by Kevin Kwan
“Lucie, no one has seen us yet. Should we rush back to the hotel and change?”
“I think it’s too late for that. Look up, Charlotte!”
Charlotte raised her head and saw a drone hovering right above them. “Jesus Christ! Are we under surveillance?”
“No, it’s Issie’s film team. She told me there were going to be drones documenting every moment of the weekend. Now that we’ve been caught on video, it’s going to look really silly if we come back in ten minutes wearing different outfits,” Lucie said.
Entering the gardens, they saw that the whole place had been decorated to look like a Moroccan fantasy. Hundreds of colorful Moorish lamps hung from every tree, precious Berber carpets had been laid out on the grass, and artfully arranged on them were poufs and lounge chairs upholstered in iridescent silks. In the middle of the garden rose a twelve-foot pyramid of Venetian glass flutes, obviously beckoning to be overflowing with champagne. A team of videographers dressed entirely in black circled the party, some of them holding state-of-the-art video cameras, while others piloted the fleet of drones that hovered in the sky.
Suddenly, they heard a call from through the trees. “Lucie! Lucie!”
Lucie looked up and saw Isabel and Dolfi waving from the terrace above them. “Too late now,” she muttered to her cousin as she rushed up the steps toward her friends.
“You made it!” Isabel (Taipei American School / Lycée Français / Brown) said excitedly, giving her a big hug. “I’m so happy you’re here! Isn’t Capri beautiful? Aren’t these gardens beautiful?”
“Not half as beautiful as you look tonight,” Lucie replied, admiring Isabel’s pleated lavender Tibi dress, which she wore with matching gold cuff bracelets and a chunky gold-and-diamond chain belt.
“Aww! Thank you. Dolfi, didn’t I tell you that Lucie is the sweetest person I know? I used to call her my little angel. She’s never had a bad thing to say about anyone—unlike me!” Isabel cackled.
Dolfi (Rome International School / Le Rosey / Brown) turned to Lucie and said in an accent that seemed to meld British boarding school with Italian Casanova, “Just the other day I told Isabel that it has been much too long since we’ve seen you. This college thing is really such a nuisance—you should just drop out and come sailing with us to Fiji.”
“That sounds like an awesome idea!” Lucie said.
“I’m not sure your mother would agree,” Charlotte cut in.
Dolfi reached for Charlotte’s hand and gave it a gallant kiss. “And you must be the enforcer?”
“I’d like to think I’m more like the voice of reason,” Charlotte said, completely disarmed by Dolfi. She studied the strapping young Italian aristocrat with shoulder-length hair and the Nate Archibald–perfect amount of stubble standing next to his chic bride-to-be. With her statuesque figure, jet-black hair pulled into a high ponytail, and impossibly long, thick eyelashes, she looked like one of the contestants on Dancing with the Stars, Charlotte’s guilty pleasure. In fact, they both did.
They chatted for a few moments, when Isabel suddenly rolled her eyes. “Oh God, here comes my mother’s friend Mordecai! I promise I’m doing you a favor—you should get out of here now while you still can. Go check out the view from the top terrace before the sun sets!”
They wandered up the stairs to the high terrace, as Charlotte gushed all the way. “Why didn’t you tell me that Dolfi was such a tall drink of water? I would have dressed up more! Did you see his nose? That’s the kind of nose plastic surgeons couldn’t create for all the money in the world. That perfect patrician profile comes only to people born to Roman families that have spent at least fifteen generations drinking water straight out of their ancient aqueducts! You should follow Isabel’s example and bring someone like that home! Not now, of course. In a decade would be perfect.”
Lucie laughed lightly. She wasn’t used to hearing her cousin gush over anyone like that. Arriving at the top deck, they were mesmerized by the panoramic views of the Gulf of Salerno stretching to the horizon as far as the eye could see. A woman in her early forties with a mass of pre-Raphaelite curls leaned against the green metal railing in front of them, taking pictures with her camera. Turning around, she grinned at them. “Oh, good, I’m glad I’m not the only one who didn’t get the memo about wearing our tiaras tonight.”
Lucie smiled, thinking that the lady looked very cool in her black jumpsuit, black ankle boots, and black denim jacket. She wondered if her outfit was designed by Rick Owens. “Is that a Leica?” she asked, pointing at her silver-and-black camera.
“My grandfather’s, from the thirties,” the woman replied in a husky British accent that Charlotte and Lucie both immediately registered as posh.
“I’ve always wanted a Leica. I’ve just begun using an old Nikon from the seventies that my uncle gave me.”
“Where is it?”
“I left it back home. I guess I’m so used to my phone that I didn’t think to take it with me,” Lucie said a little sheepishly.
“That’s the problem with smartphones. No one thinks to use a real camera anymore. Capri would have been the perfect place for your Nikon—you can’t take a bad picture on this island. It’s like India. Anywhere you point, you get an amazing shot.” The woman handed Lucie her camera. “Here, try it out.”
Lucie held up the camera’s viewfinder to her eye and looked out at the ocean. In the near distance below them, an enormous, sleek yacht idled in the calm bay, and she could just make out a few figures standing on the top deck and the name of the boat: Odin.
Charlotte, having nothing to do, stuck out her hand at the woman. “I’m Charlotte Barclay, and this is my cousin Lucie Churchill.”
“I’m Olivia Lavistock [Willcocks / Lycée Français / American School of Paris / La Fémis]. You’re New Yorkers, I assume?”
“Yes. Is it that obvious?” Charlotte asked.
“I could spot you two from a mile away. The way you dress, the way you walk.”
Charlotte gave her a once-over. “And let me guess, you’re from London?”
“You’re partly correct. I grew up in London, but I’m American and live in LA these days.”
Charlotte tried again. “Then I’m guessing you work in entertainment?”
“Guilty as charged. I make films.”
“Anything we might have seen?” Lucie asked, putting down the camera.
“Probably not. I directed a short that won an award at Venice many years ago, and I worked in Paris for a while for Claire Denis and Eugène Green. Everything I’m working on right now is in development. Speaking of which, I saw you both at the hotel earlier today at lunch. It was like a scene straight out of a Merchant Ivory film! What happened? Did Madame Zao succeed in convincing you to take her rooms?”
Charlotte paused for a moment before answering. “As a matter of fact, she did, and we are very grateful.”
“Lucky you! So, how is the view?”
“It’s okay,” Charlotte said.
“It’s pretty incredible,” Lucie said, talking over her.
“Well, I wish I had complained about my room in front of Madame Zao! Isn’t she a character? I love it! There aren’t enough characters these days, especially among the rich. Everybody with money has become so cookie-cutter—they dress the same, collect the same ten artists, stay at the same hotels around the world, and even eat at the same restaurants. They all want to be miserable and dissatisfied in the same place.”
“Do you really think that’s true?” Lucie asked.
“Why don’t we do a little experiment? What neighborhood do you live in?”
“The Upper East Side.”
“Oh, that’s too easy. On the Upper East Side, the only places the rich will eat at are Swifty’s, Orsay, Café Boulud, Elio’s, and Sette Mezzo. Lunch at Sant Ambroeus or Via Quadronno, and if you’re vegetarian you go to Candle
79. Going downtown means only going as far south as Doubles. Am I right or am I right?
Lucie gasped. “How on earth did you know?”
“I cheated. My father lives on Ninety-First between Lex and Third. His wife only ever wants to eat at Swifty’s.”
“How boring. This is why I live in Gramercy Park—the best food is all downtown. The real downtown!” Charlotte sniffed.*1
“I wouldn’t disagree, but my point is there’s so little originality among the one percent crowd these days. I wish we still lived in the time when the heiress Millicent Rogers would marry an Austrian count and announce that for her honeymoon, she was going to Africa to discover a new breed of monkey! Now, the man who built these gardens was quite the character. Krupp, in his time the richest man in Germany. Do you know how he spent his dosh?”
“How?” Charlotte asked.
“He liked to host lavish orgies, usually with thirty or forty young men. Local fishermen. He probably shagged them right here on this terrace.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped as Lucie tried to stifle a giggle.
Olivia continued her story. “You know he was married with two daughters when he started coming to Capri, but his wife back in Germany suddenly began receiving anonymous letters and compromising photos.”
“What happened?” Charlotte asked, finding herself strangely curious about this sordid tale.
“What always happens. The press found out, and it became a huge scandal in Germany, of course. So he committed suicide, and his wife ended up in the loony bin.”
“How shocking,” Charlotte said, shaking her head.
“Actually, it’s quite a tame story by Capri standards. This has always been an island of sybaritic pleasures, and people have been coming here since ancient times to indulge in whatever got their rocks off. Krupp wasn’t the first. Do you want to know what Emperor Tiberius used to do with virgins up at his palace?”
Lucie, who was getting uncomfortable with where the conversation seemed to be heading, spotted waiters entering the lower terrace with silver platters of cocktails and canapés. “Why don’t I get us some drinks?” she said, making a beeline for the steps. As she wandered through the lower garden, she suddenly passed by George Zao standing stock-still in front of a clump of trees, staring at something.
“Oh, hello,” she said, trying to be polite, although she wondered, Why is he always staring like that?
“Lenin,” he said, turning to her.
“Pardon me?”
“It’s a statue of Lenin.”
“Oh, wow. I guess it is, isn’t it?” Lucie said, noticing for the first time the white marble bas-relief depicting Lenin in profile that was partially hidden by foliage.
“Don’t you find it odd?”
“Odd?”
“That there would be a statue of him here.”
“There are lots of statues here.”
“Yes, but why one of the most famous communists, on an island devoted to conspicuous consumption?”
“Is that what you think of Capri?”
“Just look around you,” George said with a half smile, before walking off.
Lucie frowned, not knowing what to make of their encounter but feeling strangely annoyed. Was he somehow criticizing her? Was she being unobservant or obtuse, or, worse, being labeled a conspicuous consumer herself?
Lucie went up to the waiter standing beside a small circular fountain filled with lotus flowers and grabbed three flutes of champagne off his silver tray. As she walked carefully up the steps trying not to spill any of the bubbly, she came upon Rosemary Zao dressed in a shimmering gold caftan festooned with peacock feathers. She thought it was funny how different mother and son looked—he was way underdressed in a brown linen shirt and awful mustard-colored jeans that were too tight on him, looking like he had stumbled into the wrong party in the wrong decade, whereas his mom’s outfit was a party unto itself.
“Ah, Lucie! How pretty you look in blue! Do you like your room? Isn’t it nice?” Rosemary asked excitedly.
“Yes, it’s very nice. Thanks again, Mrs. Zao. It’s such a treat to be able to enjoy the view.”
“I’m so glad. I told you the suite was amazing, didn’t I? Now, let me ask you something. You are hapa,*2 yes?”
“Um, yeah.” Lucie nodded, caught off guard. It wasn’t very often that she was asked that question so directly.
“Which side is the Chinese side?”
“My mother is Chinese.”
“How nice. My husband, Emerson, was hapa too—his grandfather was Australian. That makes George one-eighth Aussie, although he looks Chinese, don’t you think? But that’s why he’s so handsome. He’s like Bruce Lee. You know Bruce Lee’s mother was half German?”*3
“I didn’t, actually,” Lucie replied politely, although her mind was reeling. Did Mrs. Zao actually just say that her son was handsome because he was one-eighth Aussie?
“I think you and George have a lot in common. You two should be friends.”
Lucie could feel her jaw tighten in annoyance. What was this woman talking about? She had nothing in common with her son.
“You could be a good influence on George. He’s too serious for his age. He worries too much.”
“What does he worry about?” Lucie asked, before regretting it instantly. Why did she ask a question when she could have just made a quick exit?
“Everything! The icebergs melting, world poverty, penguins, you name it. I don’t know why, but this son of mine feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. Ever since his father died four years ago, he feels like he’s responsible for me. But I tell him, ‘Don’t worry about me! Go out and have fun!’ When I was his age, I was going dancing every night. My goodness, the times I had at Disco Disco or the Club 97 in Lan Kwai Fong!”
“Well, I do think our generation feels more burdened than yours. I mean, climate change, poverty, and penguins are all real concerns.”
“Yes, but there needs to be balance. You know, the middle way. Look, I’m not asking you to be his girlfriend or anything. But maybe you could…you know…be nice to him.”
Lucie felt too awkward to say anything, but it didn’t matter because Rosemary wouldn’t stop talking.
“You know, I had to drag George to this wedding. He didn’t want to come. He said he didn’t want to witness a massive waste of money.”
“Well, I’m not sure how much your son is going to like me, Mrs. Zao. You see, I don’t think this wedding is going to be a massive waste at all. Isabel is my dear friend, and she does everything with intention and heart. I think it’s all going to be wonderful!” Lucie turned abruptly and headed quickly up the stairs. She was spilling champagne along the way and knew she was behaving rudely, but she didn’t care. She was beginning to think that Charlotte had been right all along, and she was regretting the decision to accept the Zaos’ rooms. Rosemary’s words kept ringing in her ears. Maybe you could…you know…be nice to him. What the hell did she mean by that?
*1 Gramercy Park is not the real downtown, but for Charlotte downtown meant going only as far south as Buvette on Grove Street or occasionally to Tribeca back when Chanterelle was still around.
*2 Hawaiian for “half,” the word has come to mean a person of mixed Asian and other racial heritage. These days, “hapa” has generally become the most accepted word to use among hapas.
*3 Actually, she’s wrong about Bruce Lee’s mother being half German, but it was an oft-repeated myth. Bruce’s mother, Grace Ho Oi-yee, stated that her father was Chinese and her mother was English, and when Bruce himself was once asked if he thought of himself as Chinese or North American, he replied, “I think of myself as a human being, because under the sky, we are but one family, it just so happens that we look different.”
V
Da Luigi Beach Club
CAPRI, ITALY
“Valentino used to live in that villa. This is the street where all the oldest, most historic houses are,” Isabel said, pointing up the hill as she strolled with Lucie along Via Tragara. One side of the street consisted of high stone walls, imposing hedges, and ornate gates, giving only tantalizing glimpses into the worlds hidden beyond them. The other side had lower walls where one could admire the beautiful gardens and terraces of villas that looked out to the sea.
“This is my favorite street so far. I thought Via Camerelle was lovely, but then it just keeps getting more beautiful the farther along you go, doesn’t it?” Lucie remarked, trailing her fingers over the hibiscus bushes along the wall.
“That’s the thing about this island—it reveals its secrets slowly. I’ve been here probably half a dozen times and I still feel like I’m discovering a whole different island every time I come,” Isabel said.
“I’m so glad you texted me this morning,” Lucie said as she strolled happily along the sun-dappled lane with her friend, breathing in the scent of orange blossom that seemed to follow them everywhere.
“Of course! I need to have some alone time with you, before the onslaught!” The two of them had met on the terrace of the Grand Hotel Quisisana and caught up over a breakfast of croissants, truffled scrambled eggs, and cappuccinos, and now they were heading to the beach club to meet up with some of Isabel’s friends.
“It’s such a treat to have this time with you, right before your wedding. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to help?” Lucie inquired.
“Everything’s being taken care of. Gillian’s managing an army of staffers precisely so I don’t have to stress out and can actually enjoy my own wedding. But you are very nice to offer,” Isabel replied, thinking for the hundredth time how well brought up Lucie was. She’d always had a soft spot for Lucie and felt very protective over her ever since she babysat her during the time of Lucie’s father’s death. Lucie had been only eight years old, but she was so stoic through it all, an absolute rock for her devastated mother. She didn’t cry once at the memorial service and brought the standing-room-only crowd at the church to tears when she went up to the altar and gave an a cappella rendition of Sting’s “Fields of Gold.”
