by Mark Forgy
Elmyr, by habit, liked to take a siesta. After lunch, we would return to our hotel. He would take a nap, and I would read or write postcards and letters. After resting less than an hour, he was again ready to resume the intense sightseeing in this cultural treasure chest. Later that day we visited the Italian Gothic cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, to view Brunelleschi’s Duomo, the largest dome constructed in Europe since the Pantheon in Rome. Nearby, the Battistero di San Giovanni (Baptistery of St. John) and the gilded bronze doors by Ghiberti are beautiful enough to inspire wonder in any viewer. At the Piazza della Signoria, we studied Cellini’s bronze statue of Perseus holding the head of Medusa (a mythic precursor to Texas Chainsaw Massacre). Another invaluable book that illuminated this personal domain of the powerful Medici family and their patronage of the arts, also recommended by Elmyr, was Vasari’s “Lives of the Artists.” Their stories not only imbued life into these emotionally moving works of art, but also grounded them in reality.
ROME
The Eternal City—Rome—was our next destination. For a young Minnesotan, the blasé resignation Europeans displayed in the presence of their rich historical and cultural heritage always amazed me. Excavations for the Rome metro begun in the 1930s immediately pitted progress against preserving its past and haltingly introduced its citizens to the benefits of a rapid, urban underground transportation system. Everyone knew you could not dig a hole in Rome without unearthing some archeological artifact. So ubiquitous, in fact, were these reminders of ancient Rome’s patrimony, that the capital city’s water supply came from its aqueducts, and only after 1955 other sources exceeded this volume. One senses the rich tapestry of its imperial and ecclesiastical past, the far-reaching legacy western culture has inherited from these dynamic peoples in our Christian religion, language, law, form of government, customs, and art.
We checked into the Grand Plaza Hotel. Its sumptuous multicolored marbled columns and floors, crystal chandelier, and gilded bronze lions at the bottom of its wide Carrara stone stairwell lent the unmistakable mark of old-world elegance. A velvet-lined comfort that Elmyr accepted as a matter of course quickly seduced me. Our room was dripping with brocade curtains, queen-size beds, Louis XV furniture, feather cushioned bergère chairs, and a wall safe in which to store the pearl strands and diamond tiara. The high-ceilinged bathroom was large enough to accommodate a presidential press conference.
Elmyr and I unpacked. He then dragged out his dog-eared, old leather address book with its scribbled names and numbers readable only to him and began phoning some friends. The first to get his call was an old acquaintance, Novella Parigi, (loosely translated as Paris Story). A name of theatrical invention, according to Elmyr, she did whatever she could to scandalize Roman society, which took some effort, and put her on the Pope’s short list for excommunication. In the pre-thong-wearing fifties, she wore meager bikinis that were apparently crowd-pleasing and just on the shy side of legality. Just to make the Holy Father go even more squinty-eyed, she affixed over her pubic area on her swimsuit bottom one of those flat tromp l’oeil pictures of a mouth. When moved slightly, the image would change to an opened mouth, just like the Cracker Jack prizes. She was a good-looking blond and darling of the tabloids, a kind of self-generating publicity machine. When we arrived at her apartment, it resembled what a warehouse of stage props would look like. To make even the stuffiest visitors at ease, she had a couple of hammocks strung up where you might find chairs in a more conventional setting. I suspect it’s hard to be haughty while looking like a netted bass. She and Elmyr caught up on time past and events in each other’s life since they had last seen each other. He recounted his recent notoriety. Hoping to bask in the glow of more camera strobe flashes, she suggested calling in the local glamour vultures. Elmyr politely declined the invitation.
Apropos Novella’s stagy but paparazzo-loving name, I want to go on another water-slide descent to explore some thoughts tangentially connected to this story, if only in a slightly gossamer way. Novella chose her name deliberately as writers often use a nom de plume, e.g., Mark Twain instead of Samuel Clemens. Others are less fortunate with their given names. In some instances it may even make some sense when, for instance, a family of innkeepers name their daughter Paris Hilton, after their French auberge, or if some fellow named Wood has a girl named Holly. My best friend’s family name is Gray, and I forever admire his parent’s restraint in not naming him Earl.
Only recently, my wife picked up a novel on audio disc for a long car trip. It was F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender Is the Night, one of those ignored classics. Written in the thirties, its fine descriptive prose seemed a bit stilted. Harder yet to digest was the main character’s improbable name, Dick Diver. Each time I heard it I could only imagine him introducing himself, his sister, Muff, and his gal pal, Pussy Galore. Not only would this name leave anyone in the gay community with cheeks tearstained from laughter but also anyone whose first language is English. Nor can I believe this was lost on a sophisticate like Fitzgerald. Go figure.
Another of Elmyr’s longtime friends in Rome was Count Esterhazy, who interestingly played himself, an aristocratic embassy staffer, in Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. He was from one of the oldest and most illustrious families of Hungary. For twentyeight years the composer Franz Joseph Haydn was in the personal employ of this family. We met for dinner at a restaurant suggested by Esterhazy. Elmyr was in his element and rarely so pleased as when he could talk about people whose titles preceded their names. The animated conversation spoken in an arcane language sprinkled with heraldic significance gave my eyes the same stunned look of a trout on a dinner platter. I had a slim familiarity with Count Basie and Duke Ellington but that was the extent of my grasp of royalty, until, of course, I met Elmyr.
A Norwegian film crew interviewed me in 1996 to gain my perspective and insights about Elmyr. They were doing a documentary on his life. They went to Hungary in the hope of dissipating the shroud of mystery around him. Their investigation had little success. Many records were lost in the Second World War. What I can say with certainty about him is this: like water that seeks its own level, Elmyr had an ease with those whose backgrounds were genuinely aristocratic. He knew their world and possessed a personal knowledge of the genealogical strands of this complex web that connected this privileged class. It was not a facile affectation designed to deceive anyone. That evening, in fact, Esterhazy gave him a small, thin book of poetry in Hungarian written by no one other than Elmyr’s father. On its back cover was his photo; he was splendidly dressed, more resembling a pasha wearing an elaborately woven silk jacket and ornamental turban-like headpiece, replete with a jeweled cabochon in the center, holding a white egret plume. At his side was a gem-encrusted scabbard and dagger hilt. Nothing about this photo suggested that Elmyr may have been the offspring of some chimney sweep or the like, as his sociopath nemesis, Fernand Legros, incessantly claimed
Between renewing old friendships, we absorbed this foreverinteresting city; the Coliseum, Pantheon, Trajan’s Column, the Trevi Fountain, the beautifully Baroque Piazza Navona (with its fountains designed by Italy’s foremost seventeenth-century sculptor, Bernini) and of course the Vatican. Michelangelo’s Pieta and Sistine Chapel are powerfully transcendent, emotionally moving and spiritually resonating works of art that, in themselves, merit a visit to Rome. Touring the vast Vatican Museum drew Elmyr’s ire. Every magnificent sculpture of the pre-Christian era now donned fig leaves over their genitalia to hide those body parts we see every day, even within the walls of our homes’ smallest rooms. These imitation organic codpieces stem from the same Christian-inspired sense of propriety that caused the stormy battles between Michelangelo and Pope Julius II. Since the Pope paid the bill for the artist’s commissioned work and it was his house, and his Sistine Chapel, he had Michelangelo’s nude figures strategically draped in nicely colored sheets. Never mind that many of God’s second-incommand servants were unashamedly sensualists and worldly in ways that would make
Rupert Murdoch squirm. Elmyr could not tolerate the church’s censorship of Michelangelo’s art or any art.
CAPRI
It was a rapid trip by train from Rome to Naples. We did not spend any time in Naples, and I regretted not seeing Pompey and Herculaneum, perhaps some of the most interesting archeological sites in the world. From the train depot, we headed to the city’s magnificent bay, taking a Russian-made hydrofoil to Capri. A friend of ours, Guy Munthe’s grandfather, a Swedish doctor, wrote an autobiographical account of his life on the island called The Story of San Michele. It is a wonderful read and it captures the beauty, character, and history of the place. The Emperor Tiberius built a palace here and ruled the Roman Empire from his sanctuary surrounded by the sea. Gibbon’s classic, The Decline and fall of the Roman Empire, documents his reign and some, but probably not all, of the naughty things he did here and elsewhere.
The island had two distinct areas, Capri and Anacapri. The village of Anacapri is on a mountaintop removed from the lower elevation of Capri. By tradition, the residents of these respective villages have a kind of Hatfield/McCoy relationship, without the flying bullets. I have no idea if these backyard feuds still exist, but the tendency to view the world through a parochial peephole is a custom that knows no geographic boundaries.
A few trucks, buses, and a handful of taxis that circulate are the rare motorized exceptions to the island’s unmechanized charm. The popular Funicular (cable railway) shuttles visitors around as well. Capri’s Blue Grotto is a natural rock enclave in which one has the feeling of entering a watery cave with views into the clear Mediterranean waters. Wonderful restaurants offer fine regional or national cuisine with delicious locally produced wine.
Elmyr had us booked into another first class hotel, the Quisisana. The view from our room revealed camelback hills speckled with villas, cypress trees, and a Mediterranean of aquamarine or azure. French doors opened to a balcony where we had a light lunch. After his siesta, we headed out exploring. It is almost a requisite stop for those wearing white pants, blue blazers, and chichi little captain’s hats. If they wanted to pretend to be seafaring, they would garner a little more respect and attention if they wore an eye patch, had a hook where a hand might be, a leg missing below the knee, and a parrot on a shoulder with a vocabulary that would make women faint. Instead, they come ashore from their yachts, and for some reason I have not been able to fathom, frequent pricey jewelry stores as though they had never seen one before—anywhere—then come out prepared to enter The Mr. T Look-Alike Contest.
That evening at a restaurant a couple came in I immediately recognized as American. (You can tell.) She, acutely suntanned, wearing a demure white dress, he in his yacht club attire, sat down at the table next to ours. His white trousers had blue anchors all over them. Elmyr remarked how he liked his pants, not meaning it, of course. I immediately followed with, “I saw a pair just like yours in an Army Navy Store in Omaha.” He looked crestfallen and told us he had just bought them at a fashionable boutique around the corner. Alas, this kind of impolitic candor has kept me from a career in customer service. Can you believe it?
Around 10:30, we returned to the hotel. The following morning we were up early and went to the main plaza of the town for a breakfast of coffee and croissants. By the third week in September, tourists have thinned out like male-patterned baldness. So, to our utter amazement, practically the lone person there seated at a small table happened to be someone we knew. Her name was Norma Clark, another fellow Minnesotan, curiously. She stood up in shocked surprise, warmly greeted us, and invited us to join her. Here, I am happy to crayon in the background because the story invites telling. She was a longtime acquaintance of Elmyr’s. Their paths separated when she lived in Italy and France for many years. At the same time Elmyr had found refuge in Ibiza. About six months before embarking on this trip, we went to London together. Elmyr loved the city and the British. A great friend of ours, Jack Fry, an industrialist who had a fantastic home in Chelsea near the botanical gardens, invited us to stay with him. Jack was a charming, gracious, and intelligent man of multiple interests. One was collecting artwork by Elmyr.
During our stay, we went to one of the King’s Road restaurants. It was chic and society-friendly. At a round corner table was a group of animated diners, all elegant. While still perusing the menu, Elmyr began staring intently in their direction. He then rose from his chair and headed to their table. In an unmistakably audible voice he exclaimed, “Norma Clark!” A look of recognition jolted her face. “Elmyr!” she said commensurately loudly. He approached nearer, leaned over as if to give her the customary French greeting of a kiss on each cheek. Instead, he reached out with his right hand and tightly clutched a strand of pearls around her neck. Looking intently at her, he said slowly, in an octave lower than normal, “Norma…I told myself if I ever saw you again I would strangle you!” Now that he had everyone’s attention, the man seated next to her, the Honorable John Lindsay, former mayor of New York City, chimed in, “Not here!” Poor Norma’s eyes suggested she might be on borrowed time. Then Elmyr mentioned a name evoking a glimmer of understanding, and a smile began to defuse the unexpected drama. It seems that a love interest of Elmyr’s ran off with her in Italy. When he expressed his grievance, he seemed satisfied with his theatrical performance, and his audience began to laugh.
Norma was a fading beauty, slender, statuesque, and with discernable poise. Once a Vogue cover model, she married well, twice to men of considerable means. Now, divorced for many years, the cost of maintaining a home in Italy, a flat in Paris, and various paramours, she was in the unfamiliar position of having to live by her wits. She knew of Elmyr’s new celebrity and was eager to rekindle their frayed friendship. Norma invited us to tea with her at her garden flat on Eaton Square. In a sort of Victorian overstuffed elegance, she surrounded herself with souvenirs of a life past and wealth that no longer came easily to her. Yet, all the trappings spoke of comfort and culture. Her sitting room looked out to the patio and garden area. A large Chinese Aubussonstyle rug covered the floor. A highly lacquered black baby grand piano stood in the corner. On top was one of those giant polished steer horns mounted in an elaborately carved silver stand. Its function was uncertain other than to serve as Odin’s drinking cup in Valhalla. (I suppose when people have more money than they know what to do with, they ask for one of these horns—or maybe an ashtray carved from petrified dinosaur guano). Café au lait silk-covered love seats faced each other with a heavy glass-topped coffee table in between. Good original art graced the walls, and bookshelves bulged with leather-bound editions.
She was no stranger to the finer things in life but now had to periodically “sell a piece here and there to make ends meet,” as she explained. Elmyr knew her plight. What was unusual about Norma’s background was that her married name, Clark, had come from her last husband, the son of Stephen C. Clark, who was one of the most important art collectors in America and former director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. His hugely important collection included Cezanne’s The Card Players and van Gogh’s The Night Café, among numerous other impressionist and postimpressionist masterpieces.
Norma asked Elmyr if he could help her. He then examined some books from her shelves. Reaching up, he took down a large antiquelooking volume. Placing it on the piano, he opened its cover. As he had already explained a practice familiar to him, he carefully removed one of its beginning pages—a blank one. It was high-quality paper, thick, discolored by age, and noticeably marked from moisture spots called “foxing.” He asked her for a number two pencil. With devoted concentration, his breathing appeared controlled as he proceeded to “invent” a Modigliani drawing, a small portrait that might pass for a spontaneous sketch of the artist’s mistress, Jeanne Hébuterne. His lines were sure and graceful, balanced between thin light strokes and heavy shading where it needed to be. Within moments a completed drawing emerged. He handed it to her. She was noticeably pleased. She sighed. He looked serious, for he knew what he h
ad done—he helped someone who needed it. Elmyr did not add a signature to the new Modigliani.
Our wholly unforeseen encounter that early morning in Capri was pregnant with curiosity. Anyway, she seemed happy to see us or just happy. Her broad smile anticipated his question. He smiled too, and asked, “What did you do with the drawing?” “I took it to a friend, a curator at the Tate,” she responded. “I told him it was part of my husband’s collection, but as it was unsigned, I wanted his opinion. He thought that because it was unsigned its authenticity was more probable.” With that benediction she put it up for auction at a major London sale of modern masters. She cheerily announced that it fetched thousands of pounds, enough to live comfortably for some time, exactly how Elmyr would phrase his successes. We shared a brief laugh, chatted a bit longer. She said nothing more about Elmyr’s new contribution to the dead artist’s oeuvre. Norma’s newly cautionary spending habits did not relax enough to invite us to a coffee and croissant, as she counted out enough lira to pay for just her coffee.
We left Capri the following day. Norma vanished from our lives when she disappeared from view that morning.
Italy remains my favorite country in Europe, and the time spent there with Elmyr was an astounding experience—one I have, until now, kept largely in the vault of my memory. It’s good to air things out.
GENEVA
We landed in Geneva aboard an Alitalia flight from Rome and would soon see those friends who initially made our trip possible. First, we went to the Hôtel du Rhône, located on a street with the unsurprisingly Swiss name rue de la Monie, “Street of the Money.” Shown to our room, we unpacked, changed clothes, and were now ready to make our sortie into the city. For Elmyr, the telephone was an indispensable tool. Recalling the old “Mummy” horror films of the forties, the mummy awakened according to the curse, by the high priest Ananka administering the sacred “tana” leaves—three for life, five for movement. Phoning his network of friends three to five times a day reanimated him.