An Improbable Pairing Read online

  When Scott reminded her that he’d only just arrived, and it would be another few weeks before classes began, his mother professed surprise and brooded that perhaps he had left for Europe too soon. Scott quickly reminded her that Geneva was so completely foreign and new that any amount of familiarity he could achieve before the business of school was underway would be helpful. He regaled her with a few well-chosen stories and reminded his mother of tasks he’d need to accomplish, which smoothed her ruffled feathers. By the time mother and son had hung up, Mrs. Stoddard was congratulating herself on such excellent planning.

  THERE WAS ONE PIECE OF PLANNING SCOTT HADN’T SHARED with his mother. In those idle days, before moving to his new apartment and beginning his studies, Scott considered asking Fausto about the Countess de Rovere. The Beau Rivage’s concierge had so many connections throughout the city; if he didn’t already know of her, Fausto would likely have ways of finding out. But Scott was torn: yes, he wanted to know more about the countess, but he also dreaded what he might learn. In the end, he decided not to give in to his obsessive curiosity. Besides, he remembered, she wasn’t returning to Geneva until the end of October. And then what? If he called to tell her he had arranged for an apartment, what next? The first call had to count; he had to have a plausible, practical reason for an overture. If it didn’t exist, how could he follow with a second call? At this point, Scott wasn’t comfortable revealing his interest or such vulnerability. He would have to wait.

  nine

  THE MAIN BRANCH OF CREDIT SUISSE WAS NOT HARD TO find. Located in a granite and marble building at a prominent intersection in the center of Geneva’s financial district, the bank was an imposing structure. Scott admired the architecture before scaling the seven granite steps leading to the entrance. Inside was no less grand. Large skylights, supported by vaulted arches and stout pillars, soared some three floors above. Bank tellers, poised behind sturdy wire and iron dividers, sat to the right-hand side of the hall; on the left, administrative personnel occupied dark, sculptured wooden desks positioned outside executive offices. On both sides, customers conducted business, and their muffled whispers—more normally in keeping with a library than a business enterprise—made the space seem uncharacteristically quiet.

  Scott was at Credit Suisse on business. He questioned a passing employee, who directed him to the desk of Monsieur Richard Toth. Ensconced behind a burnished nameplate, Toth was brusquely speaking on the telephone; he motioned for Scott to take a seat in a square leather chair where Scott waited respectfully until Toth had finished his call. Being Swiss, Toth was not interested in pleasantries, and getting to the point without much idleness was a Swiss specialty. Scott expressed his desire to open an account whereby his father could direct monthly funds from the United States.

  “This will require completing several forms,” the banker replied tersely.

  Scott sighed; everything in Switzerland seemed to require a brace of forms. Over the next thirty minutes, Toth asked questions, and Scott provided answers or documents (and in some cases, both). Meticulously, Toth filled in the forms, somehow managing never to veer outside the lines of any box irrespective of required length. No response—whether about his age, address, student status, or any other personal information—caused even the slightest change of expression until this question: “What is the sum that you will be expecting each month?”

  “At the current exchange rate, around five thousand Swiss francs,” Scott answered.

  He couldn’t pinpoint exactly which came first, the lift of the eyebrows or clearing of the throat, but for the first time, the banker appeared fazed. He recovered nicely, however, moving to the final questions: “A local contact is required. Do you know someone in Geneva? Can you provide that person’s telephone number?”

  Scott knew two people in the city (three, if one counted Madame Pahlavi). Frowning slightly, he asked, “Under what circumstances might this contact be called?”

  “It is for an emergency only. And, sometimes, if there is an overdraft. But that hardly seems likely.”

  Scott reflected for a moment. The request had caught him unaware, and he vacillated between the only two personal connections he possessed in Geneva: Solange Pahlavi and the Countess de Rovere. Likely, neither woman would ever know he’d listed her as his local contact. With this unsteady reassurance, Scott’s mind was made up, and he replied, “The person I know best in Geneva—though I don’t know her all that well—is the Countess de Rovere.”

  Toth became very still and regarded Scott with a controlled expression for several heartbeats before rising to his feet. “One moment, please. I’ll be right back.”

  In a few minutes, the banker had returned, accompanied by a very distinguished, slightly older man who was wearing a much better suit. Scott rose as Toth said, “Monsieur Stoddard, I wanted to introduce you to Andre Amiguey, a vice president of the bank.”

  Scott mused. A vice president? Brought in to meet a twenty-two-year-old American student opening a new account? This would’ve been strange even in Charleston.

  “We’re very pleased to have you as a new client,” Amiguey said. “If there is anything—anything at all—I can do. Et voila, my card,” he said with a flourish.

  His new checkbook and the vice president’s business card in hand, Scott was escorted to the door with all the ceremony reserved for royalty. He guessed that the countess must also be an account holder.

  ten

  IN THOSE FREE DAYS BEFORE HIS UNIVERSITY STUDIES began, Scott explored life in Geneva. Most evenings, he would go out to dinner and invariably end up in one of the many bars catering to the city’s diverse group of foreigners: diplomats attached to the nearby United Nations headquarters, exchange students, the international press contingent, a substantial number of businessmen from across the globe seeking investment funds from the Saudis’ advisors and Swiss bankers. Among that group were the playboys and royals who crowded the cosmopolitan scene.

  At the end of his second week in Geneva, Scott entered the Bar Napoleon. That evening wasn’t his first visit to the small, cozy establishment; he had visited a few times previously. The main attraction was Nadine. Between mixing drinks and greeting regulars in one of five or six different languages (the most important being English), the middle-aged, sassy brunette bartender could be counted on to spare Scott a few words. He’d found it was nice to have someone to talk to once in a while.

  While at the bar, Scott observed a small group at a nearby table drinking, laughing, and flirting. The five—two men and three women—were enjoying the kind of evening Scott wished for himself. As he watched, one of the men acted with all the familiarity of a regular; he continually smiled and laughed and teased the girls, including Nadine. Scott nursed his drink, surreptitiously trying to listen in on their lively conversation, but the sultry music of Sylvie Vartan and Johnny Hallyday was strong competition. That, and their spirited repartee in rapid-fire slang outstripped Scott’s schoolbook French. Scott finished his drink and, with a gesture, asked Nadine for the check. When she couldn’t change his hundred-franc note, Nadine quickly turned to a regular patron, the man Scott had been watching, to see if he could break it. He could. And that’s how Scott met Jean.

  A better birddog could not be had. Their chance meeting began a friendship that introduced Scott into the good life outside Geneva’s student sphere. Jean’s father was a real Genevois. Handsome in his mother’s Gallic way, Jean had almost black eyes, dark shiny hair, an athletic build, and the most mischievous smile imaginable. By day, he worked in a Swiss import-export company. Most nights, Jean was partying into the wee hours.

  Jean was a friend when Scott really needed one, and they became inseparable. They met for lunch, and then dinner, and then beyond. Suddenly, Scott had access to the private clubs and discotheques frequented by Geneva’s beautiful people, including the famous Le Cinquante-huit (Club 58). Jean was extemporaneous and full of big ideas, and Scott became an accomplice to those plans. One Tuesday evening, he sug
gested they spend the weekend in Paris. “We’ll leave on Thursday, right after lunch,” Jean said. (Apparently, Jean’s weekends began early.)

  Though the two friends didn’t stay any place resembling the George V, Scott learned that top-rated hotels weren’t a requirement for enjoying Paris. A lot of fun could be had in the 5th arrondissement, the student quarter. Jean’s mother had an apartment in Paris, but he never stayed there, much preferring the chic bistros and nightlife in the city he knew so well.

  Regine’s was Jean’s favorite haunt. Scott met a few of Jean’s friends there, and one girl, Daphne, stood out. With her tousled, honeyed curls; plump lips; ample bust and great figure; and head-to-toe Parisian style, Scott couldn’t help but be captivated. At only twenty-three, she was the most coquette of creatures. Daphne teased—she touched Scott often, grazing his arm lightly but purposefully. She turned her head, tossed her curls, her every action the epitome of seduction. Whenever Jean nuzzled up to Daphne, she laughed and somehow still eluded his advances. God, she was murderous.

  Scott watched Daphne all night. In some ways, it was so achingly pleasant. Nothing about Daphne’s flirtation was premeditated. She didn’t need to think about what to do; her quintessential charm and the power she exerted over her male companions was completely simple and natural. How had she acquired this feminine mystique? Scott couldn’t tell whether Daphne was a current or former flame, but it was clear Jean was under her spell as much as he—perhaps more so. Understanding that Scott was Jean’s good friend and how taken the young man was with her, Daphne tempered her impossibly quick French. She asked a few easy, little questions. She treated him like a teddy bear, which, surprisingly, didn’t feel all that bad.

  Late that night, when the party had broken up, Daphne accompanied them to the hotel. She disappeared into Jean’s room. The next morning, Scott looked for her at breakfast, but she didn’t appear, and Jean didn’t offer any details.

  OVER THE DAYS AND NIGHTS OF THAT HEADY WEEKEND, JEAN taught Scott to love Paris. But Scott knew that, once the school term began, classroom responsibilities would crowd out the extended lunches, late dinners, and into-the-wee-hours discotheque dates that had strayed into his first weeks in Geneva. Graduate-level academics had rigorous reading and research demands, activities that were not entirely compatible with late nights and the resulting foggy mornings. Was there room enough in Scott’s life for Geneva’s pleasures and scholarly pursuits? Though it might take a while, he was confident he’d find the right balance between his newfound friends, social diversions, and schoolwork.

  eleven

  ONE AFTERNOON, SOLANGE CALLED. SHE HAD RETURNED from Florence, where she and her mother had been pampered houseguests, moving from one family friend’s villa to the next, for a month.

  “You must have had a fabulous trip,” Scott said enviously.

  “We go every year at the same time,” replied Solange, in a rather blasé tone. “My mother has more fun in Florence than I do, and a month is longer than I’d like to be there. She has her friends—the writers, musicians, and poets—the interesting people—and I’m left to hobnob with immature Italian nobili. Oh, they can be so boring and self-centered; all they care to do is play tombola, and drink until the wee hours of the morning. Do you know the game, tombola?”

  “No—sounds Italian.”

  Solange laughed lightly. “No, silly. It’s a very old Neapolitan game, like bingo. The young men love it because the wagering is fast and furious; one can lose or win vast amounts of lira in a flash. They were drinking so much and losing so much and screaming at the top of their voices—I thought I was at a horse race.” Scott heard an exasperated sigh. “One night is interesting, but every night? Tombola gets old.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “It isn’t me at all. Listen, I’m not calling only to say hello; I need an escort to a charity benefit. It’s for the Geneva Opera and is being given at a beautiful home on the lake, and it would be an opportunity for you to meet some real Genevois.”

  “That sounds amazing, but why me?”

  Scott could practically see the mischievous gleam in Solange’s beautiful almond eyes as she responded: “You’re handsome, no one knows you, and everyone will wonder where I found you.”

  AN OVERSIZED, OFFICIAL-LOOKING ENVELOPE APPEARED IN Scott’s apartment mailbox on the following Saturday. As he trudged up the three flights of steps, he turned the envelope over to see the name of the sender: Grand Théâtre de Genève. The invitation, no doubt. Opening the embossed envelope, a stiff card fell out. Scott glanced at its text—a list of names, the opera’s benefactors, many of which he recognized as ambassadors, consuls, and aristocrats, seemingly ranked by the largesse of their financial donations. Turning his attention to the invitation itself, he scanned the engraved page. There, centered in an elaborate script, were the heart-stopping words: “The Countess de Rovere and the Committee for the Geneva Opera Gala request the pleasure of your company. . . .” At the bottom of the page, the gala’s address: the countess’s home. He read it again to make sure he’d read correctly the first time.

  What an unexpected bit of serendipity! Scott’s heart was pounding—he would see the countess again—next week—at her home. There was no need to make that unsolicited call he’d been dreading. But one dread was quickly replaced by another: what if she didn’t remember him? Something new to worry about.

  THE NIGHT OF THE GALA, SCOTT TOOK A TAXI TO THE PAHLAVI residence. The three-story French Normandy building of limestone, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and balconies enclosed with black wrought iron, was everything he’d expected Solange’s home to be. The butler greeted him at the door, led him to the second floor grand salon, where he left Scott to wait for Solange. As part of the host committee, Madame Pahlavi had already left for the event.

  Left to his own devices, Scott admired the elegant and eclectic décor of the apartment. Colors and fabrics gave hints of the Middle East; urns of Persian design were placed here and there; all mingled with French antiques. Large leather divans and ottomans were grouped to allow for friendly conversation.

  Scott remembered Solange’s corduroys and turtleneck from the train and wondered what transformation would occur this evening. He didn’t have long to wait; the click, click of heels on the circular marble stairway signaled her arrival.

  Solange had accentuated her exotic olive skin and dark eyes with a scarlet silk dress. The modest length was offset by its plunging back. A necklace of cabochon rubies, their deep red enhanced by the white brilliance of diamonds, commanded an admiring appraisal. The sheer size and clarity of the stones in the pendant had the look of a family heirloom. Her lustrous dark hair was formally, though simply, coiffed to expose the cabochon ruby studs in each ear lobe. The transformation from bohemian traveler to socialite bombshell quite took Scott’s breath away.

  “You’re stunning this evening,” he said.

  Solange smiled as she gave a slow pirouette, basking in his admiring gaze. “You’re handsome yourself in that tux. Very svelte.”

  The evening was pleasant, and so Solange dismissed the driver. Her red, two-seater Mercedes roadster would be ever so much more fun, she said, and asked if Scott wanted to drive. He slipped behind the wheel with pleasure. She directed him along the lake. Their destination wasn’t far away—a half hour drive or less.

  “I was surprised when I realized the event is at Countess de Rovere’s home,” Scott said. “It’s such a coincidence. I met her on the ship coming over from the United States.”

  “You know Desirée?” Solange said.

  “Yes. We’ve been introduced and had dinner on board together, but we are not such friends that I could call her Desirée.”

  Solange cut a glance at Scott. “Everyone loves her.”

  “I’m not so sure she will remember me,” he said.

  “I’m sure she’ll remember you. She rarely forgets anything, particularly handsome men.”

  Scott blushed at the compliment. “
Yes,” he said depreciatingly, “That’s why she may not remember me.”

  They arrived at the front turnaround, and Scott reluctantly relinquished the roadster to the valet. As they approached the entrance, Scott wished it weren’t quite so dark. He would have liked to have been able to see more of the grounds and exterior of the house. What he could see, however, was immaculately clipped, manicured, and raked. The gardens spoke of constant care from a crew of groundskeepers; everything was in its place.

  The white two-story stucco and stone home with its exposed timbers was impressively large, and it gleamed in the moonlight. Stone drives, patios, and terraces surrounded the house. Across the lake in the distance, evening lights flickered, lending a magical feel to the night.

  As Scott, Solange, and the rest of the attendees entered the foyer, they were welcomed by ladies of the sponsor corps. That evening, these women from Geneva’s social elite passed furs and coats to waiting check attendants. Solange was immediately recognized, and her graceful introductions accorded Scott a tentative acceptance. By this time, Scott had grown accustomed to being a person of interest, and being reduced to “the young American student” didn’t bother him nearly as much as when he’d first arrived in Switzerland—though he still thought it hilarious.

  Once greeted, they wandered into the home’s main entertaining rooms. Scott was accustomed to his parents’ comfortable, well-appointed home, but this was a new level of splendor. Decorated in what looked like museum-worthy antiques, Scott admired the golden-hued honey color and implacably French, hand-rubbed, high polish that identifies furniture of the highest quality. Fresh flower arrangements—anthuriums, calla lilies, birds of paradise, and amaryllis—enhanced the soft greens, blues, golds, and lilacs of the silk upholstery and drapes. Murano glass sculptures and antique silver graced bookshelves and tables. Pausing at the fireplace, Scott stared; was there any doubt that the painting hanging there was an original Cézanne?