The royalty of Monaco were interesting folks. Prince Reinier III, who just stepped down in 2005, had famously married the American actress Grace Kelly. Their son, Prince Albert, was equally a celebrity. For years he eschewed marriage in favor of a slew of gorgeous, accomplished women. Rumors of his actually being homosexual were not denied, and the people of Monaco loved him even more for it. Whether gay or not, he was the last in one of the world's longest reigning monarchies, so he needed an heir. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. So he married and did his duty. Ultimately it was revealed that he even fathered children out of wedlock. Gay and not gay, through it all, Prince Albert II remained one of the world's most beloved leaders.
In the late morning, Cosmina and I departed Wind Surf, intent on our reconnaissance. On the gangway, Yoyo was taking photographs of passengers. That was a good idea. His choice of a backdrop was a bad idea. He chose mooring lines and a dumpster. Ardin would have pulled his hair out. I spun the lad around 180 degrees to reveal a splendid view of the harbor and Casino rising above. With a pat on the head, I said, "Time to learn."
We walked up the ramped street that circled the harbor. It did not seem far, but that was an optical illusion. By the time we reached the top of the cliffs upon which the luxury rested, we were anything but. It was not a hard climb, but not one you wish to undertake in pressed finery and expensive shoes. Cosmina reaffirmed her intention to arrange a limousine.
Eventually we crossed through a tunnel beneath a high-rise hotel. This street was more than just a daily thoroughfare for the locals: it was also the route of the famed Monaco Formula 1 Grand Prix. The race was utterly unlike the Indianapolis 500—the only equally famous auto race—wherein the vehicles raced in an enclosed track. Once a year the regular streets of Monte Carlo became one of the most challenging auto race courses on Earth. Over 100,000 guests from all over the world gathered to watch. Monaco was all sorts of cool.
Then we ascended up to the fabled Casino Square. Around a magnificent series of fountains rose three grand structures, each marvelous and Baroque: the Casino, Hôtel de Paris, and Hôtel Hermitage. All seemed somehow disdainful of each other, as if offended to be constructed with another in mind. All had been built with a purpose to keep Monaco in the tourist race against Cannes and Nice. It worked. The Casino, though originally merely a mansion beside the two lofty hotels, had since been enlarged five times.
Alas, Cosmina and I were not allowed into the Casino. With a sniff at our street clothes, the doorman informed us that entry was black tie only. He snobbishly commented that the other casino—spoken with another sniff—would be more appropriate for us. With a mix of amusement and annoyance, we walked to the nearby American Casino, so named because it featured slot machines. The consolation prize was not impressive. Vegas had easily a hundred small casinos with more machines.
We visited the famed Café de Paris to ruminate. Our bums settled into chairs of molded semi-translucent white plastic and our elbows leaned upon glass tables supported by neon blue glowing columns. It was an ultramodern contrast to the Baroque canopy overhead. We paid a premium for such grandeur, however. The drinks were hideously expensive. The Montecristo cigar I bought at the nearby tobacco shop cost less than my martini!
"There's a ton of awesomeness in Monte Carlo," I said, blowing a puff of smoke up to the bronze beams above. "But gaming is his priority, so there's really only the Casino."
"Gaming?"
"Gambling," I explained. "It's a silly euphemism casinos adopted in America a long time ago to make them seem less sinful."
"That's stupid," she said. "Gambling is gambling. If you don't like it, don't do it."
"I quite agree. But America's a very conservative nation. The religious types frown upon it. Still, money talks, and now there are casinos in almost all fifty states."
"There are fifty-one states," she corrected. I let it slide. As we smoked, my face assumed an unsettled look. Cosmina picked up on it. "What?"
"Just a concern. I don't want to worry you."
"What?" she demanded, now irritated.
"It has to do with James Bond."
"Oh, God," Cosmina moaned. "Will you shut the hell up about James Bond? You're such a child!"
"I have a point to make, if you want to hear it."
"Will you promise to never, ever bring up James Bond again?"
"All right," I said with a pretend sigh. "Look, my concern is this. You've seen how James Bond gambles in the movies, right? He's being all suave, while spectators quietly watch and admire. Vegas is nothing like that. I'm a little worried this Crazy Al guy might not be interested in what Monte Carlo has to offer. It's impressive in so many ways: museums, art, gardens, sports, culture. But when it comes to the gaming scene and flaunting wealth, Monte Carlo pales in comparison to Las Vegas."
"Oh, please!" she said, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of the idea. "Less money in Monaco?"
"All I'm saying is that more money is flaunted in Vegas. The casinos are just as fine as this one, but also orders of magnitude bigger. And there's dozens of them in a row, all trying to out-do each other. And, I mean, look at that!"
I pointed to the parking lot before the Casino. Numerous tourists were taking photos. I had initially thought they were after the fountains stoically streaming everywhere, but they were intent on the cars.
"A couple dozen high-end BMWs and Mercedes," I said. "Two Porsches and two Ferraris. That's it."
"Oh, Vegas is so rich," Cosmina mocked. "With a new Ferrari in every garage?"
My lips quivered. I couldn't help saying it: "You just quoted Pierce Brosnan in Goldeneye."
Her face turned dark and splotchy. I immediately threw my hands up as apology.
"Sorry. Look, Ferraris may cost a quarter of a million dollars, but the Wynn Casino sells them inside the casino. They also have a classic Ferrari museum, by the way. The Palazzo sells Lamborghinis. I used to park next to one every day at an average coffee shop. Call us nouveau riche, whatever you want, but in Vegas it takes more than just being in a famous place. If Monte Carlo is going to dazzle Crazy Al, the inside of the Casino better be awesome."
"It will be," Cosmina promised. But the seed of doubt already sprouted upon her brow. I should have kept my mouth shut.
4
Cosmina asked me to join her for the send off of Crazy Al. In fact, she even asked me to tail him throughout the night. When I commented sarcastically that I'm not into spy stuff, she nearly hit me. But the hour was nigh, and so was Al. This was it. Cosmina was nervous as a tick.
We waited on the pier outside Wind Surf in our black best. I wore a black double-breasted suit over a black shirt with a silver tie. For being so distraught, Cosmina certainly dressed daringly: a black halter top above a black skirt barely clinging very, very low on her hips. She exposed more middle than if she'd been in a bikini. Her black hair was slicked back, her lips red. Apparently my speech about flaunting had taken root. Waiting with us was a black limousine.
Then he arrived. The man of the hour, the high roller. Crazy Al.
He didn't look so crazy. Al was a middle-aged man with receding hairline and oval glasses, chin gently cleft, bearing gently swaggered. His dress was appropriately sedate for the night: a black jacket of crushed velvet over a blue shirt. A yellow tie dropped from his neck to pool upon his thick middle. In short, he really did look like a used car salesman.
But he strode off the gangway with nothing short of aplomb. Though he seemed a big man overall, he was not: Al stood only as tall as Cosmina. But his voice seemed big, too. He boomed, "Ready to go?"
"Everything is ready, Mr. Wilson," Cosmina said, snapping haughtily for the driver to get the door.
"None of that," Al said, opening the door himself. He thumbed towards the interior and said, "Come on."
Cosmina looked like a deer caught in headlights. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're going to show me what Monte Carlo's Casino has to offer."
Cosmina's eyes darted from side t
o side, focusing on everything and nothing. Methinks Cosmina finally found a First World fish too big to try hauling in. Al casually added, "Bring as many as you want."
"P-people?" Cosmina stammered. She hurled herself onto my arm and asked, "My boyfriend? He lived in Vegas, too!"
"Sure, sure. Any more women? How 'bout that redhead from the gift shop?"
"Nina is working tonight," Cosmina lied, quickly regaining her usual self.
"No gaggle of spa girls? Nuthin? At least get me a midget or sumthin'! No? It's all right. I'm on vacation, anyway. I'm here to relax. You two, let's see what there is to see."
The drive up the pier to the Casino was not a long one, but rich with view. Upon the harbor gently bobbed billions of dollars worth of yachts, each gleaming silver with moonlight. Embracing the circle of harbor we looked up in awe: above the dark, fuzzy shadows of palm gardens rose the tops of condominiums; above their modern roofs rose rugged cliffs; above 'the Rock' rustled a literal forest of garden and, finally, above all loomed the crenelated House of Grimaldi. The ancient fortifications were lit to great effect, outlining individual archways and towers.
"Nice," Al commented, nodding in approval. But mostly he made small talk with me about living in Vegas.
We topped the rise and the view expanded. Moonlight hummed the sea a subtle, electric hue. The cliffs were splotches of black shot through with green veins of road. Too soon the limo stopped beneath the illuminated façade of the Casino, all elegant brass appointments and sculpture-laden niches beneath the softly feminine curves of the Belle Époque-style roof.
Exiting the limousine, we took in the surroundings. The gardens embracing Casino Square were minimally lit. Most light emanated from the many fountains. Each clean stream of water was cleverly under lit with blue to create sharply geometric patterns of arcing lasers. Silhouettes of young, smoking couples sat upon stone balustrades.
"Very nice," Al said, impressed. But before Cosmina could relax, he continued, "Beautiful, but quite minimal, isn't it? Brian, you ever take Cosi to the Strip? No? Oh, you gotta see it! Neon everywhere, enough to light up the desert for a hundred miles! The beam atop Luxor even shoots into space."
"Surely not as classy as this...?" Cosmina prompted.
"Oh, this is classy all right," Al agreed. "The gardens remind me of Wynn. Smaller, of course. These fountains are nice, but man you should see the fountains of Bellagio at night. Unlike any other in the world, you know." After another glance around, he added, "This reminds me of Paris."
"You've been to Paris?" Cosmina asked admiringly. Then, "Oh, of course you have."
"No, I meant Paris casino," Al corrected. "In Vegas. This looks a bit like it. This is a lot smaller, of course. Less statues, too."
"Modeled after this," Cosmina said, taking a stab in the dark. A worthy effort, if untrue.
"At least the skyline isn't dominated by a fake Eiffel Tower," I said, attempting to aid the reeling Cosmina. "Everything here is the real deal... at least in that regard. I love how Vegas casinos are inspired by the great places of Europe. They do a great job evoking Paris, Venice, Luxor. But it's even better to see the original."
Al gave up a nod, but no more. Glancing at the parking lot, he asked, "Nobody rich here tonight? Too bad, I was hoping to make some money."
Noting the two Ferraris and a Bentley, Cosmina gurgled a bit. Seeing her wilt before our very eyes, Al smiled broadly and cheerfully offered his arm to her. "Come on. I'm not really the ignoramus you think but are trying to hide. Let's see what this place's got."
"You... you mean go in with you?" she blurted, shocked. "Oh, no. I couldn't! It wouldn't be appropriate at all."
"Of course it is," he said easily, wagging his extended elbow. "Come on."
Highly dubious, Cosmina took his arm with the utmost reluctance, prompting Al to comment, "Jeez, I'm not a leper or anything."
"You, too," he said to me. Glancing me over, he added, "Big guy in black on black. I love it! You can play my bodyguard. I'll pretend to be the villain in a James Bond movie. Wish you had a hat. You know, something that could cut somebody's head off."
Cosmina nearly swooned.
We worked our way into the Monte Carlo Casino's gaming room. One cannot help but be struck numb by the elegant decor. Every wall hosted a gargantuan masterpiece of art framed in gold, every flowing archway gilded and filigreed in gold, every column with capital of gold. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling with the perfect symmetry of a drop of water. Cosmina sighed deeply at the majesty, finally relaxing. Her fears were eased, for this was an undeniably gorgeous and awe-inspiring chamber.
If only it were so.
I immediately spied several locations where the proverbial curtain was pulled aside to expose the truth. Tucked into otherwise ornate corners were cornices broken and battered, revealing they were merely molded chicken wire coated in plaster. Two or more columns were similarly denuded, showing they weren't actually marble, but painted to look so. It was all impressive but, ultimately, even less real than the Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas. Crazy Al didn't make a living gambling by being unobservant. He, too, saw the flaws. Disappointedly he noted, "Less marble in this whole building than in just a lobby back home. Like, an average lobby."
Cosmina winced at the words. She slumped, lost in visions of her career's imminent demise.
"But we're here to gamble!" Crazy Al boomed enthusiastically. His demeanor immediately changed. He hunched slightly to evoke a sinister bearing and began glowering at everyone. He had become the villain. Offering his arm again to Cosmina, he sneered, "Time to take over the world, my pretty."
There were only half a dozen tables in the wide, open space: all roulette. Despite this being a Friday night, only three were open. Following Al's example, I stepped forward as tall and imposingly as I could. Overtly checking the corners, I gave him a surly nod that all was clear.
Al smoothly entered the game that seemed the most interesting. This was a distinction I was unable to make. Nobody made a sound, not the handful of players and certainly not the dealer. The skinny lad just stood there in his tuxedo, stiff as a board. Occasionally he glanced around smugly.
The energy in the Casino wasn't low, it was absent. There was no joy of winning, no frustration of loss. Nothing. Certainly there was no gaming. Perhaps Vegas casinos were onto something with the label after all. Al played perhaps twenty minutes, immersed in his role of James Bond villain. I stood behind him, arms folded in a pose of defiance. Cosmina nailed her role as the disposable girlfriend: silent and brooding, seductively working her cigarettes. But then, that came naturally to her. I found Al's exaggerated mannerisms of ultra suave indifference amusing, but seeing the very same on every other player's face made the whole thing moot.
"I can hear a pin drop in here," Al finally groused. He scooped up his winnings and turned away, though not before flipping a hundred Euro chip at the dealer and saying, "Here, boy, buy yourself a smile."
He cashed his chips, revealing that during the silent play he had won over a thousand dollars. Pocketing his winnings, he turned to me, grinned, and said lamely, "Well, that didn't work. We gave it a shot. But it'll sound better when I tell my friends about it. Thanks for playing along."
Alas, though the limousine was waiting for us, it was blocked behind a tour bus. Cosmina stared at the oh-so-slowly disembarking passengers, horror growing upon her features by the moment. We weren't going anywhere for awhile. Turning her back on both Al and myself, Cosmina staggered towards a fountain. She was freaking out and unable to hide it any longer. She stared into the shooting waters longingly.
Al elbowed me and said, "I don't think your girlfriend is having a good time."
"She rarely does," I quipped.
"Gosh, I hope she doesn't try to drown herself in the fountain."
Chapter 11. Wind Surf
1
"Relax," Crazy Al said to the obviously panicked Cosmina. "Just not my scene, that's all. I pretty much knew it wouldn't be. I gamble for a
living, baby. I'm just here for fun. Relax."
But Cosmina was anything but relaxed. She sucked down three cigarettes and dropped the butts into the fountain. I grimaced deeper and deeper as each sizzled into the gorgeous waters. Cosmina certainly didn't care: she looked certain that Francois was going to put her head on a pike.
"I think a good restaurant is in order," I suggested. "Personally, I find nothing more pleasant than a good meal, a good drink, and a good view."
"Le Grill!" Cosmina shrieked in her urgency to supply an answer. She was so hurried that she gave herself the hiccups. Between gulps of air, she explained, "Top of... awp!... the Hôtel... awp!... de Paris."
"Sure, let's go," Al said. "Please calm down. You're supposed to hyperventilate after you see me naked."
I was really beginning to like this guy. Cosmina, as ever, was unsure of him. She stammered in reply, "W-hat? I can't go there. Do you have any idea how expensive it is? Royalty goes there!"
"Don't worry, I'm buying," Al soothed. "Who wants to dine alone? Brian's right, but he forgot the importance of good company."
Upon entering the hotel, one is greeted with the rotunda. The elegance of the foyer was somehow far richer than anything we saw in the Casino. Perhaps it was the decor of cream and buff, rather than painted gold. Perhaps it was that amazing, circular sky light. Up, up above the mezzanine and its bronze filigreed railings, up above the cascading and intertwining arches of rich cream, up higher still, was a huge polychromatic window. We passed beneath the marble and ascended to the eighth floor.
The views from Le Grill were magnificent in the extreme. Outside, balcony diners looked down at all the grandeur of Casino Square. We did, too, for the walls were more window than not. The ceiling was entirely not: it had retracted over the whole restaurant to allow unfettered access to the stars. Row upon row of tables hosted tuxedoed patrons basking in the moonlight. We hoped dinner would equal the atmosphere.
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