Rococo

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Four hundred pounds, dear.”

  “Can you do better?”

  “Don’t want to. It’s her chandelier, you know.”

  “Monica Vitti, the movie star?”

  “Yes. I can show you.” The lady disappears briefly and returns with a Look magazine from April 1966. She opens to a spread about Monica Vitti’s apartment in Rome. There she is, the classic blond Italian movie actress, standing in a white silk caftan, photographed through the glittering crystal angels of this enormous chandelier. “I also have a letter from the broker I bought it from in Rome. Here.” She produces a letter from a file box and hands it to me. “It’s included with the purchase, of course.”

  “I’ll take it. Can you ship it?”

  “Yes, sir. You pay over there. Give them this slip to validate. It takes a few months to ship by boat. Don’t fret, nothing will be broken. I wrap each piece by hand, then we box it in a wooden crate the size of your house. I do it all myself so I know it will make the trip in perfect condition.”

  I drop off the slip to be validated, they hand me a packet of information, I pay the cashier with traveler’s checks and thank her.

  I check the paper Eydie gave me and see that I am to report directly to Anderson’s office on the second floor. I take the staircase to the second level, which is filled with purveyors of antique china and glassware. The fluorescent lights overhead illuminate the rows of glass, which sparkle like gems in an endless velvet case.

  Outside Anderson’s office, I introduce myself to the receptionist. She motions me into what looks like a junk-filled attic—hardly what you’d expect for the office of the manager. Anderson sits at a desk buried behind stacks of books, bent lamp shades, random chair legs, ripped cushions, bolts of water-stained damask, broken picture frames, a wagon wheel, and a Chesterfield lounger that is propped, half cocked, against a file cabinet overflowing with yellowed paper.

  “Mr. di Crespi! It’s a pleasure.” Asher Anderson rises from his creaky seat and extends his hand. It’s rubbery and cold to the touch, like a grandfather’s. He is very tall, very thin, and very old. His white hair is combed neatly to the side, and his blue eyes are clear and intelligent. Asher’s thin white mustache makes him look of another era entirely, a sort of beleaguered Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. He wears baggy brown wool slacks and a lumpy gold hand-knit wool sweater.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, sir.” I look for a place to sit. There is none.

  “Now now, don’t get comfortable,” Asher says. “We’re off straightaway. Eydie asked me to take you to the Geffrye.”

  “You used to work there.”

  “Correct. And then I needed to make some money to send my parents to the seashore in the summer, and that’s how I ended up here.”

  “Are they still alive?” Once I say it aloud, I don’t like the way it sounds.

  “No, no. My God, they would be centenarians. No, now I work here to send myself to the seashore.” He laughs. “My wife is already there. Follow me, please.”

  So far my trip has been like a crazy carnival ride, offbeat operator included. I’m surprised when we climb into his car, which itself looks antique. Its interior makes his office look organized. I sit on a pile of newspapers in the passenger seat. The backseat is filled with books and papers and what appears to be either a cracked ceramic basin or a large spaghetti bowl, depending upon where you’re from. Asher jams the key into the ignition and stomps on the gas like he’s killing a beetle; we lurch into the traffic of Kings Road. Certain I’m going through the windshield any minute, I grab the seat between my knees like I’m on a teeter-totter.

  “We shall be there momentarily,” Asher announces like some kooky British pilot in a World War II movie.

  “No kidding,” I tell him. This is faster than flying.

  Maybe old people drive fast because they have nothing to lose. I close my eyes, say a quick decade of the rosary, and throw in a plea to Saint Christopher to get us there in one piece. At least Asher doesn’t jabber while he’s driving, and he keeps those steely blue eyes on the road.

  “Ah, the Geffrye.” Asher slams on the brakes. I climb out of the car and take a moment to get my bearings. The museum is Georgian, red brick (now faded to a dull orange), with large half-moon windows on either side of the entrance. The gardens are manicured, with low meatball bushes, spindly trees, and waxy ivy that climbs up to the roof.

  “Right this way,” Asher says peppily as I follow him to the entrance. “Allow me to explain what you are about to experience. This museum is set up like a private residence. But there’s a twist, you see. Each room is from a different era in British history. We begin on the main floor with rooms from the seventeenth century. By the time you reach the top, you’re in the present. When the museum was designed, we wanted visitors to feel time pass as they walk through. You can tell me, once you’ve made it to the top, if we were successful. Follow me, please.”

  If ever there was a dream house for the interior decorator, this is it. Every detail of daily life is considered in the room design. Coal stoves, rotisserie pits, and deep hearths are prominent in kitchens before electricity and gas. In pre-bathroom rooms, ornate ceramic pitchers, nestled in deep bowls, are situated in alcoves for privacy. It’s interesting to note that there are elements to room design that haven’t changed in hundreds of years: every home needs a well-lit chair for sewing, a table and chairs for meals, and a comfortable bed.

  The museum celebrates every era of décor: a Stuart-style wood-carved desk, a Queen Anne washbasin, a Georgian rococo armchair with a crewel-embroidered wool seat, a Regency rosewood-inlaid game table, and, my favorite, an Edwardian chandelier with six tulip-shaped glass shades. “Makes you giddy, doesn’t it?” Asher says from behind me.

  “I have a weakness for chandeliers.”

  “My wife thinks I’m dotty, I love the old things so much.” Asher smiles. “Come, I want to show you something for your church.”

  I follow him down a dark, narrow hallway to the back of the Almshouse, the main building of the complex.

  “Most estates in England have a chapel in the house. In the days when it was a far ride to the church, a family wanted a room to gather for services. It was used for everything from prayer meetings to funerals.” He pulls back a velvet curtain at the entrance of a room and invites me in.

  The room is circular (I’m sure this inspired the current British fad of building glass solariums on the back of houses). Small lead-glass windows line one wall, with an ornate marble-topped refectory table in front of them. A single candle is centered on the table, next to an open book with a leather marker holding the page open. There is a straight-backed bench at the foot of the windows behind the table. Six polished wood benches face the table on the other side like pews.

  “This is what I wanted you to see.” I follow Asher to the section of wall opposite the windows. Imbedded in the wall is a glass case about three feet tall and two feet wide. Inside the case is an angel, carved of Italian gesso. The pink cherub is suspended in midair by a clear wire so that it appears to be in flight. The back wall of the case is painted Tiepolo style with a flurry of white puffy clouds against a blue background. Asher turns on a pin light. In the light the angel becomes a hologram. “Enchanting, isn’t it? I have only ever seen this technique in Italian churches. It never caught on here. But when I took over the museum, I felt it belonged. I bought the case in a small town in northern Italy and kept it for a long time until I found the perfect spot for it. It turns out that it’s one of the visitors’ favorite pieces in the whole place.”

  The angel is such a small thing, maybe only eight inches tall, but it’s the focal point of this chapel. “I was looking for a way to do the stations of the cross at my church. I think you just gave me an idea. Thank you, Asher.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate her.” He points to the angel. “After all, you’re Italian.”

  Asher screeches to a halt in front of the hotel when he sees Eydie waiting for us on the s
idewalk. I almost go through the windshield again. The doorman helps Eydie into the backseat. She has barely settled in before he presses the gas pedal. When we get up to the comfortable speed of one hundred miles an hour, Eydie gives me a message from the hotel desk:

  B: CALL ME. I MOVED OUT. MA IS SUICIDAL. C.

  “Everything all right?” Eydie asks.

  “Capri Mandelbaum’s mother is about to jump out a window.”

  “Who’s Capri?” Eydie asks.

  “My fiancée. It was an arrangement made by our mothers before either of us could walk. Because neither of us ever married anyone else, it was assumed that we were a couple.”

  “Sounds like a mess,” Eydie says with understanding.

  “It is. I’ve learned that if you leave something go long enough, it will bite you on the behind. It’s ironic, though—Capri broke it off with me before this trip. She told me that she wasn’t attracted to me, and now that she’s turning forty, she wants to find someone who warms her burners.”

  “Should we go back to the hotel so you can call her?”

  “Absolutely not. Her mother has been waiting twenty years for me to marry her daughter. They can wait two hours for a return call.” No amount of drama from home is going to ruin this trip.

  I show Eydie the Look magazine photo of the chandelier I bought at Antiquarius. “What do you think? It belonged to Monica Vitti.”

  Eydie looks at the picture closely. “This is a knockout. How much did you pay for it?”

  “Four hundred pounds.”

  “A steal with the strong dollar.”

  “I thought so. I hope I wasn’t conned.”

  “What if you were? Will you ever really know for sure? Of course not. So just enjoy it and believe it belonged to Monica Vitti. What more do you want from an antique? From anything?” Eydie grins and watches the road ahead. She doesn’t seem to mind the speed. She takes out a pack of cigarettes, offers one to Asher, who accepts, and to me. I decline. She lights her cigarette and declares, “I love England. No pesky speed limits.” Suddenly Asher pulls up onto the sidewalk and slams on the brakes. “Here we are.” He yanks the gear into Park.

  “Is this legal?” Pedestrians walk around the car as though cars park on the sidewalks every day.

  “It is when you own the building,” Asher replies.

  “Where are we?” I ask, helping Eydie out of the car.

  “This is Pimlico Road.”

  “Come on, step lively.” Asher waves us into a doorway next to a storefront with a metal guard gate locked to the ground. We follow him through a small dark hallway, where he opens three locks with three different keys, then hits a light switch and motions for us to enter. I almost run out the door when I see what’s inside. It’s a roomful of giants.

  An army of saints—in marble, painted plaster, and bronze, some twenty feet tall, on pedestals that make them appear larger still—is arranged in neat rows, as though they are lining up for drill-team practice. They fill the enormous garret from end to end.

  “How delicious and macabre!” Eydie squeals.

  It seems the entire host of heaven is here. I walk along a row of Marys: Our Lady of Sorrows, Our Lady of the Lake, Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Our Lady of the Snows, Our Lady of Fatima. “Here’s Fatima!” I call out.

  Once I get past the feeling of being watched, I can see the statues are magnificent. Some—like Saint Michael, valiant on horseback and wielding a sword, Saint Theresa of the Little Flower with a cascading bouquet of roses, Saint Lucy with her eyeballs on a platter, and Saint Joseph holding the baby Jesus—look so authentic, I feel as though I’m reviewing the troops. “Where did you get these?” I ask Asher.

  “They’re from Italy.”

  “Made there?”

  “Made there and then shipped here for safekeeping. During World War II the churches in Italy were bombed with such regularity that a group of priests came up with a plan to save their contents. They loaded these onto boats at night and sent them to England. Of course, many of the statues were destroyed by water, or the boats were hit and didn’t make it. These are the survivors.”

  “Amazing.” I turn and look at the side walls where the saints mingle with the Gloria angel and her trumpet, various kneeling angels, and a series of putti toddler cherubs dangling on wires from the ceiling.

  “These are mostly from the north of Italy,” Asher explains, “though the series in costume is from Naples. I have two hundred and seventeen saints and fifteen Marys. Years ago I wrote to the Vatican and told them, and they sent someone to look at them. They decided that they didn’t want them back. They’d already rebuilt a lot of the churches, or like you, they were renovating after centuries so they’d commissioned new statues.”

  “Fools.” I walk down another aisle.

  “If they didn’t take them back, they’re not valuable,” Eydie says.

  “It depends upon how you define valuable,” Asher says. “A lot of these were made by local craftsmen, unknowns if you will. I like them because they’re different. It doesn’t matter to me who made them.”

  “It shouldn’t,” I tell him. “I’m very impressed.”

  “I have the children of Fatima.” Asher points to the back. “I’ll show you.”

  I follow him to the back with Eydie close behind. “Here they are.”

  I stop in my tracks. Eydie gasps. “They’re so real!” The life-sized Fatima children, while made of plaster and crudely painted, are dressed in actual clothes, which makes them seem eerily lifelike. Lucia dos Santos, around ten years old, wears a cotton skirt and blouse and a black veil. Francisco, eight, wears trousers and a hat, which is really a durable scarf wrapped around his head. The youngest, Jacinta, wears a version of Lucia’s costume with a blue veil.

  “Look at the eyes,” Eydie says.

  “It was the custom to use glass eyes at the turn of this century,” Asher tells us.

  “I want these,” I tell him.

  “Are you sure?” Eydie asks, stepping back. “They’re awfully lifelike.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure.” My eyes fill with tears. Maybe it’s the story of these statues surviving the trip from Italy during the war. Maybe it’s this room, filled with relics no one wants, that makes me want to take them home. Or maybe it’s the first time the story of Fatima has seemed real to me. No matter where I go in the world, I am reminded in small ways that I need faith. I haven’t prayed for the inspiration to renovate our church, it hadn’t even occured to me, but I am going to start now.

  “Oh for . . .” Eydie says, digging in her purse for a tissue. I see that she’s weeping. “There’s something about these kids, they look like terrified refugees. You can’t buy these, B. They’ll scare people in New Jersey. Those people like pretty.” She blows her nose.

  “I am going to buy them.” The way the three statues look at me fills me with a longing to tell the story of Fatima. For the first time since Father gave me the job, I feel the stirrings of something truly creative. Maybe these three strange creatures are my swatches upon which to build the church.

  “Now, now,” Asher says quietly, “take some time and think about it. There are no returns.”

  My suitcases are filled with souveniers from our trip: an antique Dresden teapot with accoutrements, a cashmere scarf for Toot, ties for Nicky and Anthony, and a kilt for Two (maybe he’ll wear it on Halloween). As I yank my suitcases off the conveyor belt, I realize that, as much fun as I had with Eydie, I’m ready to be home and to get to work on Our Lady of Fatima Church.

  At JFK Airport I put Eydie in a cab and go to the parking lot to pick up my car. I found a pay phone and called Capri, promising that I would go directly to the Castle Mandelbaum. As soon as I begin the drive, I’m sorry I said I’d come. I’m exhausted. I hardly slept on the trip home. Eydie and I couldn’t stop talking, smoking, and drinking the free port from Madagascar. I told her about Capri and me, which she found fascinating.

  I pull up the drive at the Mandelbaums’. The gardens are bu
rsting with red-and-white impatiens while laurel spills its pink blossoms as far as my eye can see. I fish out the Queen Mum tea towels I bought them in London and ring the bell. Capri opens the door. She looks as though she’s been crying for days. “Where is she?” I ask.

  Capri points to the kitchen. I go to the back of the house with Capri on my heels.

  “Aurelia?”

  Aurelia is standing at the sink, snapping beans. She doesn’t turn to look at me. “I’m not speaking to you,” she says. “You knew all about this move.”

  I’m insulted by her rudeness, and so hungover from the plane that I lose my patience. “You can’t possibly be angry about this.”

  She spins and faces me. “Capri went behind my back and signed a lease.”

  “She’s forty years old,” I remind her.

  “I don’t care if she’s eighty! She’s sneaking around!”

  “This is hardly a rebellion. In fact, this can be filed under the category ‘It’s about damn time.’ Your daughter is an adult who wants her own life.”

  “You have no idea what I’ve been going through here.” Aurelia wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “And you have no idea how you hurt me with your control!” Capri pipes up.

  “Stop it. Both of you.” Aurelia and Capri look at me. “I mean it.” I turn to Capri. “I’m not coming over here to defend you anymore. I’m sorry things got hairy when you decided to assert yourself, but you should have prepared your mother before you packed your bags.”

  “I needed—”

  “You need to grow up!”

  “Don’t speak to her in that tone!” Aurelia barks.

  “And you need to learn to let go.” I steady myself on the kitchen table. Aurelia puts her hand over her heart. “I am sick of being in the middle.” I look at Aurelia. “I am not your son.” I turn to Capri. “Or your future husband. I am your lifelong friend. I love you both very much. But I’m too old to take your crap anymore. So, let’s get it straight. Aurelia, your daughter doesn’t want me. We have no sparks. There have never been any sparks. In fact, we are two sopping wet logs on a Girl Scout camping trip. Do you understand?”