Read The City of Falling Angels Online
Authors: John Berendt
Tags: #History, #Social History, #Europe, #Italy
The City of Falling Angels (45 page)
“This is what it’s all about,” said Guthrie. “We give parties so we can raise money to restore buildings like this one.”
“I think everybody would agree about that,” I said.
“Not at all,” said Guthrie. “The dissidents have it the other way around. They think we’re in the restoration business in order to give parties and mingle with royals.”
When I quoted Bob Guthrie’s words to Larry Lovett later in the day, his reply was emphatic. “That’s absolute nonsense.”
On the morning of the September board meeting in Venice the week after the gala, both sides arrived at the Monaco Hotel armed with proxies. The Lovett forces were furious from the very start, because Guthrie had refused their request to reschedule the meeting for the afternoon so that three board members who were in New York could vote by telephone. As things stood, it would be 4:00 A.M. in New York when the vote was taken.
Ten positions on the board were to be filled, and the nominees would be considered one by one. As soon as voting began, the Lovett faction cried foul again. Guthrie had voted a proxy for a man who had resigned from the board months before. When the shouting died down, Guthrie explained that he had persuaded the man to withdraw his resignation, sign a proxy, and allow Guthrie to accept his resignation at the appropriate time. The appropriate time had not yet come. Lovett appealed to Jack Wasserman, who knew the bylaws better than anyone else, because he had helped draft new ones. Wasserman ruled the proxy valid.
The cry went up again when Guthrie produced signed proxies for two people who had just been voted onto the board as new members only minutes before. Guthrie argued that although the two had signed their proxies when they were not board members, the proxies were not used until they were. Wasserman ruled these proxies legal, too.
Lovett’s proxies were not wholly above reproach either. One was signed by Countess Anna Maria Cicogna, the daughter of Giuseppe Volpi, Mussolini’s finance minister, and half sister of Giovanni Volpi. She was over ninety, and her mental faculties were known to be failing. Nevertheless, this was the third time in two years that the old woman’s proxy had been obtained for a Save Venice vote. The first time, hers was one of the surprise proxies Barbara Berlingieri had gathered on Lovett’s behalf a year and a half earlier. When asked about it afterward, Countess Cicogna could not recall having signed it and doubted the signature was hers. For the next board meeting, not to be outdone, the Guthries got to her first. They tracked her down in the hospital where she was being treated for the flu. But word of it reached Lovett partisans, who rushed to the countess and found her to be just as mystified by this proxy as she had been about the one she had signed for them. So they talked her into writing a letter to Bea Guthrie, asking to see a copy of what she had signed. “As you know I have very little memory left,” Countess Cicogna wrote. “I cannot remember exactly what document I signed at the hospital or to whom I gave my affidavit.” Another year had passed since that letter, and now, despite Countess Cicogna’s rather plaintive admission of mental frailty, she had been persuaded to put her name on yet a third proxy. This time she had signed it for Lovett again, presumably without having any clearer notion what it was, or for whom she was signing it.
However, even with Countess Cicogna’s proxy, Lovett mustered only twelve votes. Guthrie had seventeen, including the proxy from the man on the verge of resigning, the two from the brand-new members, and the three from the abstainers who were asleep in New York and whose proxies, Wasserman ruled, could be cast for the management. Guthrie won reelection, and the vanquished took out their frustration on Wasserman. They protested that the voting had been rigged and that the whole affair had been a corrupt hostile takeover. Alexis Gregory hurled imprecations in Wasserman’s direction, including the words “sleazy” and “thug.”
“If you say that again, I’ll deck you,” Wasserman shot back.
Terry Stanfill, who was reelected to the board over Lovett’s objections, left the room in tears, saying she could never work with people who had spoken of her so harshly.
At this point, Alexis Gregory leaped to his feet and declared, “We’re all leaving!” He then tendered resignations for himself and eight other directors, surprising virtually everyone in the room, including the directors whose resignations he had just volunteered and who appeared dazed that the endgame had been played so precipitously. A bit uncertainly, they rose to their feet and filed out of the room. They took a motor launch directly to Cip’s, the new quayside restaurant at the Cipriani Hotel, to collect their thoughts, plan strategy, and partake of a long, four-star lunch with a view of St. Mark’s across the water, shimmering in the midday sun.
All that remained now was for the press to get wind of the walkout and have its fun. The
Gazzettino
’s headline read, SAVE VENICE: THE ARISTOCRATS FLEE. Its story made it seem as if the quarrel had been a pitched battle between Venetians and Americans, although only four of the nine who quit had been Venetian (one was French, the rest American). “It was a three-hour meeting around the same table but with increasingly divergent positions,” said the
Gazzettino,
“the Americans taking one side, the Venetian nobles the other. The management of Save Venice was accused of being devoted more to parties than to the restoration of works of art. The departure of a small group of illustrious Venetians split the organization like an apple.”
Gazzettino
’s headline read, SAVE VENICE: THE ARISTOCRATS FLEE. Its story made it seem as if the quarrel had been a pitched battle between Venetians and Americans, although only four of the nine who quit had been Venetian (one was French, the rest American). “It was a three-hour meeting around the same table but with increasingly divergent positions,” said the
Gazzettino,
“the Americans taking one side, the Venetian nobles the other. The management of Save Venice was accused of being devoted more to parties than to the restoration of works of art. The departure of a small group of illustrious Venetians split the organization like an apple.”
According to the
Gazzettino,
the dissidents accused the management of “using the city as a means of acquiring a position of prestige and as a stage on which to show it off. Save Venice, they claimed, had become a club restricted to ‘jet set society.’”
Gazzettino,
the dissidents accused the management of “using the city as a means of acquiring a position of prestige and as a stage on which to show it off. Save Venice, they claimed, had become a club restricted to ‘jet set society.’”
“My God! Those are the very things I would say about
them!”
art historian Roger Rearick, one of the board members who stayed, told the
Gazzettino.
“Look, it’s always been those people, the ones who quit, who think only about parties and VIP dinners. The truth is they care little about restoration. They left in the hope that they’d destroy Save Venice, but they’ve only fooled themselves. Save Venice will go on without them.”
them!”
art historian Roger Rearick, one of the board members who stayed, told the
Gazzettino.
“Look, it’s always been those people, the ones who quit, who think only about parties and VIP dinners. The truth is they care little about restoration. They left in the hope that they’d destroy Save Venice, but they’ve only fooled themselves. Save Venice will go on without them.”
By the time the last of the resignations had been submitted, no Venetians remained on the board of Save Venice. In all, fifteen people had left. Larry Lovett was said to be starting his own rival charity, and the dissidents predicted that the doors of Venetian palaces would slam shut on the Guthries and Save Venice. As the
New York Times
put it, “access to titled Italians was owed to Lawrence Lovett, who was primarily responsible for opening the gates of Venice to Americans deemed socially worthy. But those gates could be closing.”
New York Times
put it, “access to titled Italians was owed to Lawrence Lovett, who was primarily responsible for opening the gates of Venice to Americans deemed socially worthy. But those gates could be closing.”
If that happened, Save Venice would find itself in a bizarre and highly improbable position—celebrated as the city’s most generous foreign benefactor while at the same time shunned as a loathsome pariah.
THE FIRST ARRIVALS AT LARRY LOVETT’S DINNER PARTY stepped out onto his terrace just after sunset, in that magical half hour when the soft, dimming light turns the sky and water the same mother-of-pearl pink and palaces along the Grand Canal seem more than ever to be afloat.
Hubert di Givenchy, his back to the Grand Canal, sat on a cushioned banquette, chatting with New Yorker Nan Kempner. The Rialto Bridge rose dramatically behind them, illuminated against the darkening sky. A waiter with a tray of drinks approached the Marchese Giuseppe Roi just as he was making a lighthearted remark that elicited one of Countess Marina Emo Capodalista’s distinctive, piping peals of laughter. “Guess what!” cried Dodie Rosekrans, clasping Countess Emo’s wrist. The wide-eyed San Francisco socialite and movie-theater heiress had just arrived from a week on the Dalmatian coast. “I’ve bought . . . a monastery!”
It was early September. A year had passed since the split in Save Venice. Lovett had launched his own charity after all and named it Venetian Heritage. He had gone about selecting a board of directors like a croupier scooping up blue chips, amassing a pile of aristocrats and royals in such quantity that the letterhead of Venetian Heritage read like a page out of
Debrett’s.
Twenty-one of the fifty names on it had titles: one duke, one marchese, one marchesa, one baroness, the usual counts and countesses, and no fewer than six Highnesses, both Royal and Serene. Save Venice, in contrast, was down to its last titled board member, a baroness. Lovett made gloating reference to that state of affairs in a letter addressed to Save Venice president Paul Wallace, noting that Bob Guthrie’s upcoming Save Venice winter event in New York “is under the patronage of a minor Savoia royalty, presumably as he is now lacking a major English one.”
Debrett’s.
Twenty-one of the fifty names on it had titles: one duke, one marchese, one marchesa, one baroness, the usual counts and countesses, and no fewer than six Highnesses, both Royal and Serene. Save Venice, in contrast, was down to its last titled board member, a baroness. Lovett made gloating reference to that state of affairs in a letter addressed to Save Venice president Paul Wallace, noting that Bob Guthrie’s upcoming Save Venice winter event in New York “is under the patronage of a minor Savoia royalty, presumably as he is now lacking a major English one.”
Earlier in the summer, Venetian Heritage had played host to its first four-day gala. Lovett had scheduled it in June to coincide with the opening of the Venice Biennale, when the cream of the international art world descended on Venice. The gala, fully subscribed at $4,000 a ticket, had been a triumph, considering the select crowd it had drawn, the ultraprivate doors in Venice that had been thrown open for it, and the money it had raised. Larry Lovett had every reason to be pleased. And he was. Nonetheless, the continued existence of Save Venice rankled him. And Save Venice, as he well knew, was far from dead.
At the time of the tumultuous split, the next Save Venice Regatta Week Gala had been less than a year away. It was going to become clear very soon whether private Venice would remain as accessible to Save Venice as it had been in the past. The Guthries were about to start reaching out and making calls when the telephone rang. Bea Guthrie picked up.
“It’s Volpi!” the voice of Count Giovanni Volpi boomed at the other end. He was calling from his villa on the Giudecca. “I hear those clowns are now saying the doors of Venice will slam in your face!”
“I’ve heard that, too,” said Bea Guthrie, “but I don’t really—”
“And the reason they give for walking out of Save Venice?” Volpi continued. “Because you were throwing too many parties? This, coming from Venetians who always bitch about their seating—those freeloaders who never pay a penny for anything?” Count Volpi’s famous contempt for his fellow Venetians burned through every syllable. “Venice is like a courtesan who takes the money and gives nothing in return. Stingy, greedy, and cheap! They’re nothing but scavengers! It wasn’t enough that they slandered you all summer, calling you crooks. That kind of viciousness is intolerable. It was a moral lynching! They’re lucky you haven’t seriously sued them for it! And, frankly, I think you should.”
“Well, Giovanni, it’s been a nightmare. But we—”
“Listen,” said Volpi. “I’m calling because you’ve asked me in the past if you could use Palazzo Volpi for the Save Venice ball, and I’ve always said no. Well, I’ve changed my mind. If you think it would help, it would be my pleasure to lend the palace to you next summer for your ball.”
Palazzo Volpi, a magnificent sixteenth-century, seventy-five-room palace on the Grand Canal, was a palace and a half, actually. It had a courtyard garden and grand halls and salons. The lingering presence of one of Italy’s most dynamic twentieth-century figures—Volpi’s father, Count Giuseppe Volpi, founder of the Venice Film Festival, creator of Mestre and Marghera, Mussolini’s finance minister, “the Last Doge of Venice”—could still be felt throughout: the gilt-and-marble ballroom Volpi had built to commemorate his military victories as the governor of Libya in the 1920s, the full-length oil portrait of Volpi in diplomatic attire, the cannon sitting in the middle of the
portego,
furniture from the Quirinal Palace in Rome, a signed photograph of King Umberto di Savoia. For years Palazzo Volpi had been the setting for the glamorous Volpi Ball, which was given every September by Giovanni’s mother. But the last Volpi Ball had been forty years ago, and since then the palace had remained largely unused—well maintained but not lived in.
portego,
furniture from the Quirinal Palace in Rome, a signed photograph of King Umberto di Savoia. For years Palazzo Volpi had been the setting for the glamorous Volpi Ball, which was given every September by Giovanni’s mother. But the last Volpi Ball had been forty years ago, and since then the palace had remained largely unused—well maintained but not lived in.
Palazzo Volpi had been off-limits for so long that even the Venetians were curious to see it again. Knowing this, the Guthries made a shrewd political gesture. With Volpi’s permission, they invited dozens of Venetians to come to the ball as their guests, including a number of people the cantankerous Volpi would never have invited on his own. Just this once, however, Volpi was delighted to let them come. It was his intention to demonstrate that no one could be frozen out of Venice just because certain “clowns” decreed it. If welcoming Venetians into his palace enabled him to rub their noses in that fact, so much the better.
On the evening of the ball, the windows of Palazzo Volpi were brightly lit for the first time in recent memory. An armada of motor launches pulled up at the water gate, and hundreds of guests in evening gown and black tie alighted, dozens of Venetians among them.
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