Kwan Kevin - Sex and Vanity

“Monsieur le Baron, you insisted that your group had to be picked up at eleven fifteen sharp and back in Capri by three p.m. The Goldfish was the quickest way to get you all here. The yacht would have taken an hour each way,” Stephane patiently explained, clearly accustomed to his persnickety guest.

“Brilliant move, Mordecai,” Olivia remarked.

Ignoring her, Mordecai silently cursed himself for insisting on the time restriction. They missed their opportunity on the yacht, and now they would miss seeing the main salon, where there was a fabulous framed photograph of him posing with Geraldine Murphy and Princess Diana that he was dying for the group to stumble upon.

“Now, I have to go into town, but Allegra is ready to give your party the tour,” Stephane offered.

“That won’t be necessary—I can lead the tour. After all, I know this place like the back of my hand,” Mordecai declared, feeling a bit more himself again. He led the group to the staircase carved out of the rocky side of the cliff, and they began the leisurely climb up. The property consisted of six pristine white villas situated on a series of spectacular terraces that cascaded down to the sea, and each terrace was a distinct wonderland devoted to the indulgent whims of its privileged owners.

On the first terrace, they encountered a manicured lawn where a row of four-poster Balinese beds faced the sea, with white linen canopies artfully draped above each bed.

“This is where Geraldine gets her shiatsu massage every afternoon,” Mordecai noted. “The lower level of this villa is a state-of-the-art spa where the Murphys maintain a battalion of therapists.”

“Their personal Aman resort!” Charlotte commented.

Paloma Ortiz shook her head in dismay. “I look at those sun beds and all I can think of is melanoma.”

Arriving at the next terrace above, the group passed a magnificent koi pond that meandered along the curves of the cliff. Water lilies floated on the surface, while hundreds of exotic carp undulated hypnotically in the waters below.

“These are Tom’s prized koi. He has a full-time marine biologist who makes sure that these koi are fat and healthy. See the white-and-orange one over there with the head that looks like a deformed tangerine? A representative for the imperial family of Japan offered the Murphys $1.5 million for that fish,” Mordecai proudly announced.

“I sure hope it doesn’t get picked off by a seagull,” Olivia commented.

The Sultanah peered down at the fish, looking unimpressed. “My grandfather loved koi and kept them in gigantic urns back at the old palace, but I prefer golden arowanas.”

Undeterred by the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm for the decorative koi, Mordecai stood on the steps in front of a pair of massive carved bronze doors, cleared his throat, and raised his voice: “Your Majesty, ladies, and gentlemen, we are about to enter one of the greatest houses on the Mediterranean coast still remaining in private hands. In fact, it can be argued that along with La Leopolda in Villefranche-sur-Mer, once the residence of my dear friend Lily Safra, and the Château de l’Horizon in Vallarius, once owned by Prince Aly Khan, who was a dear friend of my father’s, Villa Lachowski is arguably the finest historic waterfront villa in the world. The original structure was built in 1928 by a local family, and it was far more modest—a beach bungalow, really. But when the legendary director Francesco Lachowski acquired it in 1957, he greatly expanded the property. With his discerning eye and access to some of the finest artisans working on his film productions, he was able to create his private Xanadu here.”

“Didn’t Graham Greene stay here?” Auden asked.

“Yes, the villa is indeed famous because some of the most legendary people visited—Greene, Callas, Nureyev, von Karajan, they were all guests here.”

Olivia murmured into Charlotte’s ear, “I wish we had some tequila. We could take a shot every time Mordecai says the word ‘legendary.’”

“I’d be drunk already,” Charlotte replied.

Entering the grand foyer, Mordecai continued. “Now, as we proceed through this imposing threshold into the drawing room, I want you to note the peculiar architectural homages to Sir John Soane that are evident throughout …”

Lucie admired her surroundings but did not have much interest in the “peculiar architectural homages to Sir John Soane.” She wished that Mordecai would allow them to enjoy the place without his commentary, as her eyes wandered from the de Chirico painting commanding the mantelpiece to the grid of Agnes Martin drawings along a wall and the enormous Cy Twombly canvas casually propped up on a long wooden bench.

“The art’s not too shabby, is it?” Auden commented.

“Not too shabby at all!” Lucie said, still astonished that she was standing just inches away from a Twombly.

“Didn’t you promise to show me some of your artwork?” Auden asked.

“Oh, sure. When we get back to the hotel this afternoon, I can show you some pictures on my iPad.”

“It’s a date!” Auden said.

As they proceeded from the drawing room into the library, Mordecai began methodically pointing out all the most expensive first editions and rare manuscripts in the Murphys’ collection. Lucie’s mind drifted for a moment until she noticed Paloma, the sister with the pixie-cut hair and more dramatically plucked eyebrows, mouthing something to her.

“Pardon me?” Lucie said.

“I said you have a neck like a swan.” Paloma smiled.

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s long like Audrey Hepburn’s. So beautiful!”

“Er … thank you,” Lucie said, as always feeling a bit awkward whenever someone paid her a compliment.

“You must get it from your mother?”

“Hmm, I guess. I’ve never thought about it, but yes, my mother does have quite a long neck.”

“Where is she from?” Paloma continued to probe.

“Seattle.”

“I meant is she Chinese, Japanese, Korean?”

“Oh, sorry. Yes, she’s of Chinese ancestry, but she’s third-generation Asian American. Her grandfather was one of the very first Chinese students to graduate from Yale with a medical degree,” Lucie added, not wishing these ladies to think her mother was fresh off the boat.

“How interesting,” Paloma said, clearly not as curious about Lucie’s family history as she was with her 23andMe results.

Mercedes jumped into the conversation. “And your father, what is his ancestry?”

“English, Scottish, and Swedish,” Lucie replied as patiently as she could. Why was it that only other Asians interrogated her about her background?

“You must thank your mother for your beautiful features, then. I thank mine every morning when I look in the mirror. It’s because of my Chinese blood that I haven’t needed a face-lift yet!”fn1 Mercedes giggled.

“You’re part Chinese?” Lucie asked.

“Yes, of course. My sister and I are torna atrás —we have Chinese, Spanish, and Filipino blood. You know, most Filipinos have mixed blood. We are all mestizos, like you.”

“I had no idea.”

“Now, tell me, dear, how long have you been modeling?”

Lucie laughed out loud at the preposterousness of the idea. “Me? I’ve never modeled.”

Mercedes gave Paloma a look before turning back to Lucie. “Really? All this time we thought you were that girl in the new Chanel perfume ads.”

“I swear it isn’t me.”

“It sure looks like you! Now, why don’t you model? Our cousin Kris owns the top talent agency in Manila, and she would recruit you in a heartbeat!”

“We should also recruit that one coming down the stairs,” Paloma said, gesturing.

Lucie turned around and saw George Zao bounding down the marble steps, followed by his mother. It was the first time she had seen him since Casa Malaparte. Before she could help herself, she found herself smiling at him and then almost immediately wanted to kick herself. Why did she grin at him like that? She felt like a total idiot.