by Stuart Woods
“Don’t I have any say in where we live?” Dolce asked.
“You’ve never asked me very much about my background,” Stone said, “so it’s time I told you about my family.”
“I know all about that,” Dolce replied.
“Only what you read in the report Eduardo had done on me. It doesn’t tell you everything.”
“So, tell me everything,” she said.
“My parents were both from wealthy textile manufacturing families in western Massachusetts, the Stones and the Barringtons; they knew each other from childhood. Neither of them liked the plans their families had made for them. When the crash came in ’twenty-nine, both families were hit hard, and both had lost their businesses and most of their fortunes by the early thirties.
“My parents used this upheaval as an opportunity to get out from under their parents’ thumbs. My mother left Mount Holyoke, where she was studying art, and my father left Yale, where he was meant to study law, although the only thing he had ever wanted to do was carpentry and woodworking; they married and moved to New York City. My father’s family disowned him, because he had joined the Communist party; my mother’s family disowned her, because she had married my father.
“They found themselves very broke and living in a Greenwich Village garret. My mother was doing charcoal drawings of tourists in Washington Square for fifty cents a shot, and my father was carrying his toolbox door to door, doing whatever handyman’s work he could find, for whatever people would pay him. He was about to go off and join the Civilian Conservation Corps, just to stay alive, when a wonderful thing happened.
“My mother’s aunt—her mother’s sister—and her new husband bought a house in Turtle Bay, and my aunt hired my father to build her husband a library. That job saved their lives, and when it was done, Aunt Mildred and her husband were so pleased with it that they also commissioned my father to design furniture for the house and my mother to paint pictures for some of the rooms. When their friends saw the house, they immediately began offering him other commissions, and before too many years had passed, both my parents had won reputations for their work. I didn’t come along for quite a long time, but by the time that accident had occurred, they could afford me.”
Dolce started to speak, but Stone stilled her with a raised hand.
“There’s more. Many years later, when Aunt Mildred died, having been preceded by her husband, she left the house to me. I was still a cop then, working with your brother-in-law, and I poured what savings I had into renovating the house, doing a great deal of the work myself, using skills learned in my father’s shop. Finally, after leaving the NYPD—by popular request—I was able to earn a good enough living as a lawyer to finish the house. So, you see, the house is not only a part of my family history, it is all I have left of my parents and the work they devoted their lives to. I have no intention of moving out of it, ever. I hope you understand, Dolce.”
Nobody moved. Stone and Dolce stared expressionlessly at each other for a very long moment. Then Dolce smiled and kissed him. “I understand,” she said, “and I won’t bring it up again. I’ll be proud to live in your house.”
“I’ll be happy to explain things to Eduardo,” Stone said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Dolce replied. “I’ll explain it to him, and, I promise, he’ll understand completely.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Stone said.
“So,” Mary Ann said, changing the subject, “what’s the plan for Venice?”
“We’ll go directly from the airport to Papa’s house,” Dolce said. “We’ll have dinner with him tonight; tomorrow, Saturday, the civil ceremony will be held at the town hall, where we’ll be married by the mayor of Venice. Then, on Monday morning, a friend of Papa’s from the Vatican, a cardinal, will marry us at St. Mark’s, on the square of the same name. After that, Stone and I will go on a honeymoon, the itinerary of which I’ve kept secret even from him, and the rest of you can go to hell.”
“Sounds good,” Mary Ann said.
“Who’s the cardinal?” Dino asked.
“Bellini,” Dolce replied.
“Doesn’t he run the Vatican bank?”
“Yes, he does.”
“How like Eduardo,” Dino said, “to have his daughter married by a priest, a prince of the Church, and an international banker, all wrapped up in one.”
“Why two ceremonies?” Stone asked.
Mary Ann spoke up. “To nail you, coming and going,” she said, laughing, “so you can never be free of her. The two marriages are codependent; the civil ceremony won’t be official until the religious ceremony has taken place, and the priest—pardon me, the cardinal—has signed the marriage certificate.”
“It’s the Italian equivalent of a royal wedding,” Dino said. “It’s done these days only for the very important, and, as we all know, Eduardo . . .” He trailed off when he caught Stone’s look.
“Eat your eggs, Dino,” Mary Ann sighed.
Three
THE GLEAMING MAHOGANY MOTOR LAUNCH, THE Venetian equivalent of a limousine, glided up the Grand Canal in the bright, spring sunshine. Stone looked about him, trying to keep his mouth from dropping open. It was his first visit to the city. The four of them sat in a leather banquette at the stern of the boat, keeping quiet. Nothing they could say could burnish the glories of Venice.
The boat slowed and turned into a smaller canal, and shortly, came to a stop before a flight of stone steps, worn from centuries of footsteps. Two men dressed as gondoliers held the craft still with long boat hooks and helped the women ashore. As they reached the stone jetty, a pair of double doors ahead of them swung open, as if by magic, and Eduardo Bianchi came toward them, his arms outstretched, a smile on his handsome face. He embraced his daughters, shook hands fairly warmly with his son-in-law, then turned to Stone and placed both hands on his shoulders. “And my new son,” he said, embracing him.
“Very nearly,” Stone said. “It’s good to see you, Eduardo, and it’s very kind of you to arrange all this for us. Dolce and I are very grateful.”
“Come into the house,” Eduardo said, walking them toward the open doors. “You must be exhausted after your flight.”
“Not really; it’s hard to know how we could have been made more comfortable in the air,” Stone said. “Once again, our gratitude.”
Eduardo shrugged. “A friend insisted,” he said. “Your luggage will be taken to your rooms. Would you like to freshen up, girls?”
The girls, dismissed, followed a maid down a hallway.
“Come into the garden,” Eduardo said. “We will have lunch in a little while, but in the meantime, would you like some refreshment?”
“Perhaps some iced tea,” Stone said. Dino remained silent. Eduardo ushered them through French doors into a large, enclosed courtyard, which had been beautifully planted, and showed them to comfortable chairs. Unbidden, a servant appeared with pitchers of iced drinks, and they were served.
“First of all, I must clear the air,” Eduardo said. “I quite understand that you may be very attached to your own house; I would not impose mine on you.”
Stone was once again astonished at Eduardo’s apparently extrasensory intuition. “Thank you, Eduardo. It was a magnificent offer, but you are quite right—I am very attached to my own house. It is much caught up with my family’s history in New York. Fortunately, Dolce has consented to live there.”
“She is a smart girl,” Eduardo said, smiling slightly. “I would have been disappointed in her, if she had begun her marriage by attempting to move her husband from a home he loves.”
“I expect she will find my taste in interior decoration inadequate, and I have steeled myself for the upheaval.”
“You are smart, too,” Eduardo said. He turned to his son-in-law. “Dino, how goes it among New York’s finest?”
“Still the finest,” Dino replied.
“Are you arresting many innocent Italian-American businessmen these days?” Eduardo asked impishly.
Eduardo turned back to Stone. “Dino disapproves of my family’s former colleagues,” he said. “But he is an honest policeman, and there are not many of those. Many of his other colleagues have also been ‘rehoused upstate,’ as he so gracefully puts it. Dino has my respect, even if he will not accept my affection.”
“Eduardo,” Dino said, spreading his hands, “when I have retired, I will be yours to corrupt.”
Eduardo laughed aloud, something Stone had never heard him do. “Dino will always be incorruptible,” Eduardo said. “But I still have hopes of his friendship.” Eduardo glanced toward the French doors and stood up.
Stone and Dino stood with him. A tall, thin man with wavy salt-and-pepper hair was approaching. He wore a black blazer with gold buttons, gray silk trousers, and a striped shirt, open at the neck, where an ascot had been tied.
“Carmen,” Eduardo said, “may I present my son-in-law, Dino Bacchetti.”
To Stone’s astonishment, Dino bowed his head and kissed the heavy ring on the man’s right hand.
“And this is my son-in-law-to-be, Stone Barrington.”
The man extended his hand, and Stone shook it. “Your Eminence,” he said, “how do you do?”
“Quite well, thank you, Stone.” Bellini held onto Stone’s hand and stared into his face. “He has good eyes, Eduardo,” he said to Bianchi.
Stone was surprised that the cardinal spoke with an American accent.
“My son,” Bellini said to Stone, “it is my understanding that you are not a Roman Catholic.”
“I am a believer, Your Eminence,” Stone said, “but not a registered one.”
Bellini laughed and waved them to their seats. He accepted a fruit juice from the servant, then reached into an inside pocket and took out a thick, white envelope sealed with red wax, and handed it to Eduardo. “Here is the necessary dispensation,” he said. “The Holy Father sends his greetings and his blessing.”
“Thank you, Carmen,” Eduardo said, accepting the envelope.
If Stone understood this transaction correctly, he now had papal approval to marry Dolce. He was embarrassed that the necessity had never occurred to him. “Your Eminence, I am surprised that your accent is American. Did you attend university there?”
“Yes, and preparatory school and elementary school before that. I was born and raised in Brooklyn. Eduardo and I used to steal fruit together, before the Jesuits got hold of me.” He said something to Eduardo in what seemed to Stone flawless Italian, raising a chuckle. He turned back to Stone. “I understand that you are engaged in the practice of law.”
“That’s correct.”
“If I may torture the scriptures a little, it is probably easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a lawyer to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“I tread as narrow a path as my feet will follow,” Stone replied.
Bellini smiled. “I should hate to oppose this young man in court,” he said to Eduardo.
“Are you a lawyer, as well?” Stone asked.
“I was trained as such at Harvard,” Bellini replied, “and my work requires me still to employ those skills from time to time—after which I immediately visit my confessor. I should hate to die with the practice of law on my soul.”
“I understand you also dabble in banking.”
“Yes, but there is nothing so pure as money, used properly. I am required to ask you, Stone, if you have ever been married.”
“No, Your Eminence; I’ve come close, but I’ve never been in serious trouble.”
“And do you willingly consent to your wife’s devout practice of her religion?”
“Willingly, Your Eminence. To deny Dolce anything could be dangerous to my health.”
Bellini seemed to try not to laugh, but Dino couldn’t help himself.
The women arrived, and they all moved to a table set in the center of the garden, where they feasted on antipasti, a pasta with lobster sauce, and a glittering white wine, served from frosted pitchers. During most of lunch, Eduardo and the cardinal conversed seriously in Italian.
When they got up from the table, Stone sidled over to Dino. “What were Eduardo and Bellini talking about at lunch?” he asked.
“Not you, pal,” Dino said. “They were doing business.” He glanced at his father-in-law to be sure he would not be overheard. “Eduardo still doesn’t know how much Italian I understand.”
Stone and Dolce took a walk together through the narrow streets of Venice, becoming hopelessly lost. They did a little window shopping and talked happily. Stone tried to find out where they were honeymooning, but Dolce would reveal nothing.
They returned to the palazzo in the late afternoon, ready for a nap. Stone was shown to a suite—sitting room and bedroom—that overlooked the Grand Canal. He dozed off to the sounds of motorboats and of water lapping against stone.
He dreamed something that disturbed him, but when he awoke, he couldn’t remember what it was. He joined the others for cocktails with a strange sense of foreboding.
At cocktails, Eduardo’s sister, Rosaria, was present; she was a large woman who perpetually wore the black dresses of a widow. Stone had met her at Eduardo’s home in New York, where she had kept house for her brother since his wife’s death. Her younger niece was named for her, but the family had always called her Dolce.
The cardinal was now dressed in a beautifully cut black suit.
Half an hour later they were all shown aboard Eduardo’s motor launch and transported to dinner at the world-famous Harry’s Bar. Stone suspected that Eduardo’s presence alone would be cause for considerable deference from the restaurant’s staff, but the presence of a cardinal sent them into paroxysms of service. Stone had never seen so many waiters move so fast and from so crouched a position.
They dined on a variety of antipasti and thinly sliced calf ’s liver with a sherry sauce, with a saffron risotto on the side. The wines were superlative, and by the time they had been returned to the Bianchi palazzo, Stone was a little drunk, more than a little jet-lagged, and ready for bed. Dolce left him at his door with a kiss and vanished down the hallway.
Stone died for ten hours.
Four
AT NINE O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING MORNING, STONE was resurrected by a servant bearing a tray of blood-red orange juice, toast, prosciutto, sliced figs, small pastries, and coffee. A corner of the huge tray held that day’s International Herald Tribune and the previous day’s New York Times. By the time he had breakfasted and done the crossword puzzle, it was after ten.
The servant knocked and entered. “Mister Bianchi requests that you be downstairs at eleven o’clock,” he said. “The civil ceremony is to be at noon.” He disappeared.
Stone shaved and showered then went to the huge cupboard where his clothes hung, all freshly pressed. He dressed in a white linen suit he had bought for the occasion, a pale yellow, Sea Island cotton shirt, a tie with muted stripes, and tan alligator oxfords. Finally, he tucked a yellow silk square into his breast pocket, stuffed his trouser pockets with the usual contents, including some lire, and consulted the mirror. It occurred to him that he might never look so good again.
The group gathered in the central hall of the palazzo. Dolce wore a dazzling white silk dress that showed a becoming amount of very fine leg and wore only a single strand of pearls for jewelry, along with the five-carat, emerald-cut diamond engagement ring supplied by a man of Stone’s acquaintance in the diamond district of New York.
“You are very beautiful,” Stone said to Dolce, kissing her.
“Funny, that’s what I was going to say about you,” Dolce replied. “I love the suit.”
“It’s my wedding dress,” Stone explained.
Dino and Mary Ann were well turned out, and to Stone’s astonishment, Aunt Rosaria wore a dress of white lace. She was, apparently, out of mourning, at least for the day.
“Is the cardinal
coming?” Stone asked Dino.
“No,” Dino replied. “Cardinals don’t attend civil marriage ceremonies.”
“I suppose not,” Stone said.
They were escorted to the palazzo’s jetty where a small fleet of gondolas, garlanded with flowers, awaited, and they were rowed down a bewildering series of canals to the town hall, where the mayor awaited on the jetty.
Moments later, the party was arranged before an impossibly ornate desk in the mayor’s office. Much Italian was spoken. At one point, the mayor turned to Stone, his eyebrows lifted high.
“Say ‘sì,’ ” Dino whispered.
“Sì,” Stone said.
Dolce also said, “Sì,” then an ornate document was produced and signed by Stone and Dolce, then by the mayor and the witnesses. The mayor said something else, delivered sternly.
Dino translated. “He says, ‘Remember, you are not yet entitled to the pleasures of the marriage chamber.’ ”
Back on the jetty outside the town hall, Stone discovered that the gondolas had been replaced by Eduardo’s motor launch, and shortly, they were moving fast over open water, toward an island.
Dolce, who held fast to Stone’s arm, explained. “Papa has taken the Cipriani Hotel for lunch.”
“You mean the dining room?”
“I mean the entire hotel; Papa has many guests. There will be many people at lunch, but don’t worry about remembering their names; they don’t matter.”
Stone nodded.
The hotel occupied the entire island, and lunch was held in its garden.
“Not much chance of party crashers,” Dino commented as they walked into the garden. “Unless they swim well.” He looked around at the huge crowd of guests who were applauding their entrance—middle-aged and elderly Italians, dressed for Sunday, who were demonstratively affectionate with Dolce and who behaved toward Eduardo pretty much as if he were the Pope. Stone was introduced to each of them, but the flood of Italian names passed him by.