The Suitors - By Cecile David-Weill Page 0,3

a room before an elderly person, or—if he were a man—remaining seated when a woman joined our company.

Although we relied on such conventions in judging the quality of people’s upbringing and character, we really judged our guests only according to their practice of understatement. This discipline, at which Marie and I excelled thanks to extensive training and observation, implied a certain modesty of tone and attitude. For example, we were reprimanded as children whenever we called the château where we spent our weekends anything other than a house, or the two-hundred-foot yacht on which we occasionally cruised anything fancier than a boat. We noticed that our grandmother ordered her sable coats shaved to make them look like mink and that our parents seated their guests on patio furniture without announcing that it had been designed by Sol LeWitt, and served them dinner on plates they never mentioned had been created by Picasso.

At the end of our Sunday evening, Marie and I would make one last effort: “What about Moumouche de Ganay? Gary Shoenberg? Or Perla de Cambray?”

“Now that’s a good idea,” our parents would murmur. “We really should think about that.”

But we already knew they would ignore our advice completely, because they’d never intended to take it in the first place. As usual, they would do as they pleased. And we would have to wait until we arrived at L’Agapanthe to find out whom they had cast as their guests for this summer and to discover that, in spite of all their precautions and the vaunted qualities of their visitors, the assembly would include, as everywhere else, its share of hypocrites, boors, and spongers.

That Sunday, however, nothing happened as expected, although my father did open the proceedings by complaining. Visibly depressed, my mother then bluntly declared that perhaps they were getting too old for the demands of such hospitality, so my father felt obliged to crack a joke.

“Do you know what the English say about the calamities of old age? Consider the alternative!”

Marie and I looked at each other: this was the first time our parents had ever revealed their vulnerable side. The first time they’d ever seemed to simply give up in front of us, in front of those whose role was supposedly to push them into their graves and take their places. We both hoped they hadn’t really thought about what they’d just said and wouldn’t take the shocking implications to heart.

For some time, now, we had been careful not to draw attention to the fact that we had grown up. Our friends, our lovers, our patients, our bosses had now become cabinet ministers, ambassadors, film directors, writers, CEOs of giant companies. In other words, we were sought-after young women, and they were getting old. We had done our best to let them stay in the spotlight, and Marie, who worked as an interpreter for the President of the Republic, was even careful not to let them know that she was privy to the results of national elections before the official announcement.

There was something odd, though, something disquieting about our parents’ behavior. It was as if there were a kind of faint haze between us. To my surprise, I found myself offering to provide them with new guests, home-delivered like a box of chocolates.

“Why don’t you just invite the usual suspects, and we’ll bring along the new ones? That way you won’t have to deal with any of it.”

My father agreed.

“That’s a good idea,” he said solemnly. And as I sat stunned by the enormity of what he had just said, he continued: “Avery good idea indeed. Particularly since we’re feeling less enthusiastic this year … because … you see, girls, we’ve decided to put L’Agapanthe up for sale.”

“What?” my sister and I exclaimed.

“Are you in some kind of financial trouble?” Marie blurted out, crossing in an instant a line we had always respected, the quid pro quo we honored in exchange for our parents’ tacit assurance of financial support.

“No.”

“Well, then, why?” I demanded, almost shouting.

“Come now, girls. It’s the only responsible thing to do, because no matter what you say, I don’t think either of you can afford to spend the millions necessary to maintain the place.”

That was a low blow, because he knew the state of our finances better than anyone else. Aside from my salary as a psychotherapist and Marie’s paycheck as an interpreter, our income came from him.

The verdict had been delivered. Contesting his decision was useless. Was my father hiding money problems from