The Other Story by Tatiana De Rosnay Page A

appearances and read enough articles to know it is unmistakably her. She lumbers up the stone steps toward the hotel elevator, holding on to the attendant’s arm. She moves slowly, and Nicolas sees what a big, sturdy woman she is, much larger than she appears to be in photographs, massive, even. Her skin is alabaster white, speckled with a swarm of freckles. There is no grace about her, yet he cannot help thinking she has a dramatic majesty, like a medieval queen assessing her kingdom. She never glances down. Her square chin is raised high, giving her a fierce arrogance heightened by the ironic set of her mouth. She disappears into the elevator.
    Nicolas lies back on his chair. Malvina pinches his arm, startling him.
    “Nicolas! Who is that woman?”
    He takes a deep breath. “Dagmar Hunoldt.”
    The name means nothing to Malvina. Her only solace lies in the fact that Dagmar is over sixty, overweight, and about as attractive as a beached whale. But she cannot understand why Nicolas has gone silent, scratching the top of his head, which he does when he is confused or upset.
    Malvina waits for a while before she speaks again. She watches the other clients gather their things and go. Mr. Wong and Miss Ming are the last to leave, walking slowly up the steps. The sun has disappeared behind the hill.
    “Who is she?” Malvina asks at last, unable to hold her curiosity back any longer.
    Nicolas lets out a sigh. Malvina cannot tell whether it is a sigh of excitement or fear.
    “Dagmar Hunoldt is the most powerful publisher in the world.”
    Malvina waits, biting her thumbnail. Nicolas goes on, whispering, so that she has to lean forward to hear him.
    “And she is here at the Gallo Nero. Out of the blue.”
    Malvina asks, “Is that good news or bad?”
    Again, Nicolas does not answer. His mind is racing. Did she know he was on the island? That Facebook picture! One of her lieutenants or scouts must have spotted it on his wall. Maybe she was not far off, perhaps on a friend’s boat, and she just dropped by for a couple of days. But maybe she came for him. Maybe she came just for him.
    Nicolas recalls the first time he ever heard of Dagmar Hunoldt and tells Malvina about it. It was two years ago. He was having lunch with Alice Dor and her (now ex-) boyfriend, Gustave, at Orient Extrême, near the rue de Rennes, and he had noticed how Alice’s face had suddenly changed. She seemed to be no longer listening to what Gustave was saying. Nicolas turned his head to check where her gaze was lingering, near the entrance of the restaurant. A group of people was standing there, nobody he recognized. But then, what did he know about the publishing world at that point? It was a hazy, nebulous matter, a complex network of names, places, and logos that he could not decipher. It would take him a while to apprehend it.
    “Oh!” exclaimed Alice.
    Gustave looked across at Nicolas and shrugged.
    “What?” Gustave asked finally as Alice kept staring. “Or who?”
    “Dagmar.”
    That was the first time Nicolas heard her first name. Dagmar. He had found it old-fashioned yet powerful, exotic. The name evoked Vikings, tall, buxom, flaxen-haired creatures, wearing winged headgear and iron brassieres. Was Dagmar a Scandinavian writer? A muse? A literary agent? A bookseller? Whoever she was, the startling slant in Alice’s eyes did not suggest a mellow relationship. The group of people walked by and Nicolas did not pick out anyone who looked vaguely like a Dagmar—or rather, what he wished a Dagmar would look like. Alice remained silent for a while, until Gustave nudged her and mouthed, So?
    She waved her hands around, which is what she did when she was at a loss for words.
    “Who is Dagmar?” insisted Gustave. (He was a banker, not familiar with the publishing crowd.) “From the look on your face, we gather she’s not your best buddy.”
    Alice scowled. “She certainly is not.”
    Nicolas and Gustave exchanged glances over their