An Improbable Pairing

by Gary Dickson

  Once the festival was over, Desirée and Scott spent time closing the house in Geneva in preparation for their trip to Ravello. Scott was sad to leave, but they would be in Paris for the last days of spring and early part of summer. He spent a few days attending class, but Scott’s interest had waned. Besides, he reasoned, there were only a few weeks remaining before the end of the semester, and his focus was the meeting with Monsignor de Pita. The Stoddards were now planning to come to Europe as early as the end of June, and Desirée had promised her definitive answer before then. Scott allowed himself to hope; his plans for their future might work out after all, but it was going to be close.

  thirty-four

  ONCE THEY CLEARED THE OUTSKIRTS OF NAPLES, Scott and Desirée had a three-hour drive to Positano, a beautiful town on the Amalfi Coast. Remote Ravello stands at one thousand feet above the Mediterranean, located on a precipice that provides a view of the entire coastline and the Gulf of Salerno. Their destination for the day was the Pelicano, a hotel situated directly on the water.

  Ravello was only a short distance from Positano, about six miles, but the road climbed almost straight up. The hotel recommended using its driver, Pietro, for the journey. Pietro would take them and wait while they had lunch with Monsignor de Pita. At the outset, Scott was a little too friendly, releasing Pietro from formality, and the driver launched a running commentary on the sights and history of the cities of Positano and Ravello. This would not ordinarily have caused concern, but the route was dangerous. Pietro sped along the narrow, two-lane road’s switchbacks, hugging the cliffs as cars approached from the opposite direction, all crossing the center line and honking their horns, while gesticulating and relating intricacies of some local story of loves lost or fortunes gained.

  By the grace of God (and Pietro’s skill), they arrived. What with the white-knuckle drive, the morning had been tense, but Scott and Desirée had been able to avoid snapping at each other. A lot was invested in this meeting.

  Ravello’s Piazza Vescovado was dominated on one side by the Duomo, its cathedral; on the other side were small shops and restaurants with tables and chairs arranged around a terrace with large umbrellas. Pietro let Scott and Desirée out just off the main piazza. Their instructions were to wait. Anselmo, a guide, would meet them at a quarter before one o’clock to guide them on a ten-minute walk to the monsignor’s villa. Stationing themselves on the church steps, Scott read the historical plaque while Desirée fidgeted.

  Anselmo arrived just before the appointed time. He didn’t speak English or French, but Desirée spoke Italian, so there was no issue. Scott followed, captivated by the sights, as Anselmo and Desirée chatted ahead. Many little alleys and lanes, the very same used in Roman times (and before), led in all directions toward villas and hotels built against the cliffs. These lichen-covered lanes were just large enough for carts, but no more. Pierced openings in walls provided access to villas, through gardens or the service entrance. Scott noted that no signs indicated who lived at these villas, nor were there any house numbers. To arrive at Monsignor de Pita’s villa, a visitor would have to know where to go and navigate the labyrinth of forks and turns; they would certainly need Anselmo to find their way back to the square.

  Stopping at one of the villas, Anselmo pulled the chain of an antique brass bell; a matronly woman in a black dress and headscarf opened the door. She showed the group to a large terrace half-covered by a trellis of latticework. A climbing plant with dark green leaves and tiny white flowers had been espaliered to the lattice, and Scott breathed in the heavy scent of jasmine. The trellis had been there a long time, though the furniture was more modern than one might have expected; the rattan and wicker with its sea of puffy cushions convinced one to stay awhile. Earthen planters of all shapes and sizes lined the borders and steps into a manicured garden that somehow managed to look both wild and groomed at the same time.

  Monsignor de Pita, a man of approximately sixty years old (young for a prelate to have retired) came toward them. He was of slight stature, his curly hair peppered with wiry strands of silver, eyes so mahogany they doubled for black, and sun-browned skin. He was dressed in a simple pair of white cotton trousers and white linen shirt; blue espadrilles slapped softly on the terrace stones.

  “Buon giorno, Countess de Rovere and Signore Stoddard,” he said warmly. “Welcome to Ravello.”

  The housekeeper served a white wine from Sicily and plate of fresh raw almonds. The monsignor seemed in no hurry to get to the principal purpose of the meeting but rather questioned Scott and Desirée on their backgrounds, how they had met, what their respective families thought about the marriage. Scott was impatient—he and Desirée had discussed these ad nauseum, so far as Scott was concerned, and Monsignor de Pita was rehashing the details again.

  “It is not at all unusual that parents and other family members are not enthusiastic about a marriage,” Monsignor de Pita said in a diplomatic manner. Their host seemed sympathetic, but Scott thought the older man a tough read. “Priests hear almost every possible objection, including all the ones that we’ve enumerated—and more.” He stood, gesturing toward a table set for three underneath the trellis. “Come. Let’s have some lunch.”

  As they enjoyed bread and another bottle of wine, the monsignor related how, after many years at the Vatican, he chose to retire from canonical law while he was still in good health.

  “Tell me, Monsignor de Pita, what are some of the passions that fulfill your days here in Ravello?” Desirée said.

  The monsignor’s face lit up at Desirée’s question. “I have two that are interrelated. One is gardening (I will show you after lunch), and the other is painting. I raise exotic flowers, all kinds of orchids and the like, and then I put together arrangements and create still life paintings. And from these paintings comes a pattern; a local kiln manufactures various lines of pottery and china with these images which are sold under the name of Ravella,” he said with a flourish toward the table.

  Looking down at the table setting, Scott asked, “Should we presume that these settings are from your line?”

  “Humbly, yes,” the monsignor replied. “Do you like them?”

  “They’re lovely,” Desirée said. “The iris and the white rose together are beautiful.” Monsignor de Pita beamed with pleasure.

  Lunch was a salad of mozzarella and fresh tomatoes, olive oil and basil, followed by swordfish steak cooked a la Livornese. Vanilla ice cream with orange sections and toasted pine nuts and coffee at a small table in the garden under one of the giant oak trees finished the afternoon. But for the gnawing reason behind their visit, Scott would have enjoyed the day immensely. Desirée was remarkably calm and compliant with the unhurried pace, and Scott had to trust that the conversation would eventually turn.

  Monsignor de Pita finished his espresso with a satisfied air. “Now, let us get to the business at hand,” he said. Scott and Desirée straightened in their seats and exchanged glances. “Father Kohler informed me that, in lieu of conversion, you are interested in pursuing what I believe you have termed as a ‘technicality’ regarding Catholics marrying non-Catholics. Countess de Rovere, you would like to marry within the church without Signore Stoddard converting to Catholicism. Am I correct?”

  “I didn’t know what to call it, and I wouldn’t presume to be able to investigate or to interpret the rules,” Scott replied, “but from the vantage of a layperson, a layperson with a purpose, we thought it worth asking someone of an expert opinion.”

  “I thank you for your flattery and your modesty,” Monsignor de Pita replied with a slight smile. “Father Kohler had mentioned you could be rather skillful in diplomacy.”

  “Father Kohler has been an important person in my life for years, from my early teens,” Desirée said emphatically. “I always turn to him when I need help. We so appreciate that you have agreed to consult with us on this matter.”

  “Have you had the time or the interest to review the possibility?” Scott asked. “Of course, we are
dying to know your opinion.”

  “Father Kohler was always one of my closest friends. I must tell you, my initial interest stemmed uniquely from his entreaty. And yes, I have delved into the subject, only superficially at this point,” the monsignor said. “Your inexperience aside, Signore Stoddard, I think that—with the right representation and brief—you might, indeed, enjoy a dispensation based on this technicality.”

  “This is very good news!” Desirée said, clapping her hands together joyously.

  Scott’s brow furrowed. “Wait a minute!” he said. “‘With the right representation and the right brief’—Monsignor de Pita, are you indicating you will not represent us in this matter?”

  “I wish that I could, but I am retired and reluctant to wade back into the intricacies this case would entail.”

  “But you must,” Desirée implored. “We have no one else to turn to.”

  “Countess, please don’t make this difficult. I do not find it easy to refuse you, particularly after seeing you two together. It is obvious that you love each other very much.”

  “Then what are we to do?” Desirée asked, tears glistening. “Please . . . will you reconsider?”

  “I shouldn’t; I fear I will only disappoint you twice.” The monsignor sighed and passed a hand through his hair. “I will give you my final answer in one week.”

  thirty-five

  DESIRÉE DID NOT LOSE A MOMENT. AS SOON AS THEY had returned to the hotel in Positano, she placed a call to Gstaad; she told Father Kohler the results of their meeting with Monsignor de Pita and her resulting disappointment, imploring the priest to speak with the monsignor and try to persuade him. Father Kohler said he would, though he thought too much pressure on his old friend would be counterproductive and a mistake.

  Scott reviewed the situation over and over, wondering what incentive they could offer. Monsignor de Pita didn’t appear to lack for money (nor did he seem to be overly interested in money); in any case, Father Kohler had said the monsignor had a sizable inheritance. Was the retired lawyer attached to any charity or cause that could benefit from a grateful sponsor? Father Kohler said he would find out.

  Desirée and Scott were on edge, awaiting the monsignor’s decision, Father Kohler’s information, and Desirée’s answer to Scott’s proposal.

  ONCE THEY’D RETURNED TO PARIS, SCOTT DISCOVERED HE wasn’t able to study one whit. On many occasions, he resolved to bear down. He picked up books, sought out quiet places, all without success—his motivation had disappeared, concentration dissolved, and discipline evaporated. He was only falling further behind in his studies.

  Then, there was the matter of Stefano. Although no more ominous notes had been delivered nor any intrusions into his apartment detected, Scott had a lingering sense that Stefano might be keeping tabs on him—and perhaps Desirée as well. His preoccupation simmered. Was there a chance that Stefano’s threats could be more than rhetoric?

  SEVERAL LONG DAYS LATER, FATHER KOHLER CALLED. HE HAD heard from Monsignor de Pita, who was making inquiries in Rome regarding a petition of dispensation. Scott and Desirée interpreted this as good news, and Father Kohler agreed. He also relayed that Monsignor de Pita was a staunch supporter of the Santabono Children’s Hospital in Naples. Nevertheless, he cautioned, they would be unwise to make a financial donation as that could be interpreted as an unsolicited incentive. Perhaps, Father Kohler wisely counseled, they might act later, if it seemed appropriate.

  With all the force of youth coursing through his body, Scott found these details and strategies tedious. Circumstances were making marriage a lot more complicated than necessary, and these behind-the-scenes machinations were causing Scott to become anxious and defensive. He had asked the question, damn it, but he couldn’t get a straight answer.

  Full of nervous energy, Scott paced the Avenue Foch apartment. He already felt inferior to Desirée, and having to wait for her response, needing to meet all her conditions, did not bolster his confidence. Petulantly, he recalled that his offer attached no conditions.

  And to top off the stress from school and strain with Desirée came a letter from his mother. Among the mail forwarded from Geneva was the familiar envelope; inside, his mother had slipped a photograph clipped from Life magazine. Part of a collage of people arriving at Cannes was an exceptionally clear and focused shot of Scott with Desirée, dressed in the form-fitting harlequin outfit she’d worn the first night. The caption teased about the identity of the Countess de Rovere’s escort. His mother had attached a note to the photo: “Call us immediately!”

  There wasn’t any way around it; Scott had to call. His mother answered the phone on the first ring, and his father joined on the extension only a second later. “Is this the woman you’re dating?,” Mr. Stoddard demanded gruffly without preamble.

  “Yes,” Scott replied with relief. Finally. There was no point in hiding the truth anymore. “Desirée is the Countess de Rovere, and I’m in love with her.”

  Scott heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath at his announcement and closed his eyes, waiting for her questions.

  “How old is she?”

  “She’s twenty-nine.”

  “She’s too old for you. What about your school? You can’t be studying much if you’re going to film festivals in the South of France; you’ve forgotten why we sent you to Geneva.”

  The recriminations continued. Scott couldn’t contest their reasonable concern; rather than defuse the situation, his agreement riled his parents even more. They’d expected excuses and begging for forgiveness, but Scott did none of that. Nor did he reveal that he had proposed marriage. Why? In the emotional onslaught, Scott simply couldn’t add one more “disappointment.” Cynically, he thought that perhaps there was no need to reveal what might not be relevant. Either Desirée would reject his proposal or the dispensation could be unattainable, and then there would be no marriage.

  Finally, there was no more to say; Scott wasn’t cooperating, and the Stoddards were spent, so they said goodbye.

  WHEN DESIRÉE ARRIVED HOME, SCOTT GREETED HER WITH the news that, thanks to Life, his parents knew about their relationship.

  “Were they happy about us?” she asked.

  “They were happy to know more about the woman I’ve been seeing,” he replied cautiously. “But I can’t say they were happy with everything they learned,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “They have some of the same objections that your mother has.”

  Desirée gave a bitter little laugh. “Maybe my mother has more in common with your parents than she would suppose.”

  thirty-six

  THE ALLIED CLUB, LOCATED ON THE RUE DE FAUBOURG Saint-Honoré, was one of the most prestigious clubs in Paris. Formed during the First World War by French nationals, the club’s purpose was to provide a place of camaraderie for Allied officers, principally the British and Americans. Enjoying a unique location between the American and Italian embassies, the dining room overlooked the manicured French garden of evergreen shrubs and trees and the interconnected paths of pea gravel.

  Madame de Bellecourt, who had returned from Mougins, invited her daughter to lunch, and Scott was certain she had not picked this venue by chance. (After all, he thought, this was where Desirée and Stefano’s wedding reception had been held.) The Allied Club was a place for formal negotiations; it was rumored, that after World War I, Woodrow Wilson negotiated many of the conditions associated with the League of Nations in those very rooms. Desirée’s mother had included Scott in her invitation, which he considered a good sign—she was willing to be seen in polite society with the young man known as her daughter’s lover. As Scott admired the historical setting, he considered that perhaps Madame had some weighty enterprise in mind.

  Ever the grand dame, Desirée’s mother had commanded a generous table for four located near one of the windows and affording ample privacy. They dined on sole meuniere with pommes de terre, a la vapeur, and enjoyed a light raspberry sorbet and fresh blueberries a
s dessert. The lunch conversation dealt mostly with casual news of the day, upcoming travels, and consternation over household staff. (Madame’s habit was not to discuss anything too serious or unpleasant during a meal to avoid any risk of indigestion.) But when the coffee was served, she straightened her posture and fell silent. Scott had a feeling she was about to address the meaning behind this meeting. Desirée reached for his hand under the table and gave it a slight squeeze.

  “Monsieur Stoddard, I have been thinking about our last conversation and the re-ordering of lists,” Madame de Bellecourt said gravely.

  “I’m glad you have,” he said. “Dare I ask what are the results of your re-ordering?”

  She took a small sip of coffee before replying. “There is some improvement, but my list is not perfect nor is it where you would like it to be. I have invited you today to discuss realities.” Madame de Bellecourt lifted her chin ever so slightly, and once again Scott noted the resemblance between mother and daughter. Desirée was just as resolutely posed. Madame de Bellecourt continued: “It is true; I have hoped—even prayed—that this relationship would suffer a natural demise. Not out of lack of consideration for you both. I love my daughter dearly, and I am confident that you are a fine person, but I can’t help my reservations.”