was the only one drinking, so it counts triple. If you don't mind, Bénigne and Galatea, we will lower the level a notch so that everyone here can get everyone else drunk in peace, ok? So... I have never been drunk in my life!" As the smart girl had expected, she was the only one not drinking this time, and immediately went on: "I have never kept a list of criteria that my boyfriends or girlfriends must meet!" Again, many glasses went up, including Lena's. "And finally, I have never had as first criterion on this list, the word 'rich'." This time, Lena was the only one drinking.
"Ha, I owe you one, my friend!" she called out, her dark almond-shaped eyes crinkling in preparation for the blow she was about to inflict. "I have never... dreamed to leave job, spouse and child to live a great adventure!" Silence fell sharply as everyone realized what Lena had said. With a little embarrassed laugh, Xavière raised her glass: "All right, one on me!" she admitted before emptying it.
Somehow, at La Guerche, Sunday morning was only the continuation of Saturday night - literally for those who, like Lena, had spent a sleepless night. Xavière, who had remained relatively sober and gone to bed several hours before dawn, got up early and, ignoring her fatigue, went running in the countryside as brunch was getting ready - what better way to recover from a night of excess than a dozen kilometers covered at an easy tempo in the cool of the early morning? She'd had time to complete her run, take a shower and eat several pancakes when Galatea finally surfaced, under the derisive cheers of the small group gathered around the large tables erected in the courtyard. "Of course not, I don't have a hangover!" she asserted, refusing however to take off her sunglasses and chain-drinking coffee cup on coffee cup. "I just realized that it was almost time to leave!" And indeed: pancakes eaten, tables put away, floors polished and vacuumed, luggage packed - soon it was time to say goodbye to the castle and to this unforgettable weekend - as unforgettable as those who had preceded it, and as the ones who would likely follow it.
Not for everyone though: when Xavière and Galatea came down the beautiful marble staircase, laden with their sleeping bags and suitcases, Lena, who had seemed to avoid them earlier, came to meet them: "Um, hey, girls... Would you mind it very much if I didn't come with you for the return trip? Bénigne offered to take me to the airport, and I've already changed my flight so I can leave later..." Galatea and Xavière smiled: "Not at all... It's not like we didn't expect it." Galatea said. "Have fun... Och var inte för snall med honom, han förtjänar en liten läxa!" added Xavière – who from a few years spent in Sweden spoke a fairly fluent Swedish -, as a discreet warning. This definitely wasn't like Lena, who loved to take her suitors through an elaborate obstacle course... How would the kind little Swede cope with the lovely but fickle Bénigne, great lover of life, parties and girls before the Lord?
As everyone was coming out onto the courtyard and exchanged goodbyes, promises to meet again soon and phone numbers, the silence was gradually thickening inside the castle. All around the girls, in its august and splendid majesty, the vast building seemed like it was gathering itself in anticipation of the calmer days ahead. Simultaneously, as this wonderful parenthesis of flighty playfulness was about to close, the three girls were feeling the weight of their expectations settling again on their shoulders. When they came out on the porch, they stopped for a moment and looked up at the two small white marble statues, half hidden in their alcoves, who were considering their small group with their indecipherable stare: Joan of Arc and Jeanne Hachette, the heroines. Xavière sighed, and suddenly, firmly, exclaimed: "Come on girls, we also are warriors, heroes, winners! When we come back here next spring, I bet you that we'll have plenty to make these ladies proud of us!"
1 Simone de Beauvoir, She came to stay (French, L'Invitée). Gallimard, 1943. Set in Paris on the eve of and during World War II, the novel revolves around Françoise, whose open relationship with her partner Pierre becomes strained when they enter a ménage à trois with her younger friend Xavière. The novel explores many existentialist concepts such as those of freedom, angst, the other.
2 The CAC40 is the French equivalent of the American Dow Jones Industrial or S&P 500 indexes.