21 Steps to Happiness by F. G. Gerson Page A

we need to whisper. Carolina is asleep in her bed. She has just arrived from Nigeria and models for Elite. Carolina is not her real name. Her real name is too hard to pronounce and sounds vaguely like Carolina.
    â€œI like her. We’re not very serious about each other yet, but I could fall in love with her. She has the potential to become big. Who knows? She’s so young.”
    We bend over her like two fairies watching over the little sleeping princess, planning her bright future. Muriel pushes me into her private office.
    Only, it’s not private—or an office—at all. There is a sofa, clearly being used as a bed, and a horribly messy desk. Seated behind the desk is a very thin man of indefinite age. He’s typing on a laptop computer. He finally stops and takes a look at us. We are part of another world to him, like he really can’t see us, but merely feels our presence.
    â€œBonjour,” he says.
    â€œThat’s Stephan. He’s my favorite writer.”
    Stephan lives in the apartment, too. He never ever leaves it, apparently. He is the only French person in here. He has been writing for years and, in the opinion of all the editors he has sent his prose to, he is the most untalented writer of his generation.
    â€œThat’s exactly why I love him. He doesn’t compromise.”
    Stephan’s skin is yellow, turning green, like his eyes. He looks sick.
    â€œHe never eats. That’s worrying,” Muriel says, sighing in a maternal way. Or at least as maternal as someone like Muriel can get.
    He wears nothing but an old, very dirty bathrobe, and his skinny limbs coming out of it make him look like a dying insect.
    â€œLynn is from New York,” Muriel tells him. She speaks slowly and loudly as if he were her deaf grandfather.
    â€œNew York! Yeah! Bagels!” That’s all he has to say about New York before resuming the frenetic typing.
    â€œHe doesn’t do drugs. He is naturally like that. Isn’t he great?”
    â€œHe is fantastic,” I say and I look around the office. I have been looking for traces of Nicolas’s presence. The apartment is in such a mess that it would be hard to say who lives here and who doesn’t. It should get mentioned in travel guides: If you are in Paris, look cool and are searching for a free place to stay, just move to Muriel B’s flat. All welcome!
    â€œThe flat used to belong to my grandmother. They gave it to me when she died. She had such terrible taste. Very bourgeois. ”
    â€œShouldn’t we call Nicolas?”
    â€œRelax, Lynn. One thing at a time. Today, we’re getting to know each other. Tomorrow, we can talk business and money.”
    By now, I have learned quite a few things about Muriel B. She frequents lesbian bars, runs a crazy bankrupt company and lives in an even crazier apartment. She still knows nothing about me but assumes that I can help her.
    We’re back in the living room. The Fat Breeders have found something more interesting to watch than MTV. Carolina has gotten out of bed wearing nothing but a tiny electric-blue G-string, hiding absolutely nothing of her long, beautiful, ebony body.
    She stretches and rubs her sleepy eyes and smiles when she sees Muriel. She does a few joyful leaps to take her in her arms. You would swear she still believes she is eight years old and doesn’t yet notice that she has a pair of amazing breasts.
    â€œHello, darling!”
    â€œPourquoi tu me parles en anglais?”
    â€œThis is Lynn. I told you about her. She’s Jodie Blanchett’s daughter.”
    Carolina doesn’t need more information. She bends over me and gives me a big kiss on the lips. And yes, I feel her naked breast against own less perky ones. I can feel the blood coming to my cheeks and I am sure that I am red as a tomato.
    â€œJ’ai faim!” Carolina yells and leaps happily toward the huge stainless-steel fridge.
    Muriel shrugs her shoulders.