Confessions of a Venetian Queen-for-a-Day
Part II
Chiara comes to tell me to wait in my room until all the guests are assembled at the palazzo so that I can make a grand entrance. It’s the Italian gift for high drama at work. I sit down to wait. About twenty minutes later, Chiara brings an elderly man in red plaid pants to the room. He is a photographer, I don’t know for whom, and he shoots me sitting regally in a straight back chair, standing with a serious face, turned slightly as if I’m looking at something I don’t like. I’m learning to sit and walk and hold the gown up so that my toes peek out daintily when I walk. I’m beginning to like it.
The photographer leaves and I pace the regal room. Perhaps 15 minutes later, Chiara calls to say I should come down. I float through the hallway holding the dress up like a grand lady in her own palazzo; I hear the beaded train swishing behind me. I step into the elevator and whirl the train behind me in a swift move that feels queenly and assured. As the elevator descends, I feel less foolish.
It’s tricky getting into the water taxi. The dress is underfoot, the long beaded train is lagging behind and the boat is rocking. But the boatman helps me in while Chiara holds the train up and, finally, I sit down gratefully.
At the palazzo, we climb many flights of marble stairs covered in red carpet and lined with flickering votive candles. I walk into a high room glowing under massive Venetian chandlers and full of beautiful people. Stefano says, “Signori, l’autrice”—The author. Everyone applauds and the sommelier hands me a glass of champagne. People call out “Brava,” and “Bella.” Cameras flash and keep on flashing. I stand there, holding my champagne and my gown and I no longer feel foolish. No need. It is clearly only a dream.
The cameras do not stop flashing. I greet people and they flash. I walk and they flash. I shake men’s hands and kiss women’s cheeks and say “Buona Serra” and they flash. I smooth the skirt of my gown and they flash. It is a Paris Hilton moment, but I am not Paris Hilton. I am the author.
In the dining room, I have the place of honor between Stefano and a Prince of Venice. Truly. His family owns the island on which we had the luncheon earlier that day. The centerpieces on the many round tables are large platters of plump green grapes and perfect pomegranates the size of softballs, both fruits that figure prominently in the book. There are brief speeches.
I’ve been asked to say a few words—in Italian. I wrote something earlier in the day, Chaia translated, and I’ve been practicing. I stand and take the anachronistic microphone. After I thank Stefano and Longnesi, I tell them that although I am dressed like a queen I feel humble in the face of their graciousness and generosity, and I mean it. I tell them that I could not have written this book without a profound love for Italy or without an Italian heart. I mean that too. I raise my glass to all of them and to Venice. Later, Raffaela, my foreign rights agent, will tell me my words went down well and my accent wasn’t too bad.
After the speeches it’s time to eat. The best chef in Venice, Irina, has performed a miracle. She has taken a dinner scene from my book and recreated the recipes. Course by course we are served warm mozzarella under a mysterious crust, buttered gnocchi in a thin, crisp cheese cup, veal in Sauce Nepenthes, a sauce that did not exist anywhere but in my book until this night. There are wines for every course. After cream caramel we are served bones of the dead, delicate cookies tipped in chocolate, and as we eat them, Stefano reads from my book the passage in which the doge and his guest eat bones of the dead. He reads well and everyone applauds. The Prince turns to me and says, “Brava.”
The prince is charming (of course) and interesting—the perfect dinner companion. He’s been everywhere and has intelligent opinions on everything. His opinions happen to coincide with mine. We go from food to politics to human nature and we get it all figured out. Now, world leaders need only come and consult us and all will be resolved. I am grateful to have been placed next to this lovely man.
People are getting up from their tables, milling about, greeting friends. They are all beautiful. This night the world has suspended suffering and everything is beautiful. It is definitely a dream. I am suffocating in the dress and the room has become very warm. I ask Antonia to remove my tiara, as if that will make any difference. I need air and wander off through other tall rooms in the palazzo and the Longanesi photographer follows me. He has been hovering around my table all night. When he sees me head toward the bathroom he recedes.
The bathroom is the size of an average living room in an American house. There is a giant claw-footed tub, an ornate pedestal sink and embroidered linen towels that I wouldn’t dream of touching. Venetian glass everywhere. It’s no use trying to manipulate this dress by myself. I sigh and walk back out to an adjacent room where people are smoking. I swoon into a high back chair as if I belong there. At least this room is cool.
People are beginning to leave the dinning rooms. I go out to say “Gracie” and “Buona Notte.” It feels natural to be in this dress, in the place, at this time. In this setting, it all makes sense.
We go down the red-carpeted stairs and out to the water taxi. The American queen must hike up her billowing gown and stand on a wooden chair to get into the boat. It takes two strong men to help me and another woman to hold my coat and purse. The boatman lifts the front of my dress a few inches and says, “Scusi, Signora.” Evidently, the Renaissance women were more nimble than I. Or perhaps they simply did not live long enough to suffer the indignities of wearing a dress like this at my age.
At 1 a.m. I walk into the marvelous hotel, exhausted and grateful. It is a night to be grateful—for the magnificent reception, the palazzo, the dinner, the publisher, the prince, the gown, the applause, the cameras, and at that point, the opportunity to get out of that dress. Valentina comes to my room to help extricate me from the complicated hooks and laces behind me. I could take her in my arms and kiss her with gratitude as I take a deep breath. We bid each other buona notte and I fall into bed. The queen is dead; long live the author.