An Improbable Pairing

by Gary Dickson

  “My dear children, when a man and woman from different backgrounds approach marriage, sometimes the greatest impediments to their happiness can be those people who should want their happiness the most—their families. Can you assure me that both of your families approve and have given their consent to this marriage, so help you God?”

  “Oui,” Desirée said. Scott, too, answered in the affirmative.

  Desirée and Scott were asked to step outside into the anteroom as the committee deliberated a final time. Less than ten minutes later, Monsignor de Pita asked them to come back inside. Cardinal Massela read from the dispensation document; it was a heavy parchment, featuring calligraphy and illuminated hand-painted initial capital letters adorned with gold leaf. After he finished reading the text, he dipped a quill pen into an antique ink well and signed the document with a flourish. One of the assisting monsignors lit a candle, melted a red glob of wax, and impressed the official seal.

  Rising, Cardinal Massela wished Desirée and Scott a bountiful and happy life together, congratulated Monsignor de Pita, and thanked his assistants before calling for a moment of prayer. He implored God to look over these young people and provide them guidance and solace throughout their lives.

  When they reached the exit, Scott and Desirée would have broken into a full-tilt run in their excitement and elation, alternating between kisses and hugs, but they showed restraint out of modesty for Monsignor de Pita, who was too dignified for such celebration (though he did agree to join them for lunch at Tre Scalini). One of Rome’s most popular restaurants, the Piazza Novona sidewalk café featured darling tablecloths and umbrellas, and traditionally uniformed waiters. The happy party was shown to a fine table, and they ordered a feast: massive artichokes, steamed with garlic, mint, and parsley; grilled scampi with white rice; a bottle of dry, white Frascati; and dessert, lemon sorbet with fresh slices of blood orange from Messina.

  Scott lifted his glass in a toast. “Monsignor, Desirée and I can’t thank you enough for taking on our petition. It was enormously important to us, and we are certain that you are the only one who could have succeeded,” he said.

  “My children, you give me too much praise. You had a very worthy (and obviously, correct) premise that made my work easy. The baptism certificate was key.”

  All modesty aside, Scott and Desirée were convinced that, but for Monsignor de Pita’s astute and expert guidance through the maze of Vatican process, their dispensation petition could have languished in some prelate’s office ad infinitum. The monsignor deflected their praise with the deference they had come to expect; he had already sent them his fee, and it was as modest as its maker. But Desirée had a surprise up her sleeve.

  Handing the monsignor an envelope, she said, “Some time ago, before you took our case, Father Kohler told us of your devotion to Santabono Children’s Hospital in Naples. You must allow us to share our happiness and celebrate our good fortune with those children. I have enclosed a check that can be used for the hospital in any manner you prescribe. I hope you will understand that, from our vantage point, a simple thank you is inadequate.”

  Completely floored—the good man had expected nothing but his modest fee—the monsignor wiped tears from his eyes. “Cara, you honor me, and I and the children of Santabono thank you for your generosity,” he said in a choked voice.

  As they parted, goodbyes were difficult. The usual well wishes were exchanged, as were appeals to be remembered to Father Kohler, and Monsignor de Pita’s request to give thanks to Madame de Bellecourt for her assistance with moving the marriage forward. Scott and Desirée effusively thanked their friend again. Back at the hotel, Scott decided to change the gravitas of the mood. He left Desirée at the hotel with instructions to change into some slacks and meet him in half an hour at the entrance.

  She was waiting in a pair of camel pants, emerald green blouse, and camel-colored ankle boots when he returned, a matching cardigan thrown over her shoulders. She gave a knowing grin as she watched him enter the hotel’s grand porte cochère. Scott stopped directly in front of her and asked, “Want a ride, little girl?”

  Scott had first seen an Italian two-wheel motor scooter (a Vespa) in Roman Holiday, the film starring Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn. Mismatched in every way—Hepburn a princess; Peck a reporter—the two characters rode around Rome on a motor scooter. In the space of that afternoon, they’d fallen in love. Desirée adored the film, and Scott wanted to create a similarly romantic afternoon, certain Desirée would enjoy the experience. They could both do with blowing off some steam. Without hesitation, she swung her handbag cross body before straddling the light green Vespa behind Scott.

  The light from the southern sky lasted well into the early June evening, casting long shadows across the monuments and antiquities spread across the eternal city. They cruised the Via Veneto to the bottom of the Spanish Steps and then chased the sun along the Via Condotti where, just the day before, Scott had purchased Desirée’s engagement ring, a square-cut Bulgari emerald as impressive as his exaggerated allowance could allow. As they rode, Desirée wrapped her arms tightly around his body, her cheek resting against his back; the ride sparking a more playful and romantic state of mind after the serious ordeal they’d experienced. Stopping at a small café in the Piazza del Popolo, they sipped a cappuccino. Next stop—the famous Trevi Fountain, where Scott parked the Vespa so they could admire the multiple statues—Roman gods of the sea and all its creatures—that decorated the splashing bowl. The main pool was illuminated by submerged lights, which cast a shimmering blue green glow. The effect was reminiscent of a grotto.

  “Shall we throw a few coins into the fountain to ensure we come back to Rome?”

  “Let’s throw a lot of them,” Desirée said.

  As Scott tossed his coins, he kissed her and said, happily, “The next time we come, we’ll be three.”

  forty-four

  BACK IN GENEVA FOR A FEW DAYS, SCOTT HAD A LUNCH rendezvous with Jean, who was still unaware of recent developments. Scott hoped that Jean wouldn’t be annoyed with him. Since his romance with Desirée began, he hadn’t been a very good friend, particularly considering how Jean had treated Scott when he first arrived in Switzerland, helping him to assimilate.

  They met at the Café de la Paix restaurant in the old town. Jean was reading the Tribune de Genève, no doubt checking the details from last night’s loss (Geneva versus Zurich, 2–1). When Scott entered the restaurant, Jean stood, and they embraced once, then twice more. He seemed the same friendly, jovial, and fun-loving Jean whom Scott always found so enjoyable. After the two men exchanged pleasantries and commiserated on last night’s loss, Jean asked, “So, to what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

  Scott called the waiter and ordered a bottle of vintage Krug. Jean raised an eyebrow. “We must be celebrating,” he said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “What is it?”

  “I have a request, but you must promise to say yes,” Scott said.

  “Okay, you have it: yes. Now, what have I just agreed to?”

  “Desirée and I are getting married in Paris, on July 23, a Friday, and I want you to be my witness.”

  At first, Jean didn’t say a word. Then he rose from his chair and embraced Scott in an unabashed fashion, whispering, “My God, it is unbelievable. Yes, my friend, yes. Congratulations! Please convey my best wishes to the countess. Of course, I will be honored to be your witness.”

  “Jean, you are a better friend to me than I am to you,” Scott said with feeling.

  “Don’t be crazy,” Jean replied. “But, my God, what a surprise.”

  “I guess we surprised everybody,” Scott said.

  AFTER A WONDERFUL LUNCH WITH JEAN, SCOTT WALKED TO the nearby garage to retrieve his Austin-Healey. On the second lower level in the garage, two men in mechanic’s work clothes hovered over his car. Perhaps someone had backed into his fender. Scott approached for a closer look; suddenly, the more heavy-set of the two grabbed his wrist, twisting that arm into a
hammer lock. The man’s other arm snaked around Scott’s neck in a choke hold. His partner stuffed a dirty rag in Scott’s mouth, stifling any attempt to shout for help. Though he struggled, Scott couldn’t get free. The men slammed him to the ground, where he was pinned between the Austin-Healey and another car. They held him facedown on the pavement.

  The burly one said in French, heavy with a thick Sicilian accent, “This is a warning. Leave the countess, or next time we won’t be so nice.” With that, the other man let loose with two violent kicks to Scott’s ribs, and he gasped for air around the gag. Scott rolled in pain on the garage floor; by the time he could see again, they were gone.

  Calm, calm, he told himself. Scott pulled the dirty cloth from his mouth and struggled into the car. Reflected in the rearview mirror, his face had all the pallor of a ghost. His first inclination was to report the attack to the police; but on reflection, what would he accomplish by doing so? He could see it now. There would be the business of filing police reports; the newspapers and photographers would follow. There would be no way to trace the two thugs, who were clearly professionals. Work hats had been pulled down, and collars pulled up, obscuring their faces. What with the dim lighting in the garage, Scott would have difficulty describing their appearance. The attack was so sudden—he couldn’t remember anything remarkable about either one, except that they were very strong and surely Italian.

  This had to be Stefano’s doing.

  He must be desperate if he thinks these Mafiosi will scare me off, Scott thought. Had the count known Desirée was pregnant, he doubted Stefano would have bothered. An Italian macho such as the count would never want a woman who was pregnant with another man’s baby.

  WHEN SCOTT ARRIVED HOME, HIS SIDE ACHED LIKE HE HAD been shot. Desirée was in the salon upstairs at her writing desk.

  “Darling, you look a fright,” she exclaimed. “What happened?” Peering closely at him, she gasped. “Why is there blood on your shirt?”

  “Two men just threatened me and roughed me up in the garage near the restaurant.”

  “What do you mean, ‘roughed you up’?”

  Scott took off his jacket and lifted his shirt so Desirée could see the bruises that were already turning his side purple. And now they both saw the bloody scrape on his forearm. Wincing, Scott said, “Two Sicilians grabbed me; one of them held me down while the other kicked me. They warned me to leave you.”

  “It’s Stefano,” Desirée said, beginning to cry. “He’s insane with jealousy and possessiveness. We must call the police.”

  Scott tried to calm her down. She said it was her fault, that he should leave her if it meant they’d hurt him. He told her he wouldn’t leave; together, they would work through this. Once they were married, Stefano would see the futility of his actions, and he reminded her that the police would attract the press, and then a scandal would begin. They couldn’t afford that right now.

  At last, Desirée agreed to drop the idea of notifying the police, but it was harder to dissuade her from confronting Stefano.

  Scott tried reasoning. “That’s what he wants, to scare us,” he said. “We can’t let him win. Stefano wants attention from you, even negative attention; it’s your indifference he can’t stand.”

  But the next morning, Desirée insisted on contacting her attorney, Wilhelm Waldmeister. His first reaction, like any rational person’s, was to call the police. Desirée explained the consequences and how futile involving the police would be. She spoke at length on who the likely suspect was—Stefano—though Waldmeister cautioned against jumping to conclusions without proof. “But who else could it be?” she countered.

  Scott asked to speak to the attorney; Desirée gave him the phone.

  “Scott Stoddard here; I’m Countess de Rovere’s fiancé, and I’m sure the count is behind this attack. How do I know this? A few weeks ago, his attorney in Geneva offered me 300,000 Swiss francs to leave the countess.” Desirée’s face registered something between rage and horror as she gave a muffled gasp of disbelief. “Of course, I refused. And yes, I kept the note and envelope.”

  With this new evidence, Waldmeister was more adamant that they call the police. In addition, he wanted to contact the count’s attorney and warn him to rein in his client. The threat of a lawsuit might help Stefano regain some sanity. But Scott reminded him—while the attorney had offered the bribe, Scott would bet he had no knowledge of the incident in the garage. Had the count made him complicit in the dusting? As Scott posited various scenarios where enlisting the count’s attorney could backfire, Waldmeister grunted, and Scott interpreted that as agreement.

  At a minimum, Waldmeister insisted they engage a company that provided bodyguards to Geneva’s diplomatic corps. Desirée thought hiring security was a good idea; could they be discreet, though? Waldmeister reminded her that one of the primary deterrents of having bodyguards is their visibility; their sheer presence wards off all but the most determined. Scott, realizing that no one who was serious could be completely deterred, hoped that frightening Stefano would be enough. Although the count was stupid, Scott thought, perhaps he was not so stupid as to follow through on the threat.

  They wrapped up the discussion with Waldmeister. Scott hung up the phone and turned to find Desirée with her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t you tell me about the bribe?”

  “I didn’t want you to be upset.”

  “But now I am upset.”

  “Look, Desirée, you’re frightened. This isn’t about the offer.” Taking her in his arms, he teased her. “Oh, the offer was very tempting. I figured if things didn’t work out, I could circle back and take his money.” She slapped at him playfully, the tense mood broken. “You’re so mean. I guess you left some on the table, and now you’re stuck with me.”

  They wrestled together. Despite his sore ribs, Scott worked her to the ground, covering Desirée with his body. “No,” he growled in her ear. “I’m stuck on you.”

  forty-five

  WALDMEISTER WORKED FAST. THE SECURITY CONtingent arrived that afternoon. Scott and Desirée went out to meet them. The head of the detail was Heinz Bergenheit, a Swiss German, who made Scott feel safer immediately. Bergenheit informed them that one security person would be parked in a car at the property’s entrance, another outside in front of the house, and another would roam around the back. The men, dressed in unassuming gray suits, were impressive in size and professionalism. When Scott asked if they were armed, Bergenheit’s quick nod assured him they were.

  Two teams of three, in twelve-hour shifts (from six to six) was the schedule. A separate detail would accompany Scott and Desirée on any activities outside the home, whether they went together or separately. Bergenheit urged Scott and Desirée to follow their detail’s instructions, even if they believed them nonsensical, reiterating that they couldn’t protect an uncooperative client. When the couple returned to Paris, the office there would take over security.

  Overwhelmed, Scott and Desirée listened without asking any questions. They went back inside, leaving the security personnel to take up their positions.

  “This is going to cost a fortune,” Scott said.

  “Should we send Stefano a bill?” Desirée asked sarcastically.

  He rubbed the spot on his side that bloomed with painful bruises, now beginning to turn a sickly green, and clenched his fist. “I’d like to send him something, but it’s not a bill.”

  “He’ll give up when we’re married.”

  Wedding invitations had gone out the week before with an admonition to observe the couple’s request for secrecy. Still, friends were calling to congratulate Desirée, and most came with inquisitions about the suddenness of the decision. They’d become quite practiced in dodging questions. Some may have been suspicious; of course, seven months after the wedding, when the birth could well take place, the premature and pregnant-before-married camps would be divided on the answer.

  THERE WERE NO MORE ATTACKS, AND SCOTT AND DESIRÉE returned to Paris in July. Their secu
rity team adjusted, and when people asked questions, they gave the believable excuse that paparazzi had become overly aggressive since their impending marriage had become common knowledge. The capital was gearing up for July 14, Bastille Day (French Independence Day), and the wedding would take place nine days later. Madame de Bellecourt had worked her will, coordinating, cajoling, and even bribing vendors into seeing things her way. Since her daughter was now an expectant mother, Madame had become even more formidable than before.

  The women had things to do, so Scott invited Albert to lunch; he needed to formally ask him to be his second witness. He’d had Desirée pave the way with Celine, and he’d confirmed Albert’s invitation, but Scott thought it was important to seal the agreement with a face-to-face meeting. Scott liked Albert very much. Though the doctor wasn’t an overly formal person, Albert was serious, and he and Scott were quite similar. With his solid ethics and sense of fair play, he must have been a dedicated student and principled person. Less physically imposing than Scott, he had an intellectual side that appealed to Scott’s sense of what really mattered.

  Madame de Bellecourt had made a reservation for Scott at Fouquet’s on the Champs-Élysées, in the club area, which was reserved for Parisians. The club section wasn’t decorated much differently than the public space, but in the warm months, it concealed a sidewalk terrace, beautifully landscaped by containerized boxwoods and other formal, wax-leafed evergreens, and was outfitted with tables covered in delicate ivory linens, and wicker and rattan chairs stuffed with teal cushions. It wasn’t that the lucky diners on the terrace were hidden from the public, but that the less-informed never saw the entrance, much less a table. French discretion and reserve were on full display, and Scott was glad his security contingent remained discreetly outside.

  Quite naturally, Albert would be on time, if not early. He arrived dressed in a conservative, tweedy suit (more a winter costume, worn past its season of comfort) that demonstrated his focus was on his profession, not fashion. Scott admired Albert’s lack of superficiality, his special charm. The two men had always socialized accompanied by Celine and Desirée, so Scott was interested to see if they could form a separate, personal connection.