Sex and Vanity

by Kevin Kwan

  Just when she decided to turn around and retrace her steps to the Arco Naturale, Lucie suddenly caught sight of something through the trees. Down the hill was the most spectacular house perched on top of a little peninsula that jutted out into the sea. The red house was rectangular in shape, but its entire back facade comprised reverse pyramidal steps leading from the ground all the way up to the roof, which was a huge flat patio. It was the coolest house Lucie had ever laid eyes on, and, feeling compelled to get a closer look, she kept on the pathway until she came to a set of steps leading to the house. There was no gate, but painted on the top step was the word PRIVATO.

  “Private property,” a voice behind her said, startling her. She turned to see George standing on the pathway just above her.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that! Where did you go?”

  “I thought you needed some alone time, so I went exploring a bit further.”

  “This house is quite incredible.”

  “It’s Casa Malaparte, one of the greatest houses ever built. Wanna take a closer look?”

  “You just said it was private property.”

  “I don’t think there’s any harm walking a bit farther to get a better look.” George began walking down the steps, and Lucie followed a bit skeptically. When they reached the house, a man suddenly popped his head out a window and called down to them.

  “ ’Sera, Giorgio! Come va?”

  “Va bene, Niccolò. Possiamo dare un’occhiata?” George replied.

  “Certo!”

  Lucie looked at George in surprise. “Wait a minute, you speak Italian? You know him?”

  “I do. He’s the caretaker. I was here yesterday looking around.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? I’m thinking of doing a project inspired by the house.”

  “Project?”

  “I study sustainable environmental design at UC Berkeley.”

  “Oh,” Lucie said. She was beginning to see him in a whole new light.

  They climbed up the steps to the flat white roof, which was like a viewing deck for the most glorious panoramic views of the Gulf of Sorrento. Lucie walked as close to the edge of the roof as she dared to and looked out, taking a deep breath. The sun was beginning to set, making the calm sea shimmer in the most seductive shades of gold. She was feeling so much lighter all of a sudden, and she felt almost guilty about it.

  George was sitting on the top step of the roof, gazing up at the island and the seagulls that circled endlessly around the jagged peaks. Lucie sat down next to him, finally feeling like she had to say something.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she began. “I don’t know why I ran away.”

  “You don’t need to explain.”

  Lucie sighed deeply. “I took a CPR class back in high school. I even got an A, believe it or not. But today…I dunno…I could’ve done something. I should’ve done something! I was having the loveliest time just sitting in that café, and then suddenly out of nowhere this terrible thing happened. I just…froze. And then I couldn’t face it, and my body just took over.”

  “It was a traumatic sight. I wanted to run too. I wanted so much not to be there, but no one was doing anything.”

  “I don’t know how I’m ever going to walk through the piazzetta again.”

  “You left your shopping bag at the café.”

  “I know. I was going to head back there eventually and get it. I also skipped out on my bill.”

  “I tried to pay for you, but the waiters wouldn’t let me. They waived it.”

  “They did?”

  “I did get your bag for you. But…” George paused, giving her a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, I threw the bag away.”

  “What? Why did you do that?”

  George turned away from her. “I didn’t want you to have to see it. It was all splattered with blood, even inside. There was blood on the sandals.”

  Lucie said nothing for a moment. She thought of how trivial those sandals had suddenly become to her. In the course of one afternoon, everything had changed. In the blink of an eye, someone had died. Someone’s father, someone’s husband, someone’s friend. People would be shocked and grieving. She didn’t even know the old man, and she was grieving for him. If only she had done something, if only she had started giving him CPR sooner, he might have survived. How was she going to sit through the dinner tonight at the Michelin-starred restaurant that everyone else was so excited about? How would she be able to enjoy Isabel’s wedding? How could she begin to enjoy anything ever again?

  George peered into her eyes with that same intensity that used to freak her out, but she somehow found it soothing now. It was as if he could read every single thing going through her mind.

  “Can I tell you a story, if I promise it has a happy ending?” he asked.

  “Sure, I guess.” She stood up, and they began walking along the roof toward the water.

  “Once upon a time, there was a girl who sat in a café on the square in Capri, enjoying an afternoon drink…”

  Lucie froze in alarm. She was about to cut George off, when he said, “I know you didn’t want me to say anything, but I think you need to know the old man in the piazzetta is okay. We managed to revive him.”

  Lucie stared at George wide-eyed as he went on with his story.

  “While I was doing CPR on him, the doctor arrived. He was this young guy in board shorts carrying a black leather case, and he had a defibrillator inside. He gave the man a shock with the machine, and he started to breathe again.”

  Lucie didn’t know what was happening to her. She began hyperventilating uncontrollably, and then her entire body started to heave with sobs. She leaned on George, weeping into his shoulder in relief.

  George put his arm around her and continued to speak in a soft, steady voice: “The old man was British, and his wife arrived at the piazzetta right as we revived him. She had been down the street shopping at Ferragamo. By the time I left, he was sitting up in a chair, getting treated by the doctor while his wife scolded him for running off…”

  *1 One of Capri’s most spectacular natural wonders, the arch is actually the remnant of a cave that collapsed millions of years ago during the Paleolithic age.

  *2 Over the centuries, there have been many theories about the cave, which was most certainly a sacred space in ancient times, with some archaeologists believing that it was used in ancient Mithraic rituals (google that), while others think that it was a temple dedicated to Cybele, the goddess of wild nature and fertility. Whatever the truth might be, many teenage locals believe it’s the best place to get stoned, or laid, or preferably both. Wild nature and fertility indeed.

  *3 Consistently ranked one of the best public schools in New York City, Stuyvesant excels in math and science and counts among its alumni Thelonious Monk, Tim Robbins, Ron Silver, Lucy Liu, and many world-renowned mathematicians and scientists you’ve never ever heard of.

  VIII

  Marina Grande

  CAPRI, ITALY

  Charlotte was the first to arrive at the designated meeting place by the cathedral steps, where she found a man with a flamboyant, Daliesque mustache pacing impatiently. Baron Mordecai von Ephrussí (Wetherby / Dragon / Harrow / Magdalen College, Oxford), as he introduced himself, was an acclaimed author, art historian, antiquities consultant, and, currently, fellow at the American Academy in Rome, where he was—as he told anyone who mattered—working on “the definitive biography of Luchino Visconti.” The Baron claimed to descend from a long line of Franco-Prussian Jewish aristocrats, even though he was born and raised in England. He had a grand title, but was living off an even grander overdraft, and depended on the good graces of his friends, usually grand ladies of a certain age and status who enjoyed his wit, title, gossip, and expertise on pre-Napoleonic Limoges, not necessarily in that order.

  Sizing up hi
s outfit of white-and-blue-striped seersucker trousers, crisp white button-down shirt conspicuously monogrammed with the initials MVE just above his left midriff, navy polka-dot cravat tied around his throat, and Cleverley wing-tips, Charlotte knew exactly how to engage with him. After a quick greeting and exchanging polite chitchat about the gorgeous weather, they did what everyone else in their crowd did and segued into the name game, with Mordecai launching the first volley:

  “And what do you do, Ms. Barclay?”

  “I’m an editor at Amuse Bouche.”

  “Ah, Amuse Bouche. Superb magazine, superb.” Not as good as Bon Appétit, but perhaps I can sell her on my idea of writing about Empress Josephine’s obsession with îles flottante.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte responded. I’m not going to ask him what he does. It’ll drive him nuts, and he’ll tell me within two minutes.

  “You must live in New York, then. Tell me, are you by any chance related to Theodore and Annafred Barclay?” Mordecai asked.

  Charlotte smiled. There it was. It only took him thirty seconds to ask. “Yes, Teddy’s my cousin.”

  Mordecai smiled back. “What a small world! Such a lovely couple. When I’m not slaving away on my book at the American Academy in Rome, I’m the historical consultant for the Prince’s Trust International.” She’s a Barclay. Of course, only a Barclay can afford to look this unfashionable in Capri.

  So I’m wrong. He told me what he does in under a minute. “The Prince’s Trust. Yes, Teddy’s been so involved with helping Charles, and of course Camilla and Annafred go way back.”

  “I saw them at a dinner just last month at the Serpentine Gallery.” How dare you call their royal highnesses by their first names!

  “Did you? I spent a lovely weekend at Highgrove with Teddy and their royal highnesses earlier this summer.” Eat your heart out, Mordecai.

  “Highgrove is lovely in the summertime, isn’t it? Now, even lovelier is Pemberley. My cousins, the D’Arcys, keep it up rather well.” Try to top that, Ms. Barclay!

  “So I’ve heard. How do you know Isabel and Dolfi?” He was probably their decorator.

  “I have been great friends of her parents, for ages. Many years ago, I had the pleasure of working with Geoffrey Bennison on the Chius’ first house on the Bishops Avenue.”

  I’m too good at this. “I loved Bennison’s work. He redid some rooms for my grandmother back in the late seventies.”

  “He did?” Who the fuck is her grandmother and why don’t I know about those rooms?

  At this point, Lucie arrived at the church steps, rescuing Charlotte from further interrogation.

  “Thank you so much for going back and getting my sunblock, Lucie. I would have looked like a Maine lobster without it. Mordecai, this is my cousin Lucie Churchill.”

  “Hello,” Lucie said.

  “Enchanted.” Hmm. What a pretty Eurasian. “Tell me, how exactly are you two related?”

  Before Lucie could answer, Charlotte jumped in. “Lucie is the daughter of Reggie Churchill, my mother’s brother.” Try that on for size.

  “Ah yes, Reginald Churchill.” How intriguing. And good lord, this means Charlotte’s a Churchill and a Barclay. Must be swimming in pots of money.

  Lucie couldn’t help but frown. She knew Charlotte dropped her father’s name only when she was trying to impress people. She was wondering what the story was with this Mordecai fellow, and she soon understood.

  “Now, I think we are just waiting for Mr. Beebe, Ms. Lavistock, and the Ortiz sisters, and then I can call ahead to let the Sultanah know we are ready. She will meet us down at Marina Grande, and then we will all proceed together to Positano to tour the villa.”

  “The Sultanah?”

  “Yes! Today, we have the honor of my great friend the Sultanah of Penang joining us on our little outing.”

  “What is a sultanah?” Lucie asked.

  “My dear, she is Malay royalty of the highest order. She is the royal consort to the Sultan of Penang. She is the queen! Now, we are already in breach of royal protocol by keeping her waiting, but if Mr. Beebe had the decency to be more punctual…”

  At that moment, Auden Beebe appeared at the foot of the steps with Olivia and the Ortiz sisters, holding an umbrella over the ladies so gallantly that Mordecai could no longer complain.

  “So sorry we’re late. It’s all my fault—I forgot my Leica and had to rush back to my room,” Olivia said breathlessly.

  The party made its way to the funicolare for the short journey down the mountain, and then Mordecai led them to the pier where they were to be picked up for their excursion. They stood along the empty dock for a few minutes, and Olivia, tiring of the sweltering sun, glared at Mordecai. “I thought you said the royal Shahtoosh was meeting us here?”

  “I sent the Sultanah a text as soon as we arrived at Marina Grande. She’ll be along in a few minutes. Her majesty must always be the last to arrive, you understand,” Mordecai officiously explained.

  “Should I call her ‘Your Majesty’ too?” Lucie asked.

  “First of all, protocol dictates that you should never speak to the Sultanah unless she speaks to you first. You may address her as ‘Your Majesty’ the first time you greet her and, subsequently, ‘ma’am.’ ”

  Olivia looked at Auden and Charlotte, rolling her eyes.

  “I take it you have a history with Monsieur le Baron?” Charlotte whispered to Olivia.

  “If he’s really a baron, then I’m Marie fucking Antoinette. Yes, Mordecai and I go way back. He made my life hell at first when I worked at the Fondation Pierre Bergé one summer, but then his attitude changed the minute he found out who I was related to,” Olivia whispered back.

  Just then, a large black Mercedes pulled up to the pier, and two bodyguards dressed in dark sunglasses and black suits emerged. The taller one marched down the dock and gave the group a quick once-over before tapping his earpiece and muttering, “Kami bersedia untuk ratu!” *

  The other bodyguard opened the back door of the limousine, and a small, chubby woman in her late seventies wearing a flowing Pucci caftan and matching Pucci hijab emerged. As she walked toward the dock, Lucie could already see the massive canary diamonds sparkling from her head scarf, and she quickly recognized her as the lady in the bejeweled headdress who had walked past the sandal shop the other day.

  “Let’s form a line to receive her. Now, the Malays prostrate themselves to the knees and bow their heads all the way to the floor when they meet their Sultanah, but I think a bow or a curtsy will suffice here,” Mordecai said in a jittery voice.

  “For fuck’s sake, Mordecai, I wouldn’t curtsy even if she were the Dowager Countess of Grantham,” Olivia quipped.

  Ignoring her comment, Mordecai bowed deeply and was about to address the Sultanah when she breezed right past him and hugged the Ortiz sisters excitedly. “Paloma! Mercedes! I didn’t know you were coming! When did you arrive?”

  “Sunday. We were in Paris first,” Paloma (Saint Scholastica / Ravenhill Academy / Universidad Complutense de Madrid) said.

  “For our fittings, you know,” Mercedes (Saint Scholastica / Ravenhill Academy / University of Hawaii) added.

  “You know these ladies?” Mordecai said in surprise.

  “Know them? Of course! Mordecai, these girls own about five thousand of the Philippines’ seven thousand islands. I am nothing compared to them!” the Sultanah (privately tutored till the age of ten / Cheltenham Ladies’ College) exclaimed.

  “Oh, come on, you are royalty. We are commoners,” Paloma said.

  “We are just housewives!” Mercedes added.

  “Uh-huh, sure!” The Sultanah rolled her eyes, turned to Mordecai again. “Talk about Paris, these girls and I used to go to all the shows together…Scherrer, Féraud, and my favorite…Jacqueline de Ribes. How I wish I could still fit into her dresses!”r />
  “And remember, we used to hang out at Régine’s!” Paloma said excitedly.

  “These girls really know how to party!” the Sultanah said with a loud cackle. “Now, Mordecai, please introduce me to all these lovely people.”

  Mordecai quickly made introductions all around, and Lucie found that the Sultanah couldn’t have been more down-to-earth and friendly. Lucie found herself transfixed by this beautiful woman with huge eyes that were further accentuated with heavy Elizabeth Taylor–style eye shadow.

  “It’s so nice to have you youngsters around. Thank you for joining us dinosaurs on this adventure!” the Sultanah said to Lucie and Charlotte with a warm smile, before turning to Mordecai. “So where’s Queen Mary?”

  “Queen Mary?” Mordecai cocked his head.

  The Sultanah gestured at the empty dock, her kiwi-fruit-sized emerald ring flashing in the sun. “The big boat you were telling me all about?”

  “Ah, yes! Har har, very funny. The yacht should be arriving at any minute, Your Majesty.” He turned to the rest of the group and announced, “My dear friends the Murphys, who own Villa Lachowski, have the most stunning yacht that they are so graciously sending here just for the Sultanah. It was decorated by Alberto Pinto, and it’s one of the ten biggest yachts in the world.”

  Right as he uttered those words, a pair of black rubber dinghies sped into the harbor and pulled up alongside their dock.