Grace of Monaco

by Robinson, Jeffrey

  He was concerned that Caroline, Stephanie, and Albert had grown up without a mother and that he was always trying that much more to be a good father. “But I never could be a good mother. I have tried not to shelter them too much, to help them face their own problems. And I know they are very close to each other.” Although he added, somewhat cryptically, “Albert can be too indulgent.”

  Several years before, Stephanie had remarked to a woman’s magazine, “My father is the only man who never betrayed me.”

  In one way it was a sad comment for the then 23-year-old to make. In another, it showed she was aware that he was there for her.

  “I was very pleased about that,” Rainier said. “I hope that’s a result of the fact that we’ve never closed the door. You know, you can say, please don’t do something, and give a child all the reasons in the world but if the child wants to go on doing something, there’s nothing left to do but say, all right, be careful. What else can you do? I have very different relationships with my children. Albert is my son, and fathers and sons are special. With Caroline, she’s a parent now, too, and she’s very daughterly towards me. As for Stephanie, she has a mind of her own. I know that. I also know that she’s got a tremendously strong character, maybe even the strongest of the three.”

  There could be no doubt that since Grace’s death, the years were lonely for Rainier. Many of his friends had passed away and he, too, had slowed down. But on a visit with Caroline to the spa La Baule in France in late 1994, he suffered heart problems.

  Returning to Monaco immediately, the 72-year-old Rainier went through a secret and very painful double by-pass operation.

  Stories began circulating immediately afterwards that Rainier would step down.

  It didn’t happen.

  The fact is that father and son often said they enjoyed working together and that when the time was right for a change of power, they would both know.

  In 1997, Monaco celebrated the 700th year of its birth.

  Two years later, the principality celebrated the 50th anniversary of Rainier coming to power.

  Although he continued going to the office, taking care of his responsibilities at home, he soon stopped traveling, preferring to send Albert to do what he no longer could.

  Chapter 33

  The End of

  the Fairy Tale

  His final decade was difficult for him.

  For a few years after his double by-pass, his health remained steady, at least until 1999 or so when he noticeably began to deteriorate. A chain smoker all of his life, he’d been ordered by his doctors to quit. But he didn’t.

  In December of that year, Rainier was back on the operating table, this time to repair an aneurysm in his abdominal aorta. The operation went smoothly and the Palace released a public statement that he was on the mend.

  But his doctors knew better. They were concerned with something they’d discovered on his lung and in February 2000 they removed a small growth.

  Again, according to a Palace statement, “The prince is recovering very well.”

  Eleven days later, on February 13, he was rushed back into the operating room to correct a condition known as pneumothorax. Air was escaping from his lung and building up in the chest cavity. The situation was repaired and he was allowed to go home.

  With each visit to the hospital, speculation mounted about how much longer he would reign.

  He told people he didn’t know.

  Close friends guessed that he would step aside once Albert ­married.

  The best he would say about life was, “For me the future is to grow old gracefully.”

  But that wasn’t easy for him, and in fact, at times, it was extremely painful because the “grace in gracefully” had been taken away from him.

  Next, he spent three weeks in hospital recovering from what doctors described as general fatigue. He returned to hospital shortly thereafter to be treated for a coronary lesion and a damaged blood vessel. He came back again to be treated for a chest infection.

  Finally, it was kidney problems, along with cumulative heart and lung problems further aggravated by more than half a century of chain smoking, that took their toll.

  GqH

  Rainier Louis Henri Maxence Bertrand Grimaldi, Sovereign Prince of Monaco, was an “old school” kind of man for whom manners and respect mattered. The sort of man who simply accepted responsibility for what it used to be—duty—something one had to do, like it or not.

  It was not always to his liking, but he dedicated his life to his duty, and even if it appeared to outsiders as a rollicking good time, in reality, it was anything but.

  Surrounded by parasites, flunkies, gold diggers, wannabees, and sycophants, it was a full-time job just deciding who to trust.

  “I have hangers-on,” he said without hesitation, adding that real friends were one of the main hardships in his life. “I constantly have people pretending friendship one day and suddenly asking favors the next. I think the sign of true friendship is when someone has been around for a very long time and has never asked for anything. But that’s so rare. At the end of the day, I suspect I could actually name all the people around me who have never asked for anything. I think I could count them on the fingers of one hand.”

  Grace always said she wanted to be remembered, “As someone who accomplished useful deeds, and who was a kind and loving person. I would like to leave the memory of a human being with a correct attitude and who did her best to help others.”

  And he hoped that’s the way she would be remembered. “As a caring person. She was. She really did care about other people. She was extremely demanding of herself.”

  As for himself, Rainier said he did like the idea of being remembered as “The Builder.” That his legacy should be that of the man who brought the sleepy, somewhat remote statelet he’d inherited in 1949, into the late 20th century.

  And that may well be what history decides.

  More likely, though, he will be remembered as the man who co-wrote the fairy tale and helped orchestrate the magic.

  The Monaco of Rainier’s youth was a dismal place, living on past glories of some long gone golden age, way beyond its sell-by date. That changed when he met, fell in love with, and married Grace Kelly. She electrified the Riviera as only a film icon could and, along with her Hollywood friends, she delivered a cast of characters that brought Monte Carlo back as the most glamorous resort in the world.

  For 26 years, Rainier and his movie star Princess sustained that magic.

  And it was magic.

  Grace and Rainier didn’t rule a country as much as they reigned over a fairy tale. There might not have been pumpkin carriages and glass slippers, but there were Frank Sinatra and Cary Grant, huge yachts, the world’s most famous casino, the most famous Grand Prix in the world, and bejeweled ladies in evening gowns sipping champagne on terraces under the moonlight with elegant men in dinner jackets.

  And, for one night every year, in the middle of the summer, during the Red Cross Ball, there was, arguably, more money under the retractable roof of the Sporting Club—in diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies—than anywhere else on the planet, with the possible exceptions of Fort Knox and the Bank of England.

  Few fairy tales have ever been so enchanting.

  And, yet, so few enchanting stories have ever had such a sad ­ending.

  When Grace was killed, everything stopped.

  The magic evaporated and there was nothing anyone could do to bring it back. Everyone knew it, no one more so than Rainier because, he said, “A part of me died with her.”

  There were, also, regrets, he confessed with typical candor. “When this kind of ending occurs, there are always regrets. You regret not having spoken enough together, not having spent enough time together, not having gotten away enough together. Not having dedicated enough time to each other. When you look back over 26 years you find moments when you think to yourself, why didn’t we go on that vacation the way we always said we would? And wh
y didn’t we do this or talk about that? I regret we didn’t have more time together.”

  GqH

  Immediately after Rainier’s double by-pass, stories circulated that now he would finally step down.

  When he didn’t, the press decided he was merely waiting until Albert married.

  Truth be told, retirement had been on his mind since just after Grace died. He couldn’t do anything about it then, because both he and Albert were waiting for the day when they both thought Albert was ready. But he said he was looking forward to a time when he could travel and see people he wanted to see, as opposed to people he was obliged to see.

  That he didn’t retire is not because Rainier was worried about Albert assuring the line of succession. If that had been the case, he could have stepped down in 2002 when he orchestrated a change in the law, putting Caroline and her sons in line after Albert.

  No, he said, retirement didn’t happen because he and Albert were comfortable with their working arrangement.

  Anyway, Albert was gradually taking charge as Rainier’s health was forcing him into the wings.

  But then, this long “apprenticeship” clearly prepared Albert in such a way that he was infinitely better qualified for the job than his father ever was. Albert might not have been the only person his father trusted, but he was undoubtedly one of the very few. One of his most important jobs then became drawing up his own list of people to trust.

  Unlike his father, Albert grew up in Monaco and undoubtedly knows every one of his 7,000 subjects by face, if not by name. His American college years and all those years he spent employed in the so-called “real world,” gave him a different outlook, a modern outlook, something that his father couldn’t have. Twenty years of on-the-job training at his father’s side then equipped him with a much deeper understanding of what needs to be done and how to go about doing it.

  GqH

  In that final decade, Rainier cut an increasingly lonely figure. There was still joy in his family—especially the arrival of his grandchildren—but everyone could see that the light was growing dim.

  During his final year, increasingly frail and weak, he was forced to spend more and more time in the hospital. He hardly ever appeared in public.

  But in January 2005, he insisted on celebrating the 30th anniversary of his cherished Monaco Circus Festival.

  Wrapped in a coat and a red and white circus scarf, when he walked into the big tent—with Albert and a tearful Stephanie by his side—the crowd erupted. Thousands of people jumped to their feet and greeted him with a long and emotional standing ovation.

  And as the drawn and tired Prince acknowledged his people’s outpouring of love, it was as if everyone there knew—the fairy tale that Grace and Rainier wrote and lived, was about to end.

  On March 7, he was admitted to the Cardio-Thoracic Center in Monaco, suffering from a bronchial-pulmonary infection. A statement from the Palace noted that the infection had been brought under control. But two weeks later he was moved into intensive care—he was having problems breathing—and this time it was for the final time.

  Albert rushed back to the Principality from Italy. Caroline rushed back from Paris. Stephanie was already there.

  When the announcement finally came, news bulletins flashed around the world and in some countries, regular broadcasting was interrupted.

  Rainier died on April 6, 2005—50 years to the day after he first met a movie actress called Grace Kelly.

  Dusk

  The waters turn dark.

  The sun falls behind the hills.

  Those buildings at the port are no longer salmon pink. They’re now more of a fading strawberry red.

  The souvenir shop facing the ports sells the last picture postcards of the day.

  The pastry shop around the corner and down the narrow alley from City Hall on Le Rocher sells the last loaf of bread on the shelf.

  And now there is a pause.

  A small fishing boat chugs slowly back into the harbor.

  Traffic comes to a halt on the roads leading out of town.

  Cabana boys at the Beach Club pick up mattresses and fold umbrellas. A sign says that you can swim at your own risk after 7 p.m., and someone does. Later, the police will patrol the beaches, just in case there are any campers who think it would be sexy to sleep on the beach at Monte Carlo. It’s done elsewhere along the coast, but other beaches aren’t this one.

  A croupier arrives late for work because he couldn’t find a space in the private lot behind the casino for his bright yellow Maserati.

  Four cocktail parties are about to begin, all within 500 yards of each other. They serve the same Champagne and the same canapés. Two are sponsored by jewelers. One is sponsored by an art gallery. One is sponsored by a chap who sells luxury cars privately. Everyone who shows up at the first of those parties will, inevitably, meet everyone else again at the other three.

  Shops close.

  Girls in white smocks struggle to pull heavy metal grills down across storefront windows covered in rose film, or yellow film, so that the sun will not spoil the bottles of perfume on display.

  Men meet their mistresses.

  Women meet their lovers.

  The first train of the evening leaves for Paris.

  A commuter train pulls in from Nice on its way to Ventigmiglia.

  A stockbroker sits in front of a computer screen checking Wall Street because when it’s 7 o’clock in Monte Carlo it’s only one in New York.

  Chefs all over town ready their kitchens.

  Sommeliers all over town consider their stock of wine.

  The maître d’ at the Café de Paris is counting reservations when an American couple comes in to ask if gentlemen are required to wear ties, because if gentlemen are required to wear ties, they won’t be able to dine there as the gentleman is tie-less. He assures the couple that they will be welcome.

  The daily card game finishes at the café near the high school.

  One last round of Pastis is served.

  A used-to-be famous old English actor is paged at the bar in the Hotel de Paris, the way he is paged every evening at the same time, because that’s what he’s tipped the barman to do.

  A Personal Epilogue

  We each have our special memories.

  Mine of Grace is of that Saturday afternoon before her last Christmas on earth. She’d spent the morning baking butter cookies cut into stars and cut into Christmas trees and cut into Santas carrying sacks of toys. Once they were ready, she walked alone from the Palace to Caroline’s house, about 500 yards along a winding, narrow street, between three-story fading yellow brick houses with green shutters across the windows and freshly washed laundry hanging out of some of them.

  Dressed in dark slacks with a cream cashmere sweater and a simple string of pearls around her neck, flat shoes, her hair wrapped in a scarf and large sunglasses, no one recognized her except the Palace guards in their winter uniforms who saluted smartly as she nodded to them and smiled, “Bonjour.”

  She let herself into the large, quiet villa.

  Finding no one in the front hallway, she peeked into the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast?”

  I answered, “How would you like scrapple and eggs?”

  She gave me a suspicious look. “Where can you get Philadelphia scrapple in Monaco?”

  “Alas,” I shrugged. “Will you settle for a Western omelet?”

  “Sounds great,” she said, placing the bag of cookies on the counter near the sink and reaching for an apron. “I’ll supervise.”

  The years had been kind to her. She’d put on some weight but her eyes were as magical as they’d ever been and her voice was ­exactly the same as it was in Mogambo and High Noon and Rear ­Window.

  Her face was a bit rounder now, but it was softer, more gentle than in her Hollywood days. The ice-goddess image had melted away and that once-so-beautiful movie star of 22 had become a still-so-beautiful woman of 52.

  “I thought you were from New York.” Sh
e started to scrub the green peppers. “How do you know about scrapple?”

  “I went to school in Philadelphia. I went to Temple.”

  “So did I,” she said. “I went to Temple.” She paused, “Although I think it must have been a few years before you.”

  “Well,” I politely suggested, “only a few,” then pointed to the paper bag, “Is that for the tree?”

  “I baked cookies. What did you do?”

  When my pal Caroline had phoned to ask, “Want to make lunch on Saturday for my mother and me,” she’d explained it was the day she was going to decorate her Christmas tree. “This year everything on the tree has to be edible. You know, cookies, candy, dried fruit, whatever you want to bring.”

  Her mother’s butter cookies were according to the rules. But I had my own idea of edible decorations. “It’s not quite the same as if I’d baked.” I reached for my shopping bag. “Nevertheless,” I assured her, “everything is edible.”

  She said, “Let’s see.”

  I pulled out Santa-encrusted tins of tuna fish and several packages of Christmas-ribbon-wrapped pasta.

  She laughed.

  And her whole face lit up.

  “Your hair is a little long, isn’t it?” she said, once we’d started cooking the omelets together. “Tell you what, after lunch get me a pair of scissors and I’ll give you a haircut.”

  I turned to her. “It’s a deal. But you must understand that if you cut my hair, my mother will tell everybody in Florida that Grace Kelly is my barber.”

  She chuckled, “You’re on.”

  That’s when Caroline appeared in the kitchen, “Hi. What’s for lunch?”

  Right away her mother said, “Scrapple, dear.”

  Caroline made a face. “What?”

  Her mom and I just laughed.

  When lunch was over we went into the winter garden where the tree was waiting. We hung Grace’s cookies and some striped candy canes and my Christmas-wrapped tuna cans.

  As the afternoon wore on, and as we only barely managed to keep Caroline’s dogs from eating the decorations, all sorts of people stopped by. There was a constant stream of friends, some carrying presents to put under the tree, almost everyone bringing more food to hang on its branches. No one else brought ribbon-wrapped ­macaroni.