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The missions of MINDFUCH’s core vary in scope and nature. They range from counteracting Kurt Ozzi’s schemes to looking after French monuments and sites. That function derives straight from a clause added to the Treaty of Pombrio by Louis XV after the Paris Commune burned down the Tuileries Palace.
All the initiated staffers are held to secrecy by NDAs even more draconian than the ones Grandpa had all of us sign before my marriage to Camille.
From time to time, all categories of personnel—regardless of their clearance, job, and rank—come together for special occasions. The Christmas party is one such event.
MINDFUCH’s biggest conference room has been transformed into a huge dancing floor, decorated with garlands. A large Christmas tree wrapped in lights stands in the corner. All staffers have received a gift from the director. Everyone is wearing an ugly Christmas sweater. There’s an open bar complete with a skilled bartender mixing cocktails and eggnogs. A live band of Santas performs cheerful pop songs. Bright, colorful balloons float under the ceiling, adding an air of festivity. Everybody’s drinking, dancing, and socializing.
There are even royals in attendance. Max and Lucie—who used to work here—Arnaud, Sasha, and Gigi mingle with floor technicians and canteen staff. Managers chat with interns.
As for Jonas, he’s entertaining a small crowd of employees with his idiotic theory of women. The only time I’ve heard him discuss that theory is when he’s had too much to drink. Jonas’s limit is no more than three glasses of alcohol per week—half of what Father consumes on any given day. Jonas is nothing like my dad. He’s a good man and a responsible parent to Matteo.
But tonight, Jonas flew into Paris to unwind. Matteo is back home with his aunt Celeste, his grandma and his nanny, which means that Jonas can let his hair down.
He climbs on a table like he used to do at parties in his pre-Matteo days. “There isn’t a single woman on earth,” he declares, “that doesn’t obey the beauty-brains paradox, also known as Beckhap’s law.”
His boisterous audience demands that he explain what that is.
He’s only too happy to oblige. When we were students, Jonas did some modeling, which he hated, and a lot of amateur acting, which he loved.
“The law stipulates,” he begins, “that intelligence is inversely proportional to beauty. Expressed as a mathematical formula, it’s ‘brains times beauty equals a constant.’”
“Bullshit!” several people cry out.
“Look at me,” Max challenges him, grinning. “I’m both beautiful and intelligent.”
Jonas winks at him. “If you say so yourself.”
“I can testify to the veracity of his claim,” Max’s wife Lucie says.
“Well, it’s true that Beckhap’s law has too many exceptions among men,” Jonas concedes. “And that is why I prefer to call it the theory of women. The formula works for all women, without exception.”
Stop disparaging the fairer sex, man!
But he won’t. He’s having too much fun playing his favorite character, the provocative woman hater, to quit so early in the act.
While I rack my brain for a pretext to get him to climb off the table, Max’s sister Gigi puts her chin up. “Hey, genius, how do you reconcile your theory with your own mom and your sister? Marie-Louise and Celeste possess both beauty and brains!”
“The formula applies to one woman at a time,” Jonas replies. “Therefore, my mother and sister must be evaluated individually.”
Gigi narrows her eyes. “And?” She doesn’t think he’ll say it.
She doesn’t know him well enough.
“Taken individually,” he says, “they prove the theory. Mom is one hundred percent beauty, and sis is one hundred percent brains.”
The crowd bursts into laughter.
All things considered, I’m glad Celeste is still cross with me and didn’t show up to this party.
“What about the heart?” a familiar voice asks somewhere near me.
It’s Camille, dressed in a green sweater with elves and deer. Angie bought it for her yesterday from the shop Rudy had spotted. She came to see me after that and told me that her behavior had been puerile, and that she’d make sure that sort of thing never happened again.
Jonas scans the crowd. “Who’s asking about the heart?”
Camille raises a hand so he can see her. “Where in your formula does it fit?”
“It doesn’t fit anywhere, because it’s a myth,” Jonas replies.
