by Kwan, Kevin
Seeing how cross Charlotte was, Lucie apologized again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have washed my hair. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“What were you thinking, Lucie? You know your hair takes ages to dry, and I told you we were already going to be late. And no one can even tell that you washed your hair when it’s put up.”
“I just wanted to get the sea out of my hair,” Lucie lied. She hadn’t washed her hair at all; she had spent the past thirty minutes trying to calm herself after receiving the mysterious Neruda poem, trying on six different outfits in a panic and finally settling on the long black gown with a bandeau top—the one her mom called her “Rita Hayworth dress”—that made her feel more sophisticated and grown-up. She had worn it at the Frick Young Fellows Ball,fn1 where Bill Cunningham had complimented the dress and taken her picture, and she felt that she needed this armor against George, even though she was sure he wouldn’t notice—he dressed in such a nondescript way and would probably be oblivious to her sartorial efforts.
As they took their seats in the back row, Charlotte wondered out loud, “Where did all these people suddenly come from? I hardly recognize anyone.”
“I think many of them arrived just in time for the wedding tomorrow,” Lucie surmised, using the excuse to stand up and scan the room. She was trying to spot George but couldn’t locate him anywhere in the crowd.
Conte Andrea De Vecchi, a tall, imposing man in his sixties, and his wife, Contesssa Laudomia, a striking strawberry blonde dressed in an emerald-green gown that Lucie recognized from Valentino’s spring collection, approached the altar in front of where the orchestra of musicians had been set up. Looking very distinguished in a dark velvet dinner jacket, the Conte tapped on the microphone with his finger and addressed the crowd in charmingly accented English: “Your Majesties, Highnesses, Holinesses, Excellencies, ladies, and gentlemen, my wife and I are so honored that you have all come tonight from different corners of the earth to celebrate the nuptials of our son Adolfo to la bella Isabel. We are here in one of the oldest buildings in Capri, and to me the most beautiful. It was built in 1371 on the orders of Count Giacomo Arcucci on land donated by my ancestor Queen Giovanna D’Angiò of Napoli as a sanctuary for the Carthusian monks. Tonight, as we take sanctuary together in this sacred place, we are very lucky to have with us the maestro Niccolo Miulli leading the Orchestra Sinfonica di Roma, who will be accompanying the incomparable Dame Kiri Te Kanawa!”
The crowd gasped in surprise as the celebrated diva took the stage in a billowing cape of orange shantung silk over an iridescent violet ball gown. The orchestra began to play, and as Kiri bellowed out the first notes of “Chi il bel sogno di Doretta” from Puccini’s opera La rondine, Mordecai could be heard letting out a moan of ecstasy so loud it sounded slightly obscene.
Even from the back row, Lucie was transfixed by Kiri’s incredible voice. She couldn’t believe that anyone could hit those high notes with such clarity, and as she sat there in the chapel, lulled by the ethereal beauty of Kiri’s next aria, “Bailero,” from Chants d’Auvergne, she found herself staring up at the vaulted arches of the chapel. The ceilings and walls had once been completely covered by a fresco, much like the Sistine Chapel, but now only a few colorful fragments from the original painting remained on the white plaster ceiling, punctuating the starkness in a random way that reminded her of jigsaw puzzle pieces.
Why did her life suddenly seem like a jigsaw puzzle that had been overturned? She had always gone through the world with such certainty, such methodical precision, like a perfectly sung aria, and now in just a few days it seemed like everything had become so confusing. Messy. And more than anything she hated messy. Was George actually the one who slipped the poem under her door? It had to be him, right? After all, he was the only person who had mentioned Neruda to her. What exactly was he trying to say with that line?
Lucie was a bundle of conflicting emotions. On one hand she was willing to admit that she found herself intrigued by George, but on the other hand she was repelled by her own interest. He was the absolute antithesis of the type of guy she liked. She sat there, fixating on all the things she couldn’t stand about him. He was a mama’s boy. A pretty boy. A surfer/jock. A tank-top-and-Birkenstock-wearing slob. A self-righteous eco-warrior. A brooding weirdo who took himself much too seriously.
Kiri capped off the concert with her most enduring song, “O mio babbino caro,” and the audience murmured in approval. As the swoon-inducing aria filled the chapel, Lucie found her eyes wandering to the fresco under the dome of the chapel, where some artist centuries ago had painted the typical scene of God and Jesus with saints, angels, and cherubs, their limbs all tangled up together in the clouds. At the apex of the fresco, Jesus floated above the clouds partially swathed in teal-colored robes that had been pulled down to his waist, exposing his muscular torso. Lucie stared at this decidedly hunky Jesus, counting the muscles in his six-pack, following the line of shading that accentuated his pecs, thinking, What beautiful nipples. God, what is wrong with me? I’m going to hell for thinking of Jesus’s nipples in a monastery!
As Kiri sang the last notes of the aria, her voice effortlessly trailing off into a delicate whisper, Mordecai was the first to jump out of his seat. “Brava! Bravissima!” he shouted, clapping wildly as the rest of the audience rose to give the legendary soprano a rapturous standing ovation. After a few minutes, as the guests began to disperse outside for cocktails, Lucie and Charlotte headed toward Olivia, who was standing in the middle of the chapel chatting with Dolfi’s parents.
Through the crowd, Lucie caught sight of George at last. He was standing near the altar speaking to the conductor, and as he stretched his arms out, gesturing enthusiastically, Lucie was surprised at what a commanding presence he cut tonight. In his cream linen suit, crisp white band-collar shirt, and suede oxfords, there was a distinct air of sophistication about him. Thank God I wore the Tom Ford, she thought.
As Lucie got closer to George, she racked her brain thinking of what she might say. Was there some subtle reference she could make about the poem? Should she compliment him on his outfit, maybe say something like, “I didn’t realize you cleaned up so well.” Ugh, no, that was terrible. Maybe she ought to quickly google a poem of Neruda’s and recite a line to him as a greeting. It would be very enigmatic. Yes, that’s what she would do. As Charlotte and Olivia began oohing and ahhing over each other’s outfits, Lucie got out her phone and quickly typed: Pablo Neruda poem.
The first thing that popped up was this:
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
Hell no, Lucie thought. As she scrolled through the next poem, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. Oh God, it’s him. She braced herself and turned around, taken aback to see Auden smiling at her.
“So what do you think of Diefenbach’s paintings?”
“Um, who?” Lucie put her phone away quickly.
“Karl Diefenbach. The paintings in the refectory?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen them. We got here a bit late.”
“Here, come with me,” Auden said, taking her by the arm and whisking her down the corridor before she could protest. “You really must see them.”
They entered the refectory—a large, serene space where the austere white walls were hung with massive oil paintings by Karl Diefenbach. The paintings were uniformly dark and moody, depicting the island from different vantage points. There were dramatic cliff-top landscapes, stormy seascapes, and even nighttime views of a grotto seemingly lit by candlelight. Lucie studied the canvases intently, quietly moved.
“What do you think?” Auden asked.
“I love them.”
“I knew you would,” Auden said with a little laugh.
“This isn’t what I was expecting. What are they even doing hanging in a monastery?”
“I believe Diefenbach spent his final years living on the island.”
“They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen. So haunting … surreal almos
t,” Lucie said as she stared at a particularly dramatic painting of the Faraglioni glimmering in the moonlight. She remembered being at Da Luigi and standing in the same spot that Diefenbach had, gazing out at the mystical rocks. Turning to Auden, she said, “I wonder why he chose to paint everything so dark, when to me Capri is all about the light.”
“I would venture to ask the same thing about your paintings. Diefenbach was a symbolist. I feel like painting was for him a way to explore the inner landscape, rather than the outer one, don’t you think?”
Lucie smiled, revealing nothing.
Suddenly, the sound of a familiar piano composition could be heard echoing through the chamber.
“The Goldberg Variations, my favorite!” Lucie exclaimed. They wandered back into the chapel and found it empty except for Isabel, Dolfi, and a few others clustered toward the front of the altar where the grand piano was. Isabel turned to beckon Lucie to join them, and that’s when she saw George seated at the piano. Lucie stepped closer to the piano and watched in astonishment. George’s fingers were gliding over the piano keys with such apparent effortlessness, such grace and fluidity, it didn’t even look like he was actually playing. She noticed for the first time George’s long, elegantly tapered fingers and saw that his eyes were closed as he swayed slowly back and forth, completely lost in the music that he was creating.
She knew then exactly what she wanted to say to George. She was going to say, “I wonder if Neruda could play Bach as well as you can.” Now she just needed to get one second alone with him. She would seize the moment after he finished playing, and maybe she could use the excuse of showing him the Diefenbachs in the refectory. But just as he was finishing the piece, Gillian, the hyperefficient wedding coordinator, marched into the chapel with a panicked look and whispered something urgently into Isabel’s ear.
“Oh, shit! Sorry,” Isabel said to Gillian before turning to the rest of the group. “We need to get to the banquet. Apparently Dolfi’s grandmother started making a toast, not realizing that we weren’t even there!”
The group dashed quickly toward the central cloister where the banquet was being held, and when Lucie first caught sight of the space, she gasped in delight. The vast courtyard was filled with round tables covered in silver brocade and groaning with immense antique silver candelabras that looked like they had come straight from the Vatican. Over each table were suspended silver orbs of varying sizes, each containing candles floating on water. The water and flickering candles within the translucent silver cast a rippling, gossamer light over the entire space, making the already enchanting cloister look even more luminous and otherworldly.
Lucie quickly got to her assigned table, crossing her fingers that George would be seated there too. Instead, she found herself between an Italian youth with long blond hair who didn’t speak a word of English and, if the engraved place card next to her chair was correct, BARON MORDECAI VON EPHRUSSÍ. Her heart sank, and to make things worse, from where she was sitting she had the perfect view of George two tables away taking his seat between Sophie, Isabel’s beautiful Australian friend, and some equally stunning Asian woman named Astrid. One of the wedding’s black-clad videographers was not so discreetly documenting the scene of the photogenic trio greeting one another as if they were longtime friends meeting up at the front row of New York Fashion Week.
Mordecai, who had been chatting with some English duchess at the next table, returned to his seat rather reluctantly and raised an eyebrow at Lucie. “Where have you been, young lady? Up to some mischief, I hope?”
“Not quite. We were at an impromptu piano concert given by George Zao.”
“Really? And what was our strapping young Narcissus playing?”
“The aria from the Goldberg Variations.”
“How predictable!” Mordecai grumbled.
“He played it quite beautifully, actually.”
“I’m sure he did. But just once I wish someone would bust out Schoenberg or John Cage when they sit down at a piano. There’s nothing more trite than playing the Goldberg Variations, except perhaps ‘Für Elise.’”
Not wishing to challenge him, Lucie tried to change the topic. As the waiters began ladling the steaming zuppa di pesce into her bowl, she held up her spoon. “I think this is the heaviest spoon I’ve ever come across.”
“Ah, yes, the famous De Vecchi silver. Forged in Firenze in the seventeenth century, I believe. They had it flown in from the family vaults yesterday.”
Admiring the immense silver candelabra at the center of the table, Lucie said, “It’s all so grand, I’m not sure how the wedding banquet tomorrow is going to top this!”
“Well, since the Chius are picking up the bill for the entire wedding week, the De Vecchis obviously had to do something impressive for tonight. They couldn’t let those gauche Asians steal their thunder, could they?”
Lucie said nothing but thought that Isabel was anything but gauche.
Mordecai mistook Lucie’s silence for anger and began backpedaling furiously. “I do hope you weren’t offended by what I just said. I didn’t mean anything by it. I love the Asians! Some of my dearest friends are Asians, like the Chius and the Sultanah of Penang.”
“No worries, I wasn’t offended at all.” Lucie smiled, amused that he was flustered.
“I’m so relieved. I just think it’s fascinating to witness all this—a Chinese girl of immense fortune marrying into one of the oldest families in Europe, splashing her money around on one of the most decadent weddings the world has ever seen. It’s like Henry James all over again, avec le Chinois. I can see all the old Roman and Neapolitan families sneering in the corners. But there’s a new world order in place, and Old Europa better get used to it. I forget you’re partly Chinese, you see. I’m actually quite color blind—I don’t ever think of people in terms of their skin tone. I think of you as a New Yorker.”
Lucie nodded diffidently. Just when she thought Mordecai could do no worse, he piped up again. “Tell me, dear, what do you consider yourself?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“When you look in the mirror, do you feel more Asian or more Caucasian?”
“Well, I’m equal parts both …”
“But do you lean toward a particular side? It’s rather marvelous that you could pass for either.”
Lucie gritted her teeth, finally angry. “You know, I’ve never tried to pass for anything. I feel like I’m just me.”
“Very well put, young lady. Very well put. Now, tell me, are you out?”
“I’m assuming you’re referring to the cotillion and not the closet?”
“Har har! Yes, indeed.”
“I decided not to take part in all that debutante stuff, although my grandmother wanted me to.”
“This would be your Churchill grandmother? Tell me, how exactly are you all related to the English Churchills?”
Lucie reached for the crystal goblet in front of her. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but if she had to endure this inquisition for another three courses, she might as well get completely shitfaced. She gulped down the entire glass of wine, and the rest of the evening soon blurred at the edges. She was feeling super chill for a while, and then events started happening as though everything was in fast-forward, going so fast until there was nothing but flashes of moments …
… tasting an incredibly tender rack of lamb that, in the words of Baron von Ephrussí, went “improbably well with the 1988 Musigny.”fn2
… trying to use Google Translate to converse with the golden-haired Italian youth seated to her left. His name was Sandro, and he was Dolphi’s seventeen-year-old cousin from Como. He liked drum and bass. And Reese Witherspoon.
… watching a dish of delicious-looking zabaglione with Venetian white peaches being placed in front of her, but not recalling if she actually ate it.
… feeling a hand on her shoulder and Isabel saying to her, “Let’s ditch this joint!”
… taking a tender to an immense, futuristic yacht
moored just off Marina Piccola, where Isabel’s girlfriends had arranged the “Couture Costume Bachelorette Party.”
… putting on a gold Jean Paul Gaultier bustier top, Azzedine Alaïa cheetah-print leggings, and electric-blue eye shadow.
… gobbling down four red velvet cupcakes in a row before realizing that they were infused with cannabis.
… going to the karaoke lounge and the girls all wanting to sing 1980s hits.
… belting out Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” with Isabel and Daniella.
… staring at the Italian paratroopers storming the yacht by helicopter as the girls screamed and screamed.
… realizing that the absurdly over-tanned paratrooper in the shaggy wig was Dolfi when he stripped off all his clothes and did a cannonball off the top deck of the yacht.
… seeing another guy colliding midair with one of the drones as he tried to do a somersault into the sea.
… getting blindfolded and being forced to play Pin the Donkey on someone dressed in a furry donkey costume.
… hearing Isabel shouting, “No, guys, leave her alone! Don’t touch my little angel! Lucie has immunity tonight!”
At some point, she remembered stumbling below deck, vomiting red velvet into the pristine white toilet with a sleek automatic lid that kept trying to decapitate her, and curling up in a big circular bed with an immense white fur throw thinking how warm and cuddly it was but how sad that it had to be made of so many cute dead animals, and all of a sudden she was back in the chapel again, where a choir of Italian boys dressed in white robes stood in front of her singing Crowded House’s “Don’t Dream It’s Over” a cappella, and as she sat there listening to their angelic voices, she looked up at the fresco on the ceiling again, staring skyward at Jesus, and suddenly his bare pink torso transformed into the golden-brown perfection of George’s chest, and there she was too, floating above the clouds next to George in his blindingly white Speedo, as he turned to her saying, “you have a freedom within, Lucie, you have a freedom without.”
