by Gary Dickson
The appointed hour approached. Gustav guided the car through the old town to Grappe d’Or. It was not an imposing structure. Rather small, Grappe d’Or probably seated fewer than fifty. But the humble exterior was misleading. Known as the second-best restaurant in Swiss Romande, food lovers came from all around to dine; on any given day, one might find the likes of Charlie Chaplin or Vladimir Nabokov or even Vittorio Emanuele, Italy’s exiled king, at their preferred tables. Wooden floors, tables and banquettes with white tablecloths, and an open grill gave a slightly rustic feel, adding warmth to the room.
The owner was stationed just inside the door. From his perch on a straight chair, he surveyed the entire restaurant, a single lift of his eyelid conveying displeasure. Most of the waiters were of the highest professional standard; busboys were often interns from Lausanne’s famous École hôtelière. Besides being a convenient meeting place, Scott and Desirée loved Grappe d’Or and often stopped there on their way to or from Gstaad.
As they were being seated, Father Kohler came through the door and, in his gentle manner, greeted them. Scott ordered a dry Pouilly-Fumé as an aperitif. The good father cleared his throat; he wanted to get to the business of the meeting. “My dear countess, Monsieur Stoddard, I am happy to play the role of the patient cleric and always pleased to see you both,” Father Kohler said, beaming softly at Desirée. “My weak humanity overwhelms my patience, and so I must demonstrate my curiosity—what does this meeting concern? Why bring me here?”
Desirée took the lead. “Father, you have always been there when I needed you, and we are counting on you now.” She reached out for the priest’s hand, taking it in both of hers, and Father Kohler covered their clasped fingers with his other hand. It was a tender moment. With a deep breath, she continued: “Scott and I are contemplating marriage.”
“I am not surprised,” Father Kohler said. Though his eyes were kind, he shook his head sadly. “Under the circumstances, I’m not sure what I can do. I believe Monsieur Stoddard is not Catholic. Am I correct? Of course, he could convert to Catholicism.”
“Yes, but Scott believes he has found a way for the church to grant a dispensation. Converting to Catholicism, as you know, might take a year or two. We don’t want to wait that long,” Desirée said. She sighed heavily before continuing, “Unless, Father, it is impossible to acquire the dispensation.”
“You are both lovely people and obviously very much in love, but convincing the Holy See that a special dispensation is applicable in your case would be difficult. You would need an experienced and well-connected canonical attorney.”
“Precisely.” Scott said. “Father Kohler, who would that man be?”
The kindly family priest chuckled. “Aha! You have led me like a lamb to slaughter. Now I understand my role. There is but one man for this mission: Monsignor Giovanni de Pita, a former papal attorney arguing canon law before the highest court within the Vatican,” Father Kohler said. “Unfortunately, he is retired and living in Ravello, Italy.”
“Well, is it possible to persuade him out of retirement? Or is there someone else we should contact?” Scott asked.
“Unfortunately, I know of no other person so qualified and well connected, which is paramount to your success.”
“Then we must go to Ravello and persuade Monsignor de Pita,” Desirée said. She raised her wine glass—“To our success!”
With that, Desirée went to work outlining a plan. Father Kohler would make their introduction to Monsignor de Pita, but she left it to his discretion as to what to confide regarding the reason. Father Kohler indicated it might take a few days to contact the monsignor—and several more phone calls to persuade him to accept the meeting. Using praise and approval, Desirée bolstered his courage, and as they parted outside the restaurant, Scott knew they had a new member on the team.
THEY WERE IN THE SALON ONE EVENING A FEW DAYS LATER, having a glass of champagne prior to going out for dinner, when Father Kohler called to relate his conversations with the monsignor. Though he only heard Desirée’s half of the conversation, Scott understood the gist. After several phone calls and multiple entreaties, Monsignor de Pita had agreed to see them, but he couldn’t promise anything beyond that. It was a little disappointing, but it could have been much worse. Desirée thanked Father Kohler for using his office to secure the meeting and promised she would never forget his kindness. After several additional phone calls, a date was set for the last Thursday in May; the monsignor invited them to lunch at his villa in Ravello.
There was a shift in Desirée’s tone, and Scott turned his attention fully to her conversation. From the tenseness in her shoulders, Scott guessed a new topic, not one she liked, had been broached.
“No, Father; I haven’t told my mother of Scott’s proposal,” Desirée admitted. She listened attentively for a long minute or so, and then she said, “Yes, I understand her concerns, but it is not her decision to make.”
Another minute passed with Desirée listening and making small sounds of agreement. Then: “I’m sure Maman will be calling you. I believe we can agree that, when the appropriate time comes, I should be the one to apprise her of our intent.”
Scott considered Desirée admiringly; she had such a gift for informing people on proper behavior without overtly instructing them on what to do.
thirty-three
SCOTT AND DESIRÉE WERE SCHEDULED TO ATTEND THE Cannes Film Festival in May. Luckily, their trip coincided with spring recess at the university. The plan was they’d attend the festival and then return to Geneva before flying to Naples and driving to Ravello to meet the monsignor.
Cannes was a tradition. For many years, Desirée and any number of her friends (particularly those from Paris) went to the international film festival. Known worldwide as a platform for the most avant garde and controversial cinema, the festival in the South of France was a spectacular event. Its star-packed juries and honorary judges selected prizes for each category, the Palme d’Or being the most prestigious award. Sometimes the subjects were not pleasant, but the films were always viewed as art. The festival’s glamour and glitter differed from the Academy Awards; aside from the more international crowd, a constant hum of self-publicity by the aspiring starlets and celebrity models circulating the festival’s periphery created a frenzy in the tabloids.
Cannes sits on a huge half moon bay, some thirty kilometers from Nice. The British, seeking more temperate climes during hard English winters, flock to the city. Writers like Fitzgerald and Hemingway found their muse in Cannes, and nearby Cap d’Antibes was an important residential area for the super rich.
Having sent their trunks ahead with Gustav, Scott and Desirée flew to Cannes unencumbered. They checked into the Carlton Hotel, cinema central for the festival, where the concierge and staff at reception greeted Desirée as a habitué.
Desirée loved the convenience of the hotel. Though her mother’s home in Mougins was only ten kilometers away, the number of events and late-night parties made the commute—always a difficult drive under the best of circumstances—tiresome. Ever social, Desirée found mingling with the other attendees and movie people part of the fun; being in the thick of things added to the aura of the event. The only drawback was the ever-present paparazzi who staked out the hotel.
They had a beautiful suite on the third floor, overlooking La Croisette, a wide and landscaped promenade skirting the Mediterranean shore for some two kilometers. Scott surveyed their rooms with satisfaction; the décor was period French, the furniture’s upholstery and draperies combined a soft cream, pastel green, and metallic gold. Three large windows led to a patio that ran the length of the suite.
Several of Desirée’s friends, including Celine, had arrived the day before and were already next door at the Le Festival restaurant, the preferred hangout for Cannes regulars, Desirée and Scott joined the crowd, and he was glad to see Francesco was not there. Celine motioned for them to join her table, which included a very handsome man, whom she introduced as Dr. Albert B
onnard, a cardiologist from Paris.
During the lengthy lunch and cocktails, Celine managed to whisper to Desirée that mutual friends had introduced her to the doctor. Over the last several weeks, the two had developed a rather intense affair. Desirée seemed pleased; the way Albert and Celine looked at each other showed a clear match in the works. Her friend had never had a serious relationship, and Desirée had worried that somehow Celine would not realize her dream of love.
When Desirée went to the powder room, Celine slid close to Scott and said furtively, “Don’t say anything to Desirée, but Francesco told me that Stefano is beside himself with jealousy. I don’t think he’s dangerous, but he may have friends who are. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I must.”
“Thanks, Celine. I wouldn’t worry too much; I think Stefano is more bluster than anything else.” Seeing Desirée approach, Celine moved back, and Scott plastered a bland smile across his face. Inside, his guts were roiling. Celine had proven herself to be a trusted friend; she had warmed to him as he had to her; Scott was glad Desirée had a confidant like Celine in her life.
Scott made a point to chat with Dr. Bonnard. Albert was in much the same predicament Scott had found himself in at the beginning of his and Desirée’s relationship. Like Scott, Albert was not from the upper reaches of French society; he was what the French would call bourgeoisie.
Returning to the hotel after lunch, Scott and Desirée nestled together to take a nap before the evening’s events began. Encircled in Scott’s arms, Desirée sighed contentedly. “Celine and Albert seemed very happy, don’t you think?” she said.
“Yes, I would say very much in love and ecstatic,” Scott said, knowing how pleased Desirée was for her friend. She absently ran her hand across the hair on his chest, deep in thought.
“It’s a little unusual though,” she mused. “Celine is such a traditionalist. I think she always saw herself marrying someone with a title and perhaps an inheritance.” Scott listened intently. The women had been friends since childhood—how much of Celine’s dreams mirrored Desirée’s? “She wants a husband, several children, a happy home—well, maybe two homes.” They laughed together before Desirée continued. “I would have thought Albert might be a little removed from what she had in mind.” Careful, Scott, he thought. Watch what you say next.
“‘Removed?’ Desirée, dear, is that a cipher? Are you indicating that Celine would think Albert might hail from an inferior milieu?” Scott said. What about me, he thought. Am I “removed” from what you had in mind?
Her fingers continued their wandering way across his chest, stroking and playing. Scott could not see her face as she replied, “He is nice, though. I like him.”
“My darling, just be happy for her. She loves him, and from those first few minutes with Albert, you can tell he adores Celine and would never hurt her. What more should she ask?” He tilted her head up so she could see he was joking. “Must her beau be a direct descendant of the Sun King?” Desirée’s answering smile lit up her entire face.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sounding like my mother.”
“You’ve told me you’re a lot alike. And you also told me you often disagreed for that very reason. I’ve seen how naughty you can be,” he said sternly, wagging a finger at her, which elicited giggles.
“I’m a bad little girl,” Desirée cooed playfully. “Perhaps I should have a little spanking.”
WHEN HE AWOKE LATER IN THE AFTERNOON, DESIRÉE WAS already busy with her preparations for the evening.
“Darling, could you get dressed?” she asked. Scott stretched lazily in answer, provoking a hurried rebuke. “Frederic will be here in a few minutes.” Scott sighed; Frederic was the hairdresser from Alexandre de Paris who would be arriving to tame the countess’s tresses. It was a good time to be away.
“If I must. Though I was hoping you’d have more time to be a bit naughty,” he said seductively. She tossed a pillow his way and shooed him out.
Scott dressed quickly; he wanted to take a walk and get some fresh air, as it would be a long night. He took a last look in the mirror, adjusting his bowtie and cummerbund before shouting out to Desirée in the dressing room (mentally, he called it “the staging area”) that he was going out. She didn’t mind; Scott knew how important their ritual was. He’d wait for Desirée’s grand entrance at the bar and enthusiastically express surprise and delight at her ensemble. It was their own personal theater.
Eventually, Scott made his way to the Carlton’s beautiful mirrored bar, a large horseshoe affair. Nooks for privacy were formed with petite chairs and tables, engendering a feeling of intimacy and closeness. Enormous French doors the length and breadth of the room led to the large umbrella-shaded terrace above the Croisette and overlooking the hotel’s beach club.
Scott didn’t have to wait long before he saw Desirée coming down the hallway. He gave a low whistle—even before she entered the bar, it was obvious that none of the movie starlets would be upstaging Countess de Rovere. She knew from Scott’s expression that he not only approved of but also understood the thematic undertones of her outfit.
Somewhere between risky and risqué, Desirée’s silk chiffon jumpsuit was less than formal but totally appropriate. Made of marine blue silk and decorated in parchment white harlequin diamonds, the outfit’s high waist and expert tailoring showed her long legs to their best advantage. Scott gave Frederic a mental bow; he’d worked magic with Desirée’s hair by creating a tight blond twist that somehow defied gravity. Diamonds and ivory completed the picture. As he drank in the sight of her, Scott was conscious that he wasn’t alone; the entire male population of the bar was transfixed by this remarkable specimen of loveliness. When she walked up to him, he was glad for her demonstrative nature. “Ah, Mademoiselle; may I buy you a drink?” he teasingly asked.
THOUGH THE FESTIVAL PAVILION, THE THEATER, WAS ONLY A block away, they wouldn’t walk. The international press had been patrolling the beach and the lobby all day, snapping away at starlets, Brigitte Bardot wannabes, who stationed themselves on either side of the red carpet leading to pavilion. Flashbulbs lit the night in an incessant barrage of flickering white light. Taking the car made navigating the gauntlet of paparazzi possible, and so Gustav pulled the Mercedes as close as possible to the steps.
Dashing from the car, Scott and Desirée were practically blinded by camera flashes as they entered the theater. Groups of attendees were scattered around the foyer, holding flutes of champagne. Scott couldn’t help it; he gawked. There was Sean Connery; Rex Harrison chatted with Catherine Deneuve and Roman Polanski, Warren Beatty, and Natalie Wood. Lesser known actors and actresses mingled, awaiting the screenings as almost an afterthought; most Cannes attendees were more interested in the scene itself.
Following the film, they pushed on to dinner at Chez Felix. Part entertainer, all host, Felix was in rare form; he knew just where to seat guests and exactly the right amount of flattery to use. Scott was glad to see Celine and Albert, and another couple from Paris—Jean Pierre and Simone Beaumarchais—joined the table. Jean Pierre had apparently retired at thirty-four (Scott questioned whether he had ever truly worked), and Simone was a former student at the same lycée Celine and Desirée had attended. The conversation quickly turned from the recently viewed film, The Collector, to everyone’s immediate plans for the summer vacation.
Jean Pierre and Simone were bound for Sardinia in June, the best month, and they wondered whether Desirée would be there then, too.
“Not this year,” Desirée replied casually. “We’re going to the Amalfi Coast. Ravello, specifically.” Scott fixated on his plate.
Jean Pierre breezily launched into a review. “Ah, Ravello. I know it, but I’m not sure there’s enough to keep you occupied there. The concerts are generally in August. Beyond that . . .” He made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “Capris, now; I recommend Capris. It is better—better weather, more restaurants.” Pausing, he turned to Scott. Observing his blasé manner, J
ean Pierre looked at Desirée, who offered no comment. “Ravello . . . what don’t I know about the charms of Ravello?”
Interest now piqued, the rest of the table joined the inquest. “Yes, Desirée, why are you going to Ravello, of all places?” Celine asked curiously.
“It’s my idea,” Scott said, swiftly rescuing the countess. “Desirée’s like you; she’d much rather be in Capris, but I’m very interested in the ruins of Pompeii and some of the other archaeological digs in that area, as well as the volcano, Vesuvius. She’s being quite a good sport about the whole thing.” For once, Scott was glad to play the foreign student card.
“Desirée, my dear,” Jean Pierre said, “I hope you know what you’re getting into.”
“I tell her that every day,” Scott said, exchanging a secret smile with Desirée.
“I’ve been to Ravello several times,” Albert said. “The town is an absolute gem; at one time, it was the preferred summer residence for the most patrician families of Rome. You’ll like it a lot, I’m sure.” The two men nodded in solidarity; Scott liked Albert and anticipated having him as a friend.
Desirée joined in the fun. “You see? I bring Scott to Cannes for the stars, and he whisks me off to Ravello for the rocks. It’s a good trade, don’t you think?” she quipped, and the table erupted into goodhearted laughter.
THE WEEK WAS CONSUMED WITH A BLUR OF EVENINGS PILED on evenings of the same sort: dinner until midnight followed by a trip to the casino, where they danced and talked (and danced some more) before collapsing at the hotel around three o’clock the next morning. Scott glanced at his books, tossed in the corner of the suite. He’d been naïve to bring them—ten minutes here, twenty minutes there wasn’t going to do any good. He’d become thoroughly immersed with the goings on at Cannes, and frankly, he was sad to see it end. All the excitement had also distracted them from the impending meeting with Monsignor de Pita, and Scott was glad. One less preoccupation might yield benefits; the more they thought about it, the more tension mounted. What exactly, he wondered, was on the line? What if the Holy See would not yield the desired dispensation? There had been no discussion about whether Desirée would marry him outside the church, and Scott hadn’t asked. He was a little afraid of the answer, and from her silence on the subject, he guessed Desirée hadn’t addressed the question either.