Sex and Vanity

by Kevin Kwan

  “Meester Epussy?” the boatman in the first dinghy asked in thickly accented English.

  “You mean Baron von Ephrussí? Yes, that’s me,” Mordecai said in his most snotty tone, snapping to attention.

  “Okay, how many?” the boatman asked gruffly.

  “Er…are we supposed to get on these little boats? Are they going to take us to the yacht?” Mordecai asked, confused.

  “No yacht. We go to villa now.”

  “In these rubber dinghies? You must be joking!”

  “No joke. We go now, okay?” the boatman insisted, clearly annoyed.

  “Please call your boss, or whoever manages the Murphys’ fleet. There’s been some mistake. They were supposed to send the big yacht, not a tiny dinghy!”

  “Mordecai, these aren’t dinghies. These are Goldfish Rib Boats. They are high-performance speedboats and really quite expensive,” Auden explained, highly amused by the situation.

  “Goldfish, catfish, angelfish, I don’t care what they are. Her Majesty cannot ride all the way to Positano on this bloody thing!”

  “Actually, I would love to ride on this thing! It looks like such fun!” the Sultanah chimed in.

  Mordecai’s jaw dropped, not quite sure what to say.

  “The queen has spoken! Let’s get on with it. Andiamo! ” snapped Olivia. “Your Majesty, allow me to help you aboard.”

  The Sultanah got into the first boat with one bodyguard, Mordecai, Olivia, and Charlotte, while Lucie, the Ortiz sisters, Auden, and the other bodyguard rode in the second boat. Because of the way the Goldfish was designed, there were no proper seats. Instead, there were upright patrol seats that resembled back braces for the passengers to lean against while gripping the handlebars in front of them for support. The Sultanah, who stood right behind the boatman, said to him, “I’ve seen these before at a military inspection parade. My army uses them for tactical missions. I hear they go very fast.”

  “Yes, very fast,” the boatman replied, as he piloted slowly out of the marina.

  “Let’s see how fast it can go! I have a need for speed!” the Sultanah gleefully declared.

  “Okay. Hold on tight!” the boatman said as he revved up the engine and the Goldfish took off like a rocket.

  “Jesus Mary!” Mordecai shrieked, almost falling off the back. He gripped on to his handlebar tightly, not quite believing how fast the boat was going. As soon as they were out on the open sea, the boat began bouncing on top of the waves so violently that it seemed like a roller coaster ride gone out of control. Mordecai held on for dear life as the boat zipped across the Bay of Naples at what seemed like warp speed.

  “Slow down! Slow the fuck down!” Mordecai screamed, but between the wind and the roar of the engine, it was impossible for the boatman to hear him. His knuckles were white from gripping, and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on before he was flung out of the boat. Mordecai watched helplessly as the Sultanah kept getting jolted several inches into the air every time the Goldfish hit wave after wave. One big wave and she would be tossed like a rag doll into the Mediterranean. Why weren’t they given life jackets? Suddenly, the headline that would surely go viral around the world flashed before his eyes:

  SULTANAH OF PENANG DROWNS OFF THE AMALFI COAST:

  BARON VON EPHRUSSÍ TO BLAME

  * “Ready for the queen!” in Malay.

  IX

  Villa Lachowski

  POSITANO, ITALY

  Lucie closed her eyes and savored the mist from the waves against her face as the boat sped along. She had a sudden, vivid flashback to the times her father took her sailing in his catboat. They would drive down to the little dock on a hidden inlet off Springy Banks Road and sail out of Three Mile Harbor into Gardiners Bay, and Lucie would sit at the bow, tightly holding the leather strap nailed into the deck, as he had taught her to do. Out on the bay, rogue waves would crash against the bow, splashing her all over, but she would laugh and laugh, just like her father did.

  Her father was always happiest on the water, and he would bound barefoot along the edge of the wooden boat like the nimblest acrobat, expertly maneuvering the sail and the rudder, always in those scuffed chinos and his faded orange anorak. Lucie wondered whatever happened to that anorak. Was it still hanging in the closet in the mudroom at East Hampton? She would have to look for it when she was back. As they rounded the bay, the village of Positano came into view, rising into the cloudless blue sky like an apparition. Lucie stared up in awe at the gleaming white buildings hugging a vertiginous cliff like an enchanted wonderland straight out of a Tolkien novel. No wonder everyone called it the jewel of the Amalfi Coast.

  Beyond Positano’s crescent beach, the Villa Lachowski commanded its own rocky promontory, and Mordecai’s boat was the first to arrive at the villa’s private dock. A cluster of men in topaz-blue polo shirts and crisp white shorts stood ready to assist the arriving guests, and the Sultanah was the first to climb out of the Goldfish, giggling like a schoolgirl. “That was amazing! I haven’t had this much fun since I went with my granddaughter to Burning Man!”

  “I’m g-g-glad you enjoyed that, Your Ma-Majesty,” Mordecai stammered as he wobbled out of the boat, trying to steady himself on dry land.

  “What a beautiful day for a boat ride! Did we lose the others?” the Sultanah wondered.

  “I think the others took the scenic, arrive-alive route,” Charlotte remarked, looking rather green herself.

  Soon, the second Goldfish could be seen approaching at a leisurely speed from around the cove, and its passengers alighted on the dock looking more relaxed and far less windblown than the early arrivals. Mordecai did a quick head count of his flock, genuinely relieved that the whippet-thin Ortiz sisters hadn’t been blown off-deck.

  “Excellent, excellent, we’ve all made it here in one piece, more or less. Now, if everyone’s ready, we shall be received by Tom and Geraldine Murphy, the owners of this magnificent villa,” Mordecai said, as a tall gentleman dressed entirely in black came strolling down the dock toward them.

  “That’s the estate manager,” Mordecai told everyone. “Ah, Stephane! Comment allez vous? Are Tom and Gerri up at the villa?” Mordecai was a bit perplexed that his friends hadn’t appeared at the dock to greet their royal guest.

  “Monsieur Murphy is in London, and Madame Murphy sends her regrets. She was called away to Sardinia on urgent business this morning,” replied Stephane with a courtly bow.

  “What a pity! Sardinia—she must have taken the yacht, then?” Mordecai inquired.

  “No, she took the Wally.”

  Mordecai looked puzzled. “So…why didn’t you send us the yacht?”

  “Monsieur le Baron, you insisted that your group had to be picked up at eleven fifteen sharp and back in Capri by three p.m. The Goldfish were the quickest way to get you all here. The yacht would have taken an hour each way,” Stephane patiently explained, clearly accustomed to his persnickety guest.

  “Brilliant move, Mordecai,” Olivia remarked.

  Ignoring her, Mordecai silently cursed himself for insisting on the time restriction. They missed their opportunity on the yacht, and now they would miss seeing the main salon, where there was a fabulous framed photograph of him posing with Geraldine Murphy and Princess Diana that he was dying for the group to stumble upon.

  “Now, I have to go into town, but Allegra is ready to give your party the tour,” Stephane offered.

  “That won’t be necessary—I can lead the tour. After all, I know this place like the back of my hand,” Mordecai declared, feeling a bit more himself again. He led the group to the staircase carved out of the rocky side of the cliff, and they began the leisurely climb up. The property consisted of six pristine white villas situated on a series of spectacular terraces that cascaded down to the sea, and each terrace was a distinct wonderland devoted to the indulgent whims of its pri
vileged owners.

  On the first terrace, they encountered a manicured lawn where a row of four-poster Balinese beds faced the sea, with white linen canopies artfully draped above each bed.

  “This is where Geraldine gets her shiatsu massage every afternoon,” Mordecai noted. “The lower level of this villa is a state-of-the-art spa where the Murphys maintain a battalion of therapists.”

  “Their personal Aman resort!” Charlotte commented.

  Paloma Ortiz shook her head in dismay. “I look at those sun beds and all I can think of is melanoma.”

  Arriving at the next terrace above, the group passed a magnificent koi pond that meandered along the curves of the cliff. Water lilies floated on the surface, while hundreds of exotic carp undulated hypnotically in the waters below.

  “These are Tom’s prized koi. He has a full-time marine biologist who makes sure that these koi are fat and healthy. See the white-and-orange one over there with the head that looks like a deformed tangerine? A representative for the imperial family of Japan offered the Murphys 1.5 million dollars for that fish,” Mordecai proudly announced.

  “I sure hope it doesn’t get picked off by a seagull,” Olivia commented.

  The Sultanah peered down at the fish, looking unimpressed. “My grandfather loved koi and kept them in gigantic urns back at the old palace, but I prefer golden arowanas.”

  Undeterred by the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm for the decorative koi, Mordecai stood on the steps in front of a pair of massive carved bronze doors, cleared his throat, and raised his voice: “Your Majesty, ladies, and gentlemen, we are about to enter one of the greatest houses on the Mediterranean coast still remaining in private hands. In fact, it can be argued that along with La Leopolda in Villefranche-sur-Mer, once the residence of my dear friend Lily Safra, and the Château de l’Horizon in Vallauris, once owned by Prince Aly Khan, who was a dear friend of my father’s, Villa Lachowski is arguably the finest historic waterfront villa in the world. The original structure was built in 1928 by a local family, and it was far more modest—a beach bungalow, really. But when the legendary director Francesco Lachowski acquired it in 1957, he greatly expanded the property. With his discerning eye and access to some of the finest artisans working on his film productions, he was able to create his private Xanadu here.”

  “Didn’t Graham Greene stay here?” Auden asked.

  “Yes, the villa is indeed famous because some of the most legendary people visited—Greene, Callas, Nureyev, von Karajan, they were all guests here.”

  Olivia murmured into Charlotte’s ear, “I wish we had some tequila. We could take a shot every time Mordecai says the word ‘legendary.’ ”

  “I’d be drunk already,” Charlotte replied.

  Entering the grand foyer, Mordecai continued. “Now, as we proceed through this imposing threshold into the drawing room, I want you to note the peculiar architectural homages to Sir John Soane that are evident throughout…”

  Lucie admired her surroundings but did not have much interest in the peculiar architectural homages to Sir John Soane. She wished that Mordecai would allow them to enjoy the place without his commentary, as her eyes wandered from the de Chirico painting commanding the mantelpiece to the grid of Agnes Martin drawings along a wall and the enormous Cy Twombly canvas casually propped up on a long wooden bench.

  “The art’s not too shabby, is it?” Auden commented.

  “Not too shabby at all!” Lucie said, still astonished that she was standing just inches away from a Twombly.

  “Didn’t you promise to show me some of your artwork?” Auden asked.

  “Oh, sure. When we get back to the hotel this afternoon, I can show you some pictures on my iPad.”

  “It’s a date!” Auden said.

  As they proceeded from the drawing room into the library, Mordecai began methodically pointing out all the most expensive first editions and rare manuscripts in the Murphys’ collection. Lucie’s mind drifted for a moment until she noticed Paloma, the sister with the pixie-cut hair and more dramatically plucked eyebrows, mouthing something to her.

  “Pardon me?” Lucie said.

  “I said you have a neck like a swan.” Paloma smiled.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it’s long like Audrey Hepburn’s. So beautiful!”

  “Er…thank you,” Lucie said, as always feeling a bit awkward whenever someone paid her a compliment.

  “You must get it from your mother?”

  “Hmm, I guess. I’ve never thought about it, but yes, my mother does have quite a long neck.”

  “Where is she from?” Paloma continued to probe.

  “Seattle.”

  “I meant is she Chinese, Japanese, Korean?”

  “Oh, sorry. Yes, she’s of Chinese ancestry, but she’s third-generation Asian American. Her grandfather was one of the very first Chinese students to graduate from Yale with a medical degree,” Lucie added, not wishing these ladies to think her mother was fresh off the boat.

  “How interesting,” Paloma said, clearly not as curious about Lucie’s family history as she was with her 23andMe results.

  Mercedes jumped into the conversation. “And your father, what is his ancestry?”

  “English, Scottish, and Swedish,” Lucie replied as patiently as she could. Why was it that only other Asians interrogated her about her background?

  “You must thank your mother for your beautiful features, then. I thank mine every morning when I look in the mirror. It’s because of my Chinese blood that I haven’t needed a face-lift yet!”* Mercedes giggled.

  “You’re part Chinese?” Lucie asked.

  “Yes, of course. My sister and I are torna atrás—we have Chinese, Spanish, and Filipino blood. You know, most Filipinos have mixed blood. We are all mestizos, like you.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Now, tell me, dear, how long have you been modeling?”

  Lucie laughed out loud at the preposterousness of the idea. “Me? I’ve never modeled.”

  Mercedes gave Paloma a look before turning back to Lucie. “Really? All this time we thought you were that girl in the new Chanel perfume ads.”

  “I swear it isn’t me.”

  “It sure looks like you! Now, why don’t you model? Our cousin Kris owns the top talent agency in Manila, and she would recruit you in a heartbeat!”

  “We should also recruit that one coming down the stairs,” Paloma said, gesturing.

  Lucie turned around and saw George Zao bounding down the marble steps, followed by his mother. It was the first time she had seen him since Casa Malaparte. Before she could help herself, she found herself smiling at him and then almost immediately wanted to kick herself. Why did she grin at him like that? She felt like a total idiot.

  “Rosemary, George, what a surprise!” Auden said cheerily as he clapped George heartily on the back.

  Mordecai gave the late arrivals a quick once-over. Who on earth was this woman, and what possessed her to think she could join his group wearing those flamingo-pink sweatpants? “Madame, I don’t seem to recall you signing up for my tour?” he said haughtily.

  Olivia was about to spring to their defense, but Rosemary gave Mordecai a confused look. “We didn’t sign up for anything—we were here for breakfast.”

  “You’re friends with the Murphys?” Olivia asked, almost smirking.

  “Yes, old friends. Tom and my husband owned a company together.”

  Mordecai’s interest was instantly piqued. “Oh, really? Which one?”

  “I can’t remember…was it the oil company? The refineries? No, it was the shipping company. Yes, they owned a fleet of tankers together, the largest fleet in the Pacific.”

  Mordecai did an abrupt one-eighty and he smiled at Rosemary solicitously. “Well, Mrs. Chao—”

  “It’s Zao,” Rosemary
corrected.

  “Yes, Mrs. Zao, I was just at the start of my historical tour. Geraldine might have told you that I was the one who found this villa for them. You are most welcome to join us…”

  “Oh, we don’t need a tour. We’ve stayed here many times; this is like a second home for us. Gerri insisted that I try her new float tank after breakfast, and now I’m going down for a Thai massage on the beach,” Rosemary declared before padding off with the ease of a longtime houseguest. George followed after her, and as he passed Lucie, he murmured in that low, quiet voice, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Lucie said, feeling the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks.

  * She’s lying, of course. She had a face-lift and neck-lift back in 2000.

  X

  The High Garden at Villa Lachowski

  CAPRI, ITALY

  The group had just finished Mordecai’s encyclopedic tour of every precious nook and cranny of the remarkable property, and for their patience they were rewarded with a sumptuous lunch held on the enchanting terra-cotta-tiled terrace, where wisteria vines wrapped around every column and the most arresting view of Positano stretched out before them like a perfectly retouched postcard.

  “I’m having sensory overload. I’m not sure where to look—at the breathtaking view, at these adorable hand-painted majolica plates, or at this glorious feast!” Charlotte said as she sat down in her cushioned wicker chair, assessing the meal on the table with approval. Along with a chilled lobster and saffron bisque and a classic Caesar salad featuring cured Amalfi anchovies, the Murphys’ chef also brought out huge platters of strozzapreti tossed in a creamy sea urchin sauce and a delectably light mortadella, pistachio, and lemon pizza.

  Tucking into her pasta, Mercedes whispered rather loudly to everyone on her side of the table, “I now know more than I ever imagined about neoclassical Piedmontese furniture.”

  “It could have been worse,” Paloma said with a slight giggle.