The Parrot was closed, and the Blue Rabbit now little more than a brothel, but at the Nautilus, Blandeuil found Javier sitting in front of a gin and tonic. Odds were he would've found him there on any of the three thousand six hundred and fifty nights that had slipped by since the last time they'd seen each other.
"Well, look who it is!" Javier murmured. "You son of a bitch…"
Lola Balbo, no doubt. Blandeuil regretted not staying in bed. This drunk was going to congratulate him for seducing Lola Balbo. He'd probably use a different word. But the salacious gleam in Javier's eye winked out as though doused by a breaker of gin and tonic.
"So… how's the dolceola going?"
Relieved, Blandeuil replied that yeah, it was going pretty well, tours and concerts… "How about yourself?"
"Me? Ahhh… The gin-and-tonic makers can rest easy as long as I'm around!" Javier guffawed. Then: "Did they tell you about Xenia?"
Blandeuil nodded. Javier said no more.
There was a party at Bordenave's that night. Javier wouldn't have gone alone-Bordenave annoyed him, with his airs of a man who'd worked and succeeded-but with Blandeuil, why not? Everyone would see that he hadn't come to nibble from Bordenave's hand, but to keep Blandeuil company. Bordenave had moved; the former stockbroker now lived atop Belvedaire-that's right, old pal!
They bought two bottles of gin and left the Nautilus. They were in no hurry, stopping every hundred yards or so to knock back a swig of liquor.
At the foot of the hill, right before attempting the steep hill up Belvedaire, Blandeuil felt on his cheek the cold breath that came, winter and summer alike, from the nearby chasm.
"Remember how scared we were as kids?" he asked Javier, pointing to the old fence overgrown with Virginia creeper that blocked off access to the rift.
Javier nodded. "We'd climb the railing, and whoever went the farthest down…"
"Yeah… Bordenave was the best."
"You think? Anyway, that's where."
"That's where what?"
"Xenia. She beat out Bordenave! She went all the way down, headfirst."
Blandeuil's breath caught for a split second. At last, he knew. So it was here, in this chaos of rocks and moss, at whose bottom roared an underground river they called the Tartarus. He relived their games on the edge of the abyss. It could've been yesterday. It was. Ten years, twenty, the blink of an eye, and an entire lifetime were the same. He saw the gaping rift, its lips half-hidden by a mess of roots, vines, and tiny trees clinging to the walls; heartened, defying the vertiginous jungle, he saw them all again, Xenia in ankle socks and ponytail, Javier already pale and jaded, Bordenave the brave, and all the rest, even himself, awkward as though he'd had his dolceola in his arms all his life.
Bordenave greeted Blandeuil warmly and Javier less warmly; Javier annoyed him, with his airs of a man who drank and went slowly to seed. A small circle soon formed around Blandeuil. His childhood friends asked him about his trips and his concerts, but he could tell quite well they had something else on their minds. He listened to them with half an ear. They inspected him in light of the articles that had been in the papers a few years back. So this was the face-that build, those shoulders? hardly impressive, really-that Balbo had favored? That mouth, those hands had traveled the thrilling, trembling body of a star? Blandeuil grew flustered and wound up stopping in the middle of a sentence. There was a terrible silence. All eyes were on him, his audience hanging on his every word, as though the tale of his triumphant tour in Tierra del Fuego actually interested them. And then someone, God knew who, said Xenia's name. The circle broke; his listeners scattered, leaving him alone in the middle of the living room. He realized that, the whole time, he'd been holding the bottle of gin he'd started. It had seemed to him a casual, fashionable accessory. Suddenly it seemed vulgar. He looked around for Javier, to see what he'd done with his bottle. Javier had vanished. Was he sleeping it off in a corner? Or had he already headed back for the Nautilus, the cozy nest of his dereliction? Who knew? Blandeuil was really alone now, bottle in hand, cheeks burning, in the middle of a no-man's land of waxed parquet flooring. He brought the bottle to his lips, and, not really knowing whether he was doing it to look composed, or to put a finishing touch on the disaster, he took a long swallow of gin.
Later, sprawled in a lounger in the corner of the drawing room, he was finishing off the bottle when Philomena came to talk to him. Philomena, pretty Philomena! More beautiful than Xenia, maybe even more than Lola. Blandeuil wondered which of his friends had had the privilege of marrying her. He didn't have to think hard; it was probably Bordenave, a phoenix among hosts in this neck of the woods.
"W-well, p-pretty Philomena…"
She laid a ringed hand on his wrist, encircling it almost tenderly.
"You know, we often talked about it with the others…"
She fell silent, watching him from the depths of her eyes.
"Huh? About what?"
"Xenia. You. And we all came to the same conclusion: that you should join her."
"Join her? But-"
"What are you doing here? Not here, at our house, but here on earth, I mean. What are you doing? What do you think you're doing?"
"Heil! P-playing my music!" Blandeuil objected. "You're looking at the best do-dolceola player of our generation!"
"Poor thing! No one needs your dolceola; you can't even dance to it! But Xenia needs you-clown t ere.
Panicked, dumbfounded, Blandeuil tried to pull his arm back, but Philomena was strong, infinitely stronger than he.
"Down there?"
"There, at the bottom of the chasm, on the dark banks of the Tartarus, where she wanders, weeping. ."
Philomena pulled him to his feet and forced him across the room. As they passed the buffet, he left his empty bottle there. Bordenave and several guests-Xenia's closest friends, and perhaps his own, he thought in the drunken haze where he wandered-fell in behind them. They left the villa and started down the slope. Wasted as he was, Blandeuil never knew where he found the strength to break free of Philomena's grip. Still, he got away and started to run. Behind him rose cries of disapproval, but no one came after him. What, and break an ankle? No thanks! The Bordenaves and their guests shrugged and headed back for the villa, exchanging cynical comments. Blandeuil, however, reached the bottom of the hill, out of breath but intact. He let himself fall to his knees before the fence around the chasm. He was so weary, so drunk, that he fell asleep right there, his nose in the creeper, as though an avalanche of sleep, pouring onto him from the heights of the Belvedaire, had buried him.
The cold, redoubled in the wee small hours, woke him. Eparvay was still asleep. No one saw him cross town hunched over, trembling, spitting, and coughing. When he reached his car, he saw he'd left his dolceola out in the open on the backseat all night, and he hadn't even locked the doors. Luckily, Eparvay was such a safe place… and who would go to the trouble of stealing a dolceola? He sat down at the wheel and started the car. He turned halfway round to brush the dol- ceola's scratched leather case with his fingertips. He hadn't waxed it for a long time. Too long. He had to take care of it, as he did the instrument inside. Did they still make them? He wouldn't have sworn on it. And when the day came for him to retire, would there be another to play it after him? He entertained the idea of opening a school for the dolceola. He'd reached the point of wondering who'd help finance such a project when the absurdity of it hit him. A dolceola conservatory! Why not an Egyptian embalming institute, while he was at it? He couldn't keep back a chilled little laugh that turned into a coughing fit. He needed a nice hot coffee. The cafes would be open in the next town over by the time he got there. He cranked the heat up all the way and drove off slowly. The roads were clear, but it would have been stupid to get into an accident now, at the very moment he was leaving Eparvay forever.