Rococo

by Adriana Trigiani

  The ranch has a faux-brick front, a two-car garage, and the bane of any decorator’s existence, cheesy Florida windows, the kind that open out in flaps. I ring the bell. When no one answers, I knock on the door.

  “Hey, stop beatin’ the door, you’re scarin’ the cat!” I hear Ondine’s muffled voice through the door’s small rectangular windows, which are lined with stick-um-stained glass. She opens the door and smiles. “Oh, hi.” She’s busty, with a fading tan, wearing an Empire-waist smock dress. Her long blond hair is hoisted into a fountain ponytail on top. In the bright sun she looks a solid thirty-five, which is why I don’t like to know chronological ages—once you know, the person looks every day of the number. Her eyes are as powdery blue as Toot’s frosting. She squints as she takes a drag off a cigarette. I hand her the paper plate of cookies. “For you and my nephew.”

  “Bar-toe-low-may-oh.” It rolls off her tongue slowly as she exhales a puff of smoke. I cough.

  “Your mother-in . . . rather, my sister, Toot, sent me over.”

  “She tole me all about it. She thinks I don’t know how to decorate a house. For her information, I’ve lived in one since the day I was born.” Ondine reaches down and picks up the cat. “This is Pierre.” The cat looks like an oversized fuzzy slipper with eyes.

  I look around the living room, a postcollege mishmash of donations: a plaid couch, a green velvet lounger, and a glass coffee table with four wrought-iron owls holding it up along the edges.

  “Ignore this room,” she says, and motions for me to follow her.

  “With pleasure,” I tell her cheerfully.

  “This is my dilemma.” Ondine puts the cat down on the shag carpet. For a moment I can’t tell where the salt-and-pepper shag ends and Pierre begins. “The dining room.”

  I give it a quick survey. The room has one solid wall; the opposite wall is lined with the long, thin Florida windows. It might as well be a tunnel, it’s so narrow. It reminds me of Captain Kirk’s time-travel capsule on Star Trek.

  “What would you do in here?” She stands too close to me as I examine the room.

  “I’d move.”

  Ondine throws her head back and laughs. “No. Seriously.”

  “You need draperies, floor-length, to give the illusion of height.”

  “I like draperies,” she coos.

  “You need a long server on this wall.”

  “Okay.”

  “That”—I point to the ugly dining room table and chairs—“must go.”

  “But it was my grandmother’s.”

  “She gave it away for a reason.”

  “She died.”

  “Oh, you inherited it. Do you know the value of sentimental is zero?”

  “Not to me! I could never part with it. It’s all I got from her. That, and these”—she points to her décolletage—“for which I am grateful.”

  “I see.” Ondine does have a great figure, and her bustline is surely something to be proud of. I look at the walls. “What I would recommend is mirrors on the far wall, to open up the room.

  “That’s what I thought!” she squeals. “It needs to feel wider. More light! Yeah, I love mirrors!” She winks at me inappropriately.

  “Right. And then you need a new dining room suite, one with a circular glass-top table. The chairs should be open, with polished-cotton seats.” I turn around, trying to determine the dominant color scheme in the house. There is none. I go with a classic. “A bold white-and-chocolate-brown stripe. Polished cotton is best because it repels stains; you know, spaghetti sauce and kitty accidents.”

  “But I want to keep the suite. Can’t you paint it or something?” She runs her hand over the heavy dark brown Regency table like she’s massaging a sore thigh muscle. Her affection for the furniture doesn’t make it any more attractive. This clunky repro looks like an operating table you’d find in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. The claw feet are particularly obtrusive and ugly, but not to be outdone, the chairs have hideous bishop-hat finials.

  “If you insist on keeping this furniture, there’s no point in mirroring the wall.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Ondine”—I feel myself losing patience—“you should never look at shit twice.”

  Ondine follows me to the front door and opens it. “I’ll think about selling it,” she says quietly.

  “You do that.”

  “What do you think I could get for it?”

  “I’m not an antiquarian.”

  “Oh, okay.” Ondine looks confused, then she smiles brightly. “Well, thank you for coming over.” She leans over and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she steps out onto the stoop. “You’re a gentleman with fine taste. I trust you with my domicile.” She does a slow inventory of me, starting at my feet (in black suede Gucci loafers), moving on to my gray Paul Stuart wool trousers and finally my black V-neck cashmere sweater. She gazes through me like she’s wearing X-Ray Specs, those magic eyeglasses they sell in the back of comic books that claim you’ll be able to see people without their clothes on. “I wish Nicky had one thimbleful of the class you got.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I smile politely and turn to go. She grabs me around the neck, pulls my face toward hers, and kisses me again. This time she drags her tongue over my upper lip. I pull away when I feel the wet warmth.

  “Ondine, I am almost technically your uncle!” I look around to see if anyone has witnessed us. I fish my handkerchief out of my trouser pocket and purse my lips to discourage any further activity.

  “I’m in charge of the decorations for your birthday party. I’m thinking balloons.” She gives me that wink again.

  After a strenuous day of meeting clients, plowing through paneling samples at the lumberyard, and mixing paint at the hardware store, I am starving and ready for a martini. I pull into the Mandelbaums’ driveway in Deal with a coconut-cream pie I picked up at Delicious Orchards on Route 34 in Colts Neck. I went out of my way for the pie, not only because it’s Aurelia’s favorite, but because I need her support. There are rumblings that Father Porporino is finally prepared to renovate our church, and I need my good friend Aurelia to put my name at the top of the list for the big job.

  Capri, my friend since I had a memory, meets me at the front door. She is a petite five feet tall, which has always made me feel protective of her. When we were babies, our mothers hatched a scheme that we would someday marry. Mama said, “They’re rich and we have taste. That’s a perfect match.” Here we are, thirty-nine years later, and the scheme is still in full swing, at least in Aurelia’s mind. A doting mother with a firm hand on the control switch, she has always handpicked everything for Capri, from her socks to her college curriculum to me. Aurelia Castone Mandelbaum is a local Italian girl who married so well she never looked back. To her credit, she never forgot where she came from, but she sure liked the other side once she got there.

  “I just got over a bad cold.” Capri is always getting over something. Her hair, skin, and wool cardigan are the color of a peanut shell. Though not officially sickly, she has the look of someone who is battling an infirmity, which gives her the blackest under-eye circles I’ve ever seen on someone who doesn’t live in a tree. She has been this way all her life. In fact, in all of high school she never took phys ed. The handwritten excuse notes from her doctor were legendary. He started with diseases that begin with an A (asthma) when Capri was in eighth grade, and by senior year she hit the Z’s (zinc deficiency). Capri has never lived outside her parents’ home, so she seems much younger than she is. It’s like when you keep a banana out of the sun—it doesn’t ripen. Capri is a forty-year-old green banana.

  Capri has a heart-shaped face and a short neck (an unfortunate combination—it’s like an egg cradled in a spoon). On the plus side, she has long sensuous fingers and a plush caboose. She’s so nearsighted that she is legally blind without her glasses. Even though she wears fashionable frames (in our youth Capri wore cat-eye glasses with real diamond chips on the wings), there’s on
ly so much a doctor can do with lenses as thick as ashtrays. Poor Capri always looks as though she is peering through the wall of an aquarium. She tried contact lenses, but she has recessive tear ducts (a painful condition, her mother is always quick to remind me), so she can’t wear them. I am one of the rare people who has seen Capri without her eyeglasses, and while she is no Claudia Cardinale, it’s an improvement. I kiss her on the cheek.

  “Mom made shepherd’s pie,” Capri says by way of greeting.

  “Great. I need some nutritional gravitas.”

  “Well, as casseroles go, it has it.” Capri takes my jacket and hangs it in the hall closet, whose door has an artful trompe l’oeil column painted on it.

  I started coming to dinner at the Mandelbaums’ once a week after Capri’s father died, and like all small-town habits, this one stuck, and now it’s a standing engagement. I never call ahead of time; if it’s Monday, I’m at the Mandelbaums’ for supper.

  No matter how many times I stand in this foyer, with its winding staircase covered in beige Berber carpeting, hemmed by the banister lacquered to a shiny black, lit by the Baccarat crystal chandelier, and with a round needlepoint area rug in pale peach and soft gray silk and wool, I always see something new. The lighting is soft and golden; all the chandeliers have dimmer switches and bulbs that twinkle like actual candlelight. A chandelier is to a room what diamond-drop earrings are to a beautiful woman—the perfect accessory.

  “If I had to choose one thing that makes or breaks a room, it’s the chandelier. It’s the crowning glory of good design.” I catch myself pontificating. “I’m sorry. I sound like a windbag, but if you had seen some of the crap I saw today—”

  “I don’t mind.” Capri threads her arm through mine as we walk to the back of the house.

  Capri’s father, the late Sy Mandelbaum, was like a second father to me. Following my graduation from Parsons School of Design, he hired me to do the window treatments and carpets in all his banks (by that time he had several). He not only trusted me with his commercial properties, he hired me to do his home. When the Mandelbaums entertained, Sy would brag about my work. Suddenly, I had more jobs than I could handle with clients who could afford the very best. This house became my own Kips Bay Bazaar. Luckily, Aurelia loves change, so I’ve never really stopped decorating this house. I’m still futzing with it; I’m about to redecorate the solarium, which overlooks the pool out back.

  Castle Mandelbaum, as I call it, was built in 1960 in the French Norman style. It sits atop a hill on five acres of manicured lawn. The imposing limestone tower and cupola can be seen from several miles away. I encouraged Sy to put in a gate and a circular drive to conjure the carriage stop of the past, thus adding to the house’s old world charm. I found an ironworker from Germany who made an imposing gate using the letter M as a motif. Sy watched the installation in awe. “I love an expert,” he used to say. We even had the contractor install heated pipes under the concrete in the driveway, which was treated to look like brick. No nasty falls when you come to visit this house in the winter. The driveway is always clear of ice and snow.

  Inside, the rooms are well proportioned, with tall, wide windows and vaulted ceilings, creating a feeling of openness. This is the perfect home for Aurelia, the leading art collector in New Jersey, who can afford the Monet and Cy Twombly paintings that adorn her walls, and has the space and light to display them properly.

  I survey the rooms as we pass them. Damn, I’m good. Pastel colors wash through this house like brushstrokes on a Degas. As far as the eye can see, it’s a celebration of all things français; they are cleverly tucked in corners or displayed boldly front and center.

  There is a delicate hand-painted armoire de mariage in the sitting room, filled with glorious linens embroidered with the Mandelbaum family crest. In the kitchen a set of hand-carved cherrywood buffet a deux corps is filled with pottery from Marseille.

  The taffeta window treatments are so chic you could wear them to a fancy dress ball. Room to room you will find Austrian-style shades, floor-length balloon draperies in shimmering silks of pewter gray, soft rose, and mauve. I sewed panels of off-white silk onto either end of the draperies; these mirror the window panes, giving a crisp look and definition to the billowing silk. The draperies look like fluted ribbon candy when they’re down and become jazzy ruffles when raised to let the sun in.

  The mantels throughout the house are carved white marble, and we hunted down oversized antique mirrors to place over them. One of the most delightful pieces I found was from the going-out-of-business sale at Hess’s department store in Philadelphia. If you look closely at the smoky blond glass, you can see the words “Milady Chapeaux” written in swirly letters. How lovely the mirror looks as it reflects Aurelia’s grand lit à l’impériale, with the handmade lace canopy and matching duvet. Sy was claustrophobic, so there were no canopy beds allowed prior to his death; Aurelia enjoys this one now without guilt.

  What fun we had placing the objets artisanaux: lovely miniature botanical prints displayed on wooden easels on the mantels, and glistening ceramic urns, most from Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, with quirky French sayings on them. My favorite? Une poule qui marche de travers ne pondra jamais d’oeufs, which means “A chicken that walks sideways has no eggs.”

  Going French is all about regal touches set against antique wood grains and fabrics. Touches of gold leaf and polished silver are used sparingly but with great effect throughout the house. We placed the occasional silver flask with a silk tassel dangling from the handle on a side table. A silver bookmark denotes a favorite poem in a leather-bound collection by Rimbaud. It’s the small details that bring warmth and not simply ornamentation to a room: a salière filled with pungent lavender seeds or a verrier full of Renaissance pie plates provides elegance and whimsy.

  The kitchen is done in cherrywood (the farm table and chairs were imported) with a tile-lined hearth that is deep enough to bake bread in—Aurelia loves to cook pizza in it. When there’s a party, we always wind up in the kitchen. Aurelia stands at the sink. She turns and smiles when we enter the kitchen.

  “B, sit down and put your feet up. Capri, please toss the salad.”

  “Your favorite,” I say, handing Aurelia the pie.

  “You’re a doll,” she replies, greeting me with a big hug.

  Aurelia Castone Mandelbaum has all the stature her daughter does not. She is around five feet eight with an hourglass figure that is holding firm—a feat for a woman in her seventies, she will be the first to tell you. Her red hair (which used to be chestnut brown) also keeps her looking youthful. She has been the organist at the Fatima church since she was a girl; her size-eleven feet come in handy when she pumps the giant pedals to send sound through the bellows.

  Aurelia is the richest woman in the state of New Jersey. By the end of his life, Sy owned a string of banks, which Aurelia eventually sold to Chase Manhattan, retaining control as a major stockholder. Folks were skeptical, but Aurelia proved that she wasn’t just serving tea at the board meetings all those years; she was listening intently to the proceedings. The stock for the company has split so many times the smallest shareholder has walked away with a bucket of cash from the dividends. I know Sy would be proud of his bubola.

  “I hope you’re both hungry.” Aurelia lifts an enormous Pyrex dish from the oven with her Toile de Jouy oven mitts. “I heard Arlene Francis talking on television about a dish she serves to guests at her New York penthouse on opening nights, and it sounded divine. I thought I’d give it a try.”

  ARLENE FRANCIS’S SHEPHERD’S PIE

  Serves 48

  Two 28-ounce cans crushed tomatoes

  1⁄2 cup Worcestershire sauce

  1 cup flour

  1 cup water

  1⁄2 cup shortening

  2 cups chopped onions

  1 cup diced red pepper

  5 cloves garlic, minced

  6 pounds ground beef

  Salt and pepper to taste

  1 cup sliced mushro
oms

  10 pounds white potatoes, peeled

  1 pint hot milk

  Butter

  Paprika

  In a large pot, mix the tomatoes and Worcestershire sauce and bring to a boil. Make a paste with the flour and water in a small bowl, and add to the pot. Stir until thickened at medium heat. In a skillet, heat the shortening, then lightly brown the onions, pepper, garlic, and meat at medium to high heat. Add salt and pepper. Add the meat mixture to the pot and cook over medium heat until browned. Stir in the mushrooms and cook over low heat. Meanwhile, boil the potatoes in salted water about 20 minutes. Drain. Using a mixer or by hand, whip the potatoes with hot milk and butter until fluffy. Spoon the meat mixture into two 9 × 13-inch pans, greased with a little shortening. Spread the whipped potatoes over the meat. Sprinkle with paprika. Bake in a 350°F. oven for 20 minutes, until the potatoes are lightly browned.

  “I made so much I brought a pan over to the rectory,” Aurelia continues.

  “It would have been cheaper to take Father out to dinner,” Capri says, pouring wine into our glasses.

  “Why’s that?” I ask pleasantly.

  “When Ma dropped off the shepherd’s pie, she left a check for one hundred thousand dollars for the church renovation.”

  “Who came up with that figure?” I hear my voice break. There has been lots of talk about renovating the church, including a big article in the diocesan newspaper, Feel the Spirit, in which Father Porp was quoted as saying that the people of Our Lady of Fatima Church needed renewal in their surroundings and their souls. I couldn’t sleep after I read it. I’ve been bursting with ideas about how to redo the church since I was a boy. I love my dusty old church, but the Gothic design with its heavy pediments, scrollwork, and stiff pews have never matched the spiritual heights I feel during the Mass. I want a crack at giving the interior a fresh, new design that will draw people in and lift their weary souls.