Swan Song

by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott

  That first night, on a terrace perfumed with ripe blood oranges, Marella gathered the courage to ask her new husband the question that had weighed heavily on her since their formal courtship had commenced.

  ‘Amore mio… you are in love with me, aren’t you?’ Her heart thrummed like a hummingbird’s as she awaited his answer.

  Gianni replied with his hearty, good-natured laugh. ‘In love?… Angelo, isn’t that for valets and chambermaids?’

  He had kissed her on the forehead like a younger sister, but not once had he told her—before, then, or ever—that he was in love with her.

  She learned, over time, to intuit his conquests. She could sense when he was rushing off for a rendezvous and developed techniques to make her presence felt, filling his flat in Rome with enough signs of her presence to dampen his libido. A bed delivered to his bachelor pad, sheets monogrammed with their combined initials. Room service awaiting his arrival in a hotel suite, the meal carefully chosen to evoke familial memories. Awell-timed phone call to mutual friends she suspected of aiding and abetting—providing open houses and plates of spaghetti for Gianni’s maggiorate, the curvy girls that were the Italian male ideal.

  Still, Marella wasn’t troubled. She had come to see his infidelities as a form of expression—his desire to possess a beautiful woman no different from his desire for a sculpture or painting. Affairs of aesthetics, rather than emotion. Even the most glamorous of these, the Cinecittà sirens—Anita Ekberg and her ilk—on the whole made their entrances and exits without consequence. She took solace in the fact that she was the one he had chosen. She was Donna Marella Agnelli. Gianni’s wife. They were a pair—in time hardly anyone could mention L’Avvocato without mentioning Marella in the same breath. They were fused as one, in the eyes of their families, in the eyes of God.

  It had taken one incident to shake this assumption to its foundation.

  She was six months pregnant with their second child when it occurred to her that Gianni, for all his eccentric devotion, was, without question, a singular being. It would take another decade for Marella, sharing a languid lunch with Truman amid the bustle of the Piazza Navona, to attempt to articulate this concept.

  ‘You know, Vero,’ she observed, twisting a strand of linguine contemplatively around her fork, ‘Gianni has never said “we.” Only “I.”’

  ‘In what sense, miele?’

  ‘He has never once said “we ski” or “we sail”… Just “I.” Singular. Never plural.’ She paused, lowering her fork. ‘We ski or sail together, but when he speaks of right or left… or right or wrong, it’s quite clearly his right that he means. Does that make sense?’

  Truman’s expression brightened with recognition. ‘Of course it does! It’s all a matter of point of view. Gianni is without question a first-person narrator, singular.’

  Marella placed a hand on his arm, grateful that someone understood. It was why Truman was so vital to her.

  As she’d go on to tell her Piccolo Vero, it was during her pregnancy that she began to suspect that something was amiss. Gianni’s were not the telltale signs of the average philandering spouse, whose absences and skittishness might provide critical clues. With Gianni it was the opposite. He did what he never did… he slowed.

  It was a lethargy she’d not seen in him. Even when bedridden with his injured leg he had possessed his signature agitation. Now he took his time. Sat in one place for hours, wearing a satisfied expression. Finished a meal and waited for others, rather than expecting them to match his pace. He seemed to emanate the dreamlike quality she knew too well, for recognizing it as that which had consumed her when she’d first fallen in love with him.

  It didn’t take long for Marella to identify the object of Gianni’s suspected affections. A few phone calls to mutual friends, asking who he had been seen with at the nightspots around Via Veneto, the center of Il Boom, the Roman social whirl. It was in scouring the musings of the tabloid rags—Momento-sera, to be precise— that Marella found her evidence. There, captured by a paparazzo—leaning in to whisper in one another’s ears at a thimble-sized table—was Gianni and a stunning female. This woman was no actress who could be tossed casually aside. She was no nomadic trust–fund brat who would be off to Monte Carlo on the next departing flight. This was a woman that she knew. A woman with a name—but not just any name. One as titled and lauded as Marella’s own. Princess Laudomia Hercolani. ‘Domietta’ to friends, ‘Dom’ to her intimates. The photo revealed an aristocratic profile. Ashen hair marbled with honeycomb. Cigarette drooping from unnaturally long fingers, Princess Dom was a rival of mythic proportions. Visconti’s scenic designer, inspiration for Ian Fleming’s feminine ideal. Intense, headstrong, with a restlessness to match Gianni’s own, the Princess Hercolani was more than Marella’s equal. She was a genuine threat.

  L’AVVOCATO TO WED HERCOLANI, the tabloid caption read. Marella felt the bluntness of it puncture her heart. To wed? But he was already wed! Perhaps it was her expectant state, but Marella raced to collect a coat, kiss little Edoardo, whom she left in the care of his bambinaia, and commandeered one of the fleet of Fiats at her disposal, speeding from Turin to Rome. As she drove, the thoughts played like a rondo in her mind, a recurring theme of envy and rage… Are these the tricks he’s used to betray me? Is this the reward for my loyalty and love? Must stop him, before he escapes—makes off… Must stop… she thought again and again, stoking the embers of her fury.

  IT WAS IN the third nightclub that she found them. Unfamiliar with the hot spots of Via Veneto, she allowed the wolfpack of photographers to serve as her guide.

  Windblown hair hidden beneath a silk kerchief, mackintoshconcealing her protruding belly, she slipped into the establishment unnoticed. When she found them at a table surrounded by a cadre of Gianni’s amici, she wasted no time in her approach.

  ‘Giovanni?’ she cried, disbelief in the discovery. As if being proven right was not what she’d expected.

  ‘Marella, darling.’ She watched Gianni remove his hand from Domietta’s as he rose. Broad smile. Arms extended to embrace her, as if nothing were amiss.

  ‘You monster. You criminal…’

  ‘Come, my darling, calm yourself—’

  ‘Pack of lies!’ Marella looked to her rival, who was assessing her, lighting a cigarette with cool detachment.

  ‘Charming insults,’ she thought she heard Domietta say to Gianni’s amici. ‘She knows him well.’ She exhaled an even stream of smoke, as if bored by the display.

  ‘Angelo,’ Gianni tried again, ‘let me speak…’

  Marella shook her head, the sting of tears in her eyes. ‘What can you say, after such betrayal? You succeeded in seducing me. You wormed your way into my heart with your promises and your lies… I fell in love and you made me your wife. I bore you a child and now, with another on the way, you abandon me? Leaving me alone, with my regrets and tears? Is this my punishment for having loved you too much?’ Her voice rose from melodic to shrill. Chatter at nearby tables lowered to a hush, all eager to listen in.

  Gianni maintained an icy calm. ‘I had reason to be in Rome.’

  ‘What was that, if not your deceit? Thank God I found you here. At least now I know…’

  ‘But my darling, Domietta is a friend.’

  ‘She’s clearly more than that!’

  ‘You’re making a scene.’ His tone was even, though his eyes spoke volumes. ‘Come and join us if you wish—or if you feel unwell, I’ll have Mario drive you home.’ He nodded toward a young man in his cadre with thick, black brows, which furrowed sympathetically at Marella.

  ‘Is this all you have to say, after what you’ve done?’

  ‘My dear woman, can’t you see that I want to enjoy myself?’

  ‘Enjoy yourself?! I know how you “enjoy” yourself!’

  Onlookers had started to snicker.

  Gianni, coolly, ‘You’re becoming a nuisance. I’ve done nothing. If you don’t believe what I say, ask these gentlemen here.’ He nodded towa
rd his entourage, expressions ranging from bemusement to chagrin.

  Domietta tucked a honeycomb strand behind one ear. Marella met her gaze.

  ‘Don’t believe this faithless heart! He’s betrayed me. He’ll betray you too.’

  Gianni emitted an easy laugh. ‘My poor wife is tired, my friends. It is her condition—it makes her… emotional. Women in her state are allowed to act crazy.’

  Marella pulled her mac protectively around the evidence of her ‘condition.’

  ‘Betrayer,’ she hissed. ‘Betrayer!’

  Gianni took her arm and led her aside. ‘Angelo. People will talk. Be careful or you’ll end up an object of gossip.’

  Marella laughed bitterly. ‘Don’t place your hopes there. I’ve lost my sense of modesty! Your guilt can be known by all of Rome for all I care.’

  And with a last look at the rival princess, who had the audacity to regard her with a vague expression of pity, Marella turned and left the club, bracing herself for the explosion of light that would inevitably issue from the paparazzi’s waiting flashbulbs.

  MARELLA KNEW SHE’D behaved poorly, had disappointed Gianni, but she didn’t care. He was hers and she’d fight for him. An armistizio had been called as they limped through the familial Christmas rituals, strife simmering beneath the placid surface until, on New Year’s Eve, she picked up the phone at midnight to catch Gianni on the line with Domietta Hercolani. A great scene was thrown on Marella’s part, which Gianni refused to engage in. He sat quietly, enduring the tears and the wails, the stuff of Roman tragedy. His sole contribution to the encounter was a single word: ‘Undignified.’

  She had sought the counsel, in the ensuing days, of the sorelle Agnelli. She unburdened her soul to each in turn to find they had more or less the same reaction.

  ‘Cara,’ said one, ‘in this life, sometimes it happens that a square is not a circle.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Marella asked, confused.

  ‘Just that you should not try to fit a square peg into a round hole.’

  Another: ‘L’Avvocato… he is devoted, not faithful.’

  By the time she sat down with Suni, the eldest, on the terrace of her stately Argentine home, Marella had packed and unpacked her things time and again. She tearfully explained the situazione and gave voice to her great fear—‘He’s going to marry this woman.’

  With a blunt clarity that mirrored Gianni’s own, Suni took her hands.

  ‘Ascoltami. He is not going to marry her. Not now, not ever. You are his wife. He will never leave you. Why ruin everything over something so trivial?’

  Marella listened, and in doing so learned to bottle her fear. It was simply a matter of discipline. She packed her things one last time and returned to Turin with an odd sense of calm, assured that while Gianni might come and go, he would always return to her.

  THUS IN THAT August of’ 62, Marella was satisfied to spend time in the presence of the Bouvier sisters, both of whom had married well themselves. She knew and trusted Lee, and while Jackie, with her wispy voice and uncertain pauses, was more of an enigma, she was pleasant company, the glow of Kennedy Camelot emanating from her.

  There were, of course, complications, which seemed incongruous with the sleepy island paradise. The omnipresent Secret Service, watching from speedboats bobbing close at hand. The prying eyes of the paparazzi with their telescopic lenses. But if one could ignore such intrusions and simply live—for that’s what Jackie seemed to desire most—they were glorious days.

  They floated in gem-kissed waters in the afternoon heat. They cut sea urchins from the rocks beneath the surface, cracking them open, slurping buttery innards from their shells. They explored emerald grottos, where the Romans had worshiped water nymphs centuries before—which Sandro insisted were still haunted by the spirits of doomed sailors and sea witches and long-dead gods. After a lunch of spaghetti with fresh-caught squid, they wandered into the town below, stopping to shop for sarongs in the local trading posts, ‘WELCOME JACQUELINE!’ signs fluttering from their storefronts. These excursions, while enjoyable, created a feeding frenzy among the photographers, who pursued their small party as they strolled through the village. A stop for aperitivo at a cafe in the Piazza Duomo had the power to incite a near riot as the mob scrambled for their shots.

  ‘Eh, Jackie! Sorriso, Jackie!’ They’d bare nicotine-stained grins to encourage a smile. ‘Di “formaggio,” Jackie!’ Marella saw the terror in those wide-set eyes as Jackie managed a weak half-smile, turning to ensure that Agent Hill was within arm’s length. Behind her compliance, the panic of a fox facing down the hounds.

  Having returned shaken but unscathed, the Radziwill party disappeared for leisurely baths or naps or to read on the terrace, reconvening well after ten for dinner overlooking the lights of the bay, serenaded by the fishermen’s songs from boats anchored offshore. Sometimes they slept until noon, having not gone to bed until well past three. Then the leisurely routine began again, with coffee and ripe fruit served alongside the international papers, the delivery of which the Radziwills had prearranged. By the sixth day of their stay, the pages were plastered with paparazzi photos of Mrs. Kennedy and her entourage walking through the village—which was to be expected. And yet, a curious vanishing act had occurred. In the photos, Mrs. Kennedy’s entourage was nowhere to be seen… apart, that is, from L’Avvocato.

  GIANNI AND JACKIE’S ROMANTIC GETAWAY, the headlines read.

  KENNEDY FIAT MERGER.

  A dozen such variations, translated into multiple languages; the photographs pictured a relaxed Jackie, in white capris and pastel V-necks, kerchiefs tied over chestnut hair. Strolling with Gianni—alone. Laughing—looking every inch the sun-kissed holiday couple.

  Marella studied the images: Jackie gazing longingly at Gianni. Gianni pouring Jackie’s drink. Gianni helping Jackie onto a speedboat, hand resting on the small of her back. One particularly tantalizing image captured Jackie holding a bottle of suntan oil, Gianni gripping her slender wrist. His head resting on her arm, premature patches of white at his temples, stark against his otherwise inky waves, brushing her bare skin.

  In the background: a woman, reclining. Sunglasses shielding a myriad of secrets. Perhaps observing the intimacy of the couple in the foreground. Perhaps oblivious. Marella looked closely and thought that the woman might be her, but the figure was out of focus.

  When Jackie emerged from her cabin, sundress over her bathing suit, sleep crusted in the corners of her eyes, Lee passed her a stack of newspapers. ‘You’d better call Jack.’

  Jackie took them, flipping through the pages, incredulous. ‘But—’ she began in her downy voice, halting before she resumed. ‘But—how did they manage this?’ The papers were circulated around the table, received with intense scrutiny and grave expressions.

  Only Gianni seemed amused, chuckling at the headlines. Pleased with his fictional conquest. ‘They have a good idea. Kennedy and Agnelli—it is an excellent merger, no?’ adding, ‘Businesswise, perhaps I should speak with Jack and we’ll consider the matter.’

  Marella barely heard him, preoccupied with the blurred image behind the wrist photo.

  ‘They’ve cropped the rest of us out to sell their story,’ said Benno Graziani, an expert in such things. ‘Oldest trick in the book. You know that, Jackie.’

  She nodded numbly. The two had become close as photojournalists for a Washington paper—the Times Herald—Marella seemed to recall, before Benno moved on to Paris Match and Jackie to no career at all.

  Of course Marella herself knew all about the power of manipulating an image from her work at Vogue with Blumenfeld. Her head knew that this was craft. But her gut…

  ‘We were all together—the entire time!’ distress creeping into Jackie’s tone. ‘I just don’t see how they achieved it.’

  ‘Angles,’ said Benno, looking over her shoulder.

  Lee joined them. ‘Look—there’s the edge of my shirt!’ There was, in one version of Jackie’s stroll through the piaz
za with Gianni, a lemon-rind sliver of Lee’s striped tunic. ‘And Marella— there’s your shadow.’

  Next to Gianni there was a shade of a figure, cut from the image beyond a nebulous reflection, as if its owner had conveniently stepped just outside the frame.

  ‘Did it make the Times?’ Jackie asked.

  Stas rifled through the papers. ‘Yep.’ Checking the next in the stack, ‘Post as well.’

  Jackie sank into her chair, deflated. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t go into town.’

  ‘Senza senso!’ Gianni scoffed. ‘Rosa!’ he called to the local woman Lee had employed as their cook, who had arrived to clear their plates. ‘My dear woman, bring us champagne!’

  Lee laughed. ‘Champagne? For breakfast?’

  Marella smiled. It was another Agnelli eccentricity. When his father had died and the adolescent Agnelli brood were left to their own devices by a mother as untamed as they, champagne and pineapple juice became their daily breakfast. The ritual was only questioned when they were discovered lounging around half dressed by the pool at the family’s Cap-Martin villa by their grandmother. Gianni answered Lee’s inquiry as Marella knew he would—with the words the young Agnellis had used in reply to their nonna when challenged—‘Why not? It’s good.’

  Marella loved how well she knew him. She could predict what he would say before the words left his lips. He was her one great love—her only love. She was a bit of a sage when it came to Gianni. There was something she sensed in him at that very moment, something intensely alive. Stirring… awakening that old doubt in Marella which she thought she had banished for good. The feeling she’d tamed years earlier, with the exit of Domietta Hercolani. For the first time since, she felt the firm pedestal on which she balanced quake, reminding her of its impermanence.