Swan Song

by Kelleigh Greenberg-Jephcott

  Gianni whisked the bottle from Rosa when she reappeared, popping the cork with a flourish. ‘We won’t let these vultures spoil our pleasure!’ he decreed, making his way around the table, filling glasses. ‘Let’s sail to Capri! And Positano—and everywhere in between! We’ll drink wine till our heads spin—and mingle with la bella gente in the piazzas! We’ll follow them to the nightclubs and let loose. We’ll do the rumba and the cha-cha and the twist! Let’s dance and sing and flirt with everything in sight!’

  He pecked Jackie’s cheek, then Lee’s, then Benno’s. By this point laughter reigned, the mood shifting from gloom to ebullience. Marella beamed, familiar with such transformations. He was a magus, L’Avvocato. In a very different way, he was much like Truman. Brimming with boyish mischief. Infecting those around him with the thrill of the possible.

  Gianni raised his glass—‘To la bella vita!’

  The others followed suit. ‘La bella vita!’

  He tossed back his glass and—laughing with exuberance in the spirit of excess—hurled it against the ancient stones, where it shattered into a thousand glorious pieces.

  THE AGNETA, HER Claret-Colored sails rippling in the wind, was Gianni’s kingdom. Here he indisputably was il re, and his credo was one of excess. He greeted his guests with embraces—Radziwills, Grazianis, D’Ursos, and lone Kennedy, Jacqueline (Caroline having remained ensconced at the Villa Episcopo with Secret Service detail, doubling as nannies).

  ‘We call it Negroni.’ Gianni presented a glass to Jackie, as if bestowing nectar of the gods. Vivid crimson liquid, ice and slivers of orange, passed on silver trays.

  ‘What’s in it?’ she asked, bringing the glass to her lips.

  ‘Campari—from Milan—vermouth di Torino from Piedmont at the foot of the Alps… and uno spruzzo di gin.’ The grin suggested more than ‘a splash’ had been employed. ‘It is more than a drink, Negroni; it is a way of life.’

  His passengers imbibed the bitters and botanicals, which clung to them like a gentle opiate, rendering them drowsy. The Grazianis lounged—Nicole resting her pale head on Benno’s ribcage; reconfigured, Benno using her orbed buttocks as a cushion. Sandro and Mario played chess for hours on end. Jackie read—or fell asleep with a book on her chest, the open page moist with suntan oil and perspiration.

  Marella was far from certain, but did she not see Gianni appraise Jackie’s athletic form as she sunbathed in her modest maillot (the President having forbidden the potential scandal of a bikini)? Was it her imagination, but lying in loungers beside one another, did their fingers brush on purpose, or by chance, as they changed positions? She summarily dismissed such thoughts, remembering too well a time in her past…

  And yet, was it an accident that they seemed to forever be seated or walking close to one another? Yes, photographers could employ tricks to fuel their fictive narratives, but they could not create the proximity in the first place. A photograph could be manipulated, yet it could equally capture hidden truths.

  Lee sketched, until she tired of it, or found herself distracted, as she was when—late on their second afternoon—a solitary speedboat was spotted, approaching in the distance. Jackie was roused from half-slumber, for fear it might be a pack of paparazzi having discovered their whereabouts. Marella thought it more likely to be one of the flotilla of Secret Service crafts bobbing just out of eye-shot, arranged by Agent Hill to keep a discreet distance. The motor’s wasp-buzz increased in volume, though the vessel seemed inhabited not by insect, nor water beast, but by avian, perched on the prow. Enormous black wings flapping in the breeze—a black crow, at odds with water so green and a sky so blue they seemed to meet and evanesce in the most exquisitely blinding of suns. Drawing closer, the crow took the shape of a figure in priestly robes, clinging to the back of a motor launch traveling at speed.

  ‘That must be for me,’ Lee brightened. ‘Stas!’ Her husband was roused from a nap in the shade and both Radziwills moved toward the stern, where they waved at the approaching figure.

  Marella, sunbathing beside Jackie, watched the curious display. Turning in her lounger, Jackie relaxed once more, as she explained— ‘It’s an emissary from the Vatican.’

  ‘From the Vatican… ?’ Marella frowned.

  ‘Yes. Lee and I went to see the Pope when we were in Rome. Officially it was me alone, but in fact it was both of us.’ Then, with a thrill of imparting a secret, Jackie’s voice grew more breathless than its breathy norm. ‘Lee wants an annulment, you see.’

  ‘From Stas?’

  ‘Goodness no!’ Jackie giggled. ‘From her first husband— Michael Canfield. English. Publishing heir.’ Then with disdain, ‘A starter marriage. To get out from under our mother’s thumb—or to beat me to the punch. Who knows. Anyhow, she wants to marry Stas—’

  ‘I thought they were already…’

  ‘In civil terms, yes. But they’re desperate to be married properly. To erase that first messy business. One shouldn’t say, but I do think our… situation. Jack being Catholic, the first Catholic President… Well, it is pulling some fairly delicate strings, but what can one do? Lee is family.’

  Marella watched from a distance as the priest clambered from the speedboat onto the Agneta deck with the unsteadiness of a drunkard dismounting a rowboat. She had of course heard of such arrangements. In Italy, where divorce was illegal, annulments were the only means of ridding oneself of one spouse to make way for another. She found it alarming, the casualness with which they were approached, and the frequency. She knew at least a dozen wives who had been summarily disposed of in such a manner so that their husbands might marry again. She couldn’t help but think of the Coupés coming off the assembly line at the Fiat factory in Lingotto—new autos customers were eager to trade their former models in for. How tenuous this century was; change was the ethos of the age. How different was Marella’s thinking, for hers was a mindset that embraced something all the more for having been time-tested. A piece of antiquity, a Renaissance painting. A marriage…

  It is what had terrified her about Gianni’s flirtation with Domietta Hercolani. Now, watching Lee broker the details of her own arrangement with the Vatican envoy in her bikini from a lounge chair, Marella found it pushing the boundaries of absurdity.

  Gianni appeared in a towel, drink in hand. Ever the gracious host, he delivered a Negroni to the perspiring priest. Then, removing the towel without a shred of self-consciousness, he bared his naked form and dove off the stern of the yacht. Bronzed. Godlike.

  ‘Well…’ Nicole Graziani grinned slyly, raising her shades to assess matters. ‘The man who has everything really does have everything.’

  THE DAYS BLED together, pleasure blurring the edges between one experience and the next.

  They toured Greco-Roman ruins in Paestum—wandered amid the temples of Hera and Poseidon. Gianni arranged to anchor the yacht offshore and travel by speedboat to a beach in Praiano, where a nightclub—the Africana Famous—had in recent months been built into the natural caverns overlooking the sea. Their party of eight entered a dim space, eyes adjusting to the lilac glow of chandeliers hung between stalactites. They squeezed into a circular booth cut into the rocks, joining the glitterati in their dark suits and shifts, smoking an endless stream of Fumos. Coolly watching a scandalous floor show—African dancers covered in warpaint gyrating to primal drums, one tormenting a woman in a leopard-skin bodysuit. She sprawled submissively beneath their shields and spears. Patrons looked on, swilling champagne in the smoke-thick cavern, pulsing with percussion and the sultry wail of a saxophone.

  Marella felt Gianni pull her close, holding her tight through a tender bossa nova. She gripped his jacket—which smelled faintly of suntan oil—as they danced. The tempo quickened, and Marella found herself spun into Mario’s arms for a cha-cha, then Benno’s for a mambo. She watched over their shoulders as Gianni took his turn partnering Lee, then Nicole, then joined Jackie at the table for a cigarette. He pulled Mrs. Kennedy back onto the floor when an Italian rock-and-roller
took the stage, and they danced the Twist, hips swiveling with subtle allure. The space was packed. Feverish. The music played on and they continued in an intoxicating whirl of partners passed back and forth until they collapsed ata rock-carved table to recover. At a quarter past four they descended the steps to the beach, where they piled into the waiting speedboat, motoring back to the anchored Agneta, singing—

  ‘Volare! Wooooaaaah-ohhhhh! Cantare, whoo-ohhhh-ohhh-ohhh!’—into the clear night sky. A mythic sky, endless, on the cusp of day.

  THE NEXT MORNING one of the Security boats delivered the stack of morning papers.

  JACKIE AND L’AVVOCATO: WILD NIGHT IN PIRATES’ DEN!

  ‘Oh dear,’ Jackie sighed.

  The smoky nightclub. The African floor show. Bodies on the dance floor, pressed close amid the haze. Their party entering and exiting the Africana Famous.

  ‘But where were they?’ Marella asked, perplexed.

  Benno studied the photographs. ‘They must have been in the club. And on the terrace.’

  ‘I didn’t notice them.’

  ‘They have their ways. Telescopic lenses. Hidden cameras. Built into lapels, or briefcases. Even into the beehives of female accomplices.’

  ‘I suppose—’ Jackie said, halting in her fashion, so that one was never quite certain if a statement was finished or not, ‘— that’s the end of that. We should head back to Ravello.’

  Gianni grabbed another paper—GIANNI E JACQUELINE N AMORE—crumpling it in his fist. ‘Damn these vultures to hell! We won’t change our plans! We’ll sail to Capri as planned,’ then, to Jackie, ‘You still want to see it, yes?’

  ‘Well— I did so want to. And to perhaps get some of those divine palazzo pajamas—I do admire your choice, Marella. I’d love to take a pair back home.’

  Marella smiled. ‘I’m sure the Countess would be delighted.’ The Countess, their dear friend Irene Galitzine. The Russian Chanel. Her pajamas-as-evening-wear were facevano furore all across Europe. Countess Galitzine lived in a rented Medici villa on the isle of Capri.

  Gianni rose with purpose. ‘So it’s settled. We sail on! Let them try and stop us.’ As he strode out to make arrangements, Agent Hill’s speedboat arrived. Gianni waved him aboard.

  Hill made his way to the gallery, where they were lingering over coffee.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Hill. Join us. Would you care for some toast?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve eaten. Mrs. Kennedy.’ He handed Jackie a telegram. ‘This arrived for you this morning. From the White House.’

  Jackie beamed, tearing the envelope open as her cohort began to discuss morning plans.

  ‘Marella,’ said Benno, ‘I’m keen to photograph the Faraglioni rocks when we hit Capri. Care to join me?’ They’d formed a bond over the past week, Marella having reminded Benno how much he loved experimental photography, removed from the bread and butter of society image churning; Benno having reminded Marella of a world that she had lost touch with these nine years.

  Nicole was debating with the Radziwills, ‘I know we’ve done the Green, but shouldn’t we give the Blue Grotto a whirl… ?’

  ‘Jacks… ?’ said Lee, noting her sister’s expression. ‘You all right… ?’

  The color had indeed drained from Jackie’s face. She looked to Lee, handing her the telegram. ‘From Jack.’ She rose and left the table. Lee read the message and set it back down, scampering after Jackie. Stas snatched the paper and read it aloud.

  Four words, crystalline in their sparseness:

  MORE CAROLINE. LESS GIANNI.

  MARELLA ARRANGED A picnic (chicken terrine in Amalfi lemon aspic) while Benno gathered their camera equipment. Nicole, snorkeling gear. When they departed around noon, the Radziwills were already stretched out in the sun. Sandro and Mario were attheir chessboard, having resumed a game from the afternoon before. Jackie was nowhere to be seen, having spent the morning in her cabin.

  As Marella, Nicole, and Benno climbed into the auxiliary boat and started its motor, Gianni, floating a short distance from the Agneta, swam up to see them off.

  ‘Last chance, Avvocato!’

  ‘No, grazie, Benno. I’ve had enough photographs for the time being.’ Then, grinning at Marella, ‘Divertiti, angelo.’ He blew her a kiss, and backstroked toward the yacht.

  Motoring on, the Grazianis and Marella found themselves gradually drawn into waters so blue, the sky skewed violet by comparison. Looming before them, three jagged, sculptural rock formations rising majestically from the sea. The Faraglioni.

  ‘They have names, you know,’ said Marella, for whom they’d held a special magic since girlhood. ‘The large one is Stella, star. The smallest, Mezzo. And in between, Fuori. Some say these are the very rocks from which the sirens might have crooned, luring Ulysses and his men.’

  Benno gave a low whistle. ‘Well… one can see how the poor bastard would have been tempted!’

  As they drew closer, Nicole shimmied out of her sundress and slipped into the water. Marella and Benno reached for their cameras. Fuori gave the impression of movement, though when one looked closer it was in fact lapis-tinted lizards crawling across the craggy surface. Marella held the box of her Rolleiflex at waist level, looking down at the image in the frame. She positioned it at an angle at which the jagged silhouette resembled a woman’s breast, the negative space of liquid consuming the form like a hungry mouth.

  THEY RETURNED LATE that afternoon, Nicole exhausted from her swim, Marella and Benno satiated from a rewarding artistic outing. Just in time for the cocktail hour.

  ‘My kingdom for a Negroni…’ Benno enthused, flopping down in a deck banquette beside Lee.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to mix it yourself. Gianni’s not back yet.’

  Marella joined them, kicking off her sandals, looking out to the waters below. ‘Is he out for another swim? We didn’t pass him coming in.’

  Lee yawned. ‘He went ashore.’

  ‘Oh… ?’

  ‘With Jackie. And Mario.’

  ‘Without the rest of us… ?’

  ‘Well, Gianni thought it would do Jackie good to get out. She wanted to buy some palazzo pajamas like yours, so he took her to Countess Galitzine’s.’

  ‘I thought we’d discussed all of us going to Villa Vivara,’ Marella said, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll make the Negronis.’ As she left to fetch supplies she turned back. ‘Did they say when they were coming back… ?’ This with practiced calm.

  ‘I assume in time for dinner?’

  And yet cocktail hour came and went. No Gianni. No Jackie. No Mario.

  Marella knew the third member of the expedition party was designed to lend their absence the appearance of innocence. Darkness fell and still the wayward threesome had not returned. The remaining guests were getting restless. They had planned to motor in to the island for dinner. And yet now… How might one hope to coordinate a rendezvous?

  ‘Shall we just dine on board?’ Marella offered, after Lee and Nicole had mentioned hunger pains, despite having depleted a tray of antipasto.

  ‘Nooooooo!’ came the collective whine. ‘I do so want to go ashore now. Shall we?’

  Various schemes were tossed out. They could take the auxiliary boat. Stay a night at the Quisisana, the hotel of the moment. They could surely find the missing trio in such a small enclave? Or at the very least be prepared to form a search party to descend on Countess Galitzine’s Villa Vivara in time for breakfast? The surprise element of this plan pleased them enormously, especially Lee and Benno, who began to whisper conspiratorially. Each disappeared to their cabins to fetch overnight bags, while Marella stayed on deck, staring up at the stars.

  ‘But Marella darling, aren’t you coming?’ they asked, as Stas and Benno sent the steward to start up the motoscafo.

  She shook her head, braving a smile, as she had so many times before. ‘I think I’ll stay here. I feel certain they’ll return, and I wouldn’t want Gianni to worry,’ waving away their concerns. ‘Besides, I have a bit of a headach
e from being in the sun all day. I really would prefer to stay.’

  ‘No!’ they protested. ‘You must come!’ they cajoled.

  But she would not be persuaded, so the party clambered into the tiny boat and motored toward the lights of Capri, as Marella stood waving on the Agneta’s polished deck.

  When they’d gone, she went to the galley, having long sent the staff to their berths. She made herself a simple pasta, which she found—sitting alone in the salon—that she had no appetite for. She poured a glass from the decanter of wine breathing at the center of the table set for nine. She checked her wristwatch—well past midnight. She took her glass and wandered back up to wait on deck, reclining in a lounger, in time falling into a fitful sleep.

  She dreamed she was in a rowboat on inky waters, pulled by a forceful current. She looked to see the figure of an Italian princess with honeycomb hair, luring her toward the first of three jagged rocks. A low, melodic voice pulling Marella’s vessel ever closer. Another voice joined in from the second, as the lapistinted lizards crawled across the cragged silhouette of a buxom stone goddess. From the third, a breathless voice—halting, eager. Merging in a siren’s song, drawing Marella closer, ever closer to the perilous rocks—

  She woke with a start. Alone. The old panic a cleaver in her chest. She again checked the time: well past two. She paced the deck, muttering to herself, to the heartless stars—

  ‘Wretched Marella! Why these sighs? This anguish! He’s yet again betrayed me. Played me for the fool. The loyal wife who waits, who forgives. But still…’

  She had a flash of the lines around his eyes when he smiled, as if radiating from two equal points. Of the lone patches of silver hair in the sea of black. Of the ease with which he bore his bronzed skin, his delicious physicality. The thrill of the possible she felt every time she watched him enter a room and lingered long after he’d left it. And as ever, she softened. The swell of warmth and love for him returned, as it always did, and he could do no wrong.

  She retired to her stateroom, where she undressed and crawled into sheets of cool Egyptian cotton. Monogrammed with her initials, entwined with Gianni’s. She knew that she would forgive him. Despite the dull thrum of anguish, the secret yearning for vengeance. For all were outweighed by one simple truth: When she gazed upon his features, her heart still thrilled.