Moroccan pillows brought back from her frequent Marrakech holidays with the Musician, and ottomans surrounding a low table covered in liquor bottles and ashtrays. Sharif and Tarentina shared an ottoman and a joint while I kept to the edge of a lumpy purple sofa next to Maribel and Naomi. The couples—Loic and Dominique, and Saira and Stef—took to the floor.
Sharif’s friend turned out to be his cousin, Cato, which Loic alerted “is not a French name.”
“My given name is Felix.”
“I think nicknames are a farce,” Tarentina shot back with an eye on me. “A Danish guy once called me Tina and I rammed my mobile into his crotch for taking liberties.”
She threw her head back with laughter, one of her moves for flirting with the whole room, and everyone else laughed, too. But I felt Cato’s eyes fall my way.
Sharif said his father was Moroccan, which is why he had an Arab name, but his mother would call him Serge in public and within certain circles. Depending on the company, he’d play the part of the little French boy or the little Maghreb son.
“What does she call you now?” Naomi asked.
“She doesn’t call me anything. She’s dead.”
Everyone fell quiet, so Sharif told us the story of his parents’ meeting in “quintessential French form, at beach resort in Agadir.” She was a twenty-two-year-old university student onholiday with friends and he was a guitarist on the entertainment staff. Some girls exchanged glances and let out nervous, confessional laughter.
“You see,” Sharif mocked them. “It’s a common story.”
I looked to his Cato to see his reaction and saw his eyes were already on me, looking for mine.
The night ended around four. Those of us who remained left to our rooms, while Sharif pressed up to Tarentina in her doorway, but she pointed him out with a finger to his chest.
Cato waited for Sharif by the top of the stairs across from my room.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said as I unlocked my door and stepped inside.
“Same to you.”
I had an instinct the moment could be unfolded and pushed myself to say more.
“Do you live nearby?”
“No, I live on the coast, a few hours north, but I’m staying on rue Vaneau for now.”
That wasn’t more than two or three blocks away from Séraphine’s.
“Are you on vacation?”
He shook his head. “I came for a funeral. This morning.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I felt like an idiot for asking.
“It’s okay. It was my grandfather. He was one hundred and two. He was always complaining that he was bored with life. Nobody was as surprised as he was that he lived so long.”
Sharif made his way down the hall toward us, giving a final glance back to Tarentina, but she had her boys she gave into andothers she preferred to keep simmering. Cato’s eyes didn’t leave me as Sharif started down the stairs ahead of him. I waved good-bye and slowly closed the door between us but didn’t step away until I heard their steps fade into the foyer below and the creaky house doors push open and lock shut behind them.
4
We might have all been greenblood progeny, but I had a very different relationship to money than the other girls, who went on daily shopping sprees on Faubourg Saint-Honoré, or rue Cambon, where some boutiques even closed so Saira and Dominique could shop privately. The girls always tore off the tags before coming home because, Tarentina warned me, the maids had a habit of stealing from every girl in the house but Saira, because they were afraid of her father. When I went into a shop alone, which was rare enough, the sales people ignored me or followed me around, and not because they were looking to make a sale. My housemates teased me, called me a stingy sous pincher, but I thought that kind of wild spending is learned at home, along with the dreamy faith that a new outfit can have the power to change a life.
Most of the other girls had never worked and didn’t plan on a career beyond the task of marrying well,
Sharif’s friend turned out to be his cousin, Cato, which Loic alerted “is not a French name.”
“My given name is Felix.”
“I think nicknames are a farce,” Tarentina shot back with an eye on me. “A Danish guy once called me Tina and I rammed my mobile into his crotch for taking liberties.”
She threw her head back with laughter, one of her moves for flirting with the whole room, and everyone else laughed, too. But I felt Cato’s eyes fall my way.
Sharif said his father was Moroccan, which is why he had an Arab name, but his mother would call him Serge in public and within certain circles. Depending on the company, he’d play the part of the little French boy or the little Maghreb son.
“What does she call you now?” Naomi asked.
“She doesn’t call me anything. She’s dead.”
Everyone fell quiet, so Sharif told us the story of his parents’ meeting in “quintessential French form, at beach resort in Agadir.” She was a twenty-two-year-old university student onholiday with friends and he was a guitarist on the entertainment staff. Some girls exchanged glances and let out nervous, confessional laughter.
“You see,” Sharif mocked them. “It’s a common story.”
I looked to his Cato to see his reaction and saw his eyes were already on me, looking for mine.
The night ended around four. Those of us who remained left to our rooms, while Sharif pressed up to Tarentina in her doorway, but she pointed him out with a finger to his chest.
Cato waited for Sharif by the top of the stairs across from my room.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said as I unlocked my door and stepped inside.
“Same to you.”
I had an instinct the moment could be unfolded and pushed myself to say more.
“Do you live nearby?”
“No, I live on the coast, a few hours north, but I’m staying on rue Vaneau for now.”
That wasn’t more than two or three blocks away from Séraphine’s.
“Are you on vacation?”
He shook his head. “I came for a funeral. This morning.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I felt like an idiot for asking.
“It’s okay. It was my grandfather. He was one hundred and two. He was always complaining that he was bored with life. Nobody was as surprised as he was that he lived so long.”
Sharif made his way down the hall toward us, giving a final glance back to Tarentina, but she had her boys she gave into andothers she preferred to keep simmering. Cato’s eyes didn’t leave me as Sharif started down the stairs ahead of him. I waved good-bye and slowly closed the door between us but didn’t step away until I heard their steps fade into the foyer below and the creaky house doors push open and lock shut behind them.
4
We might have all been greenblood progeny, but I had a very different relationship to money than the other girls, who went on daily shopping sprees on Faubourg Saint-Honoré, or rue Cambon, where some boutiques even closed so Saira and Dominique could shop privately. The girls always tore off the tags before coming home because, Tarentina warned me, the maids had a habit of stealing from every girl in the house but Saira, because they were afraid of her father. When I went into a shop alone, which was rare enough, the sales people ignored me or followed me around, and not because they were looking to make a sale. My housemates teased me, called me a stingy sous pincher, but I thought that kind of wild spending is learned at home, along with the dreamy faith that a new outfit can have the power to change a life.
Most of the other girls had never worked and didn’t plan on a career beyond the task of marrying well,
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