The following morning, after farm fresh eggs and home cured bacon with the Origos, Mac and Carla were back on the road to Nice. They traveled along the Tuscan Coast, hugging the Ligurian Sea, feasting their eyes on La Spezia, Monterosso al Mare, Rapallo, and finally Porto Fino, just outside of Genoa, one village more picturesque than the next. Mac was reminded of the Amalfi Coast, as the Apennine Mountains came crashing into the Ligurian Sea. The colorful houses, in their reds, blues, yellows and oranges, hung from the cliffs, just as on the Sorrentine Peninsula. Mac insisted that his beautiful young wife pose for photographs, with the surf crashing onto the rocks below, to which she agreed only if the pictures were not going to Washington.
Genoa, one of the most important ports on the Mediterranean, had gone by the nickname la Superba, “the proud one,” given its massive shipyards and steelworks, and its formidable financial center dating back to the Middle Ages. Genoese painters, sculptors, and writers were known the world over, as were its musicians. The people, with their daring and their quest for the unknown, bred explorers like Christopher Columbus and John Cabot, who were destined to discover new lands and new peoples. The city has no less than twenty-four major museums, along with churches and abbeys, containing the finest of Renaissance, Baroque and Rococo Art.
Mac and Carla explored the waterfront, as suggested by Antonio, visiting the lighthouse of Punta Vagno, the San Giulano Abbey, and the Lido of Albaro. They dined on the harbor, with the rest of the tourists, feasting on sea bass and swordfish, along with Trenette pasta with pesto sauce, and focaccia con il formaggio. The pesto sauce had been prepared with fresh Genoese basil, pine nuts, grated parmesan cheese, garlic, and olive oil, pounded together at the table in a stone bowl. The young couple moved on from their culinary delight, with a satisfied stomach, and a full heart.
Traveling along the Gulf of Genoa, Mac and Carla approached the border between Italy and France, at Ventimiglia, Italy. The road to Menton, France was blocked at the border, a metal gate coming down across the road, a green wooden guardhouse with white trim standing by its side. “Arresto!” said a red and white sign that you could not miss. Four disheveled looking Italian soldiers were milling about in varying degrees of attentiveness, with more inside the guardhouse, as Mac brought their vehicle to a complete stop.
Ambassador Phillips had informed Mac that Italy had claimed and administrated the contested territory between the two countries since the armistice between Italy and France on June 24, 1940, and they were now in charge of the border crossings, with an occasional push from the Germans. As Mac had driven up to the closed gate, one of the grizzly looking, unshaven officers approached his car, a rifle held across his chest, asking the couple for their papers.
“American? What are you doing here, spying?” laughed the big-bellied soldier, as he looked at Mac's passport. “Hey, look at this guy,” the swarthy guard yelled to his compatriots, “an American!”
“He is married to an Italian citizen,” yelled Carla, rather belligerently. “And he works for the Pope. We just got married, and we are headed to Nice for our honeymoon.”
“Get out of the car,” said the soldier sternly. “Both of you!”
“We will not,” said Mac. “You have no reason to hold us!”
“Oh, really, we will see about that. Do you have any cameras, spy boy?”
“No, but I do have a letter from Pope Pius XII, guaranteeing us safe passage as a member of the Vatican legal counsel's office! Now, stand aside, and let us pass.”
“Pope Pius,” the soldier starts laughing, as do his friends. “He now claims authority over the Italian Army?”
“Mac, show him the letter my brother gave you,” Carla whispered to her husband, seeing things were getting out of control very quickly.
“Here, does this mean anything to you?” said Mac snidely, handing the soldier the letter from Ciano. Maybe, you know my brother-in-law, Alberto DeFelice, Ciano's right hand?” asked Mac, smugly. “My wife here is his sister!”
The soldier carefully considered the letter Mac presented, the color draining from his face.
“I am so sorry, Signore Martini. I didn’t know. Signora!” he said, tipping his cap to Carla. “Please, excuse us. Proceed. Enjoy your honeymoon.”
Carla and Mac laughed as they passed through the now open gate, as she put her hand on his leg.
“See, you never know,” laughed Carla, “a little fascist grease never hurts.”
“It is a good thing your brother gave us that letter. Madonna, what trouble that could have been!”
“It is a good thing I made you show it. Men!”
Even as it was getting late in the day, Carla insisted that they ride through Monaco, nine miles from the border, as she wanted to see Le Grand Casino de Monte Carlo, and where the Grand Prix had been run until the year before. Mac drove by the Casino, promising to take Carla one night, as they proceeded to take in the view of the harbor from the Tete de Chien (Dog's Head) high rock promontory. With the sun setting, and Nice still eight miles away, the couple left Monaco, and drove the last stretch of the Riviera to their hotel, the Palais de la Mediterranee, on the Promenade des Anglais, along the waterfront.
Nice, “Nissa La Bella,” to the Nicard, sits on the French Riviera, at the foot of the Alps. The clear air and soft light had long been a draw to famous artists, including Marc Chagall and Henri Matisse, both of whom lived and worked in the city. Matisse had once said, “When I realized that every morning I would see this light, I couldn’t believe my luck.” This same light and air had brought the English 18th century aristocracy to spend their winters along the Cote d’Azur, seeking a health retreat. Thus, the city's main seaside promenade became known as the Promenade des Anglais. The Palais de la Mediterranee was built on the Promenade des Anglais in 1929 by American millionaire Frank Jay Gould, and his Salon Society wife, Florence Gould.
The nine-story hotel, with its Art Deco facades, held 187 rooms, 12 suites, a restaurant, and most importantly, for the Goulds, a casino where foreigners could lose their money while feasting their eyes on the beautiful turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. Florence Gould, whom Mac had met on the Dixie Clipper over from Port Washington, had made herself into an even more fabulously wealthy socialite, with a rumored dark side, as a Nazi collaborator. She felt it her duty to marry well and share her newfound wealth with her family. She not only snagged a rich one, Frank Jay Gould, but she turned his wealth into a far greater fortune by opening the Cote d’Azur to the rich and famous. With the coming of the war, she transferred her Salon life in Paris to the south of France, entertaining famous writers, movie stars, and the like. Rumor had it that she had been the paramour of both Charlie Chaplin and F. Scott Fitzgerald, despite being a close friend of Fitzgerald's wife, Zelda.
With the Germans came a change in the clientele at the Palais, but the party continued. The gaiety of the city had given way to a more sedate existence, but at least the Vichy government did nothing to stop the transplanted Americans from making their fortune. The word was that Florence was just as adept at entertaining the Germans as she had been with the Parisians. In fact, the innuendo at the time was that Florence was not averse to entertaining in her bedroom, when needed, which some say explained her ability to keep the Hotel and Casino open despite the war circling around them.
Mac and Carla found their accommodations ready for them when they arrived in the early evening. The concierge told them that Madame Gould had made sure to put them in a suite on the fourth floor, with a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean. Upon opening the door to their Art Deco rooms, fresh flowers were everywhere, the scent wafting throughout. A basket of fresh fruit and cheese was set upon the dining table, along with a chilled bottle of champagne. The rooms were gaily attired, with bright pastel fabrics and carpeting. Trinkets from the beach adorned the tables and the walls, giving the extravagant hotel rooms a beach cabin chic look.
The bellman opened the louvered shutters to the balcony in both the sitting room and the bedroom, seemingly bringing the Mediterranean right into the rooms with them. With the smell of the salt air, and the breeze from the Sea, the young couple was naturally drawn out to the balcony, and to the sight of gently breaking waves across the Promenade des Anglais.
“Mac, this is lovely! The flowers, the basket, so thoughtful!”
“It wasn’t me, to be honest. Here, the card says that they are from the Hotel. From Florence, I guess.”
“Who is this woman, this Florence? You know her from the plane ride back from America?”
“Yes, apparently, she is a big deal in Paris society. She was born in America but is a Parisian by circumstance.”
“Is she pretty?”
“She is beautiful, my dear, but no one compares to you.”
“Good answer,” laughed Carla.
“She is an older woman, very rich, very charming, all of which makes her more beautiful. I am sure you will get a chance to meet her.”
“I look forward to thanking her for such wonderful accommodations. Oh, Mac, it is our honeymoon! How lovely! I never thought this day would come, my sweet prince.”
Mac lit up a smoke from the pack of French cigarettes that had been graciously left on the coffee table, when he noticed a note, next to a platter of dried fruits.
“Apparently, you will not have to wait that long to meet Florence Gould. We have been invited to dine with the Goulds this evening, at eight o’clock.”
“That does not leave us much time! Madonna! What will I wear! My hair, it is a mess! I need a shower!”
“Maybe we should shower together; save time.”
“It will probably take us longer,” laughed Carla, as she began to quickly remove her travel clothing.
“We can do it fast; shower, I mean.”
The couple stripped naked, as they stepped into the palatial bathroom together, all marble and gold fixtures.
When they finished soaping each other, the couple dressed in elegant dinner attire, Mac in a white dinner jacket, Carla in the gown she had worn to the Christmas Ball. They found their way to the dining room at eight o’clock, where the Goulds were already seated, sipping champagne.
“There you are!” greeted Florence Gould, standing up, with her hands out, as the young couple traversed the room. “Welcome to the Palais! I hope you like your rooms.”
“They are lovely,” offered Carla. “It is so nice of you to make our honeymoon so special,” grabbing hold of the woman's outstretched hands.
“My pleasure, sweet child. You remind me of myself at your age. God help you, Mac, if your wife is anything like I was,” laughed Florence Gould. “This is my husband, Frank.”
Frank Gould was standing already, and he reached across the table to shake Mac's hand.
“And this lovely lady?” asked Mr. Gould, as he went to kiss her hand.
“This is my wife, Carla, Mr. Gould. I am Mac. It is nice to meet you.”
“Please, call me Frank. Whenever someone says Mr. Gould, I turn to see if my father is here.”
“Then Frank it must be,” laughed Mac.
“I hope you like champagne,” offered Frank, as he poured two tall, fluted glasses set on the fully dressed table. “Get it now, while you can. What the Germans do not destroy or guzzle, they send back to Germany. We are lucky Florence has her friends in the German military, or we would surely be dry by now.”
“I love champagne,” giggled Carla, as the bubbles tickled her nose.
“It is very good,” exclaimed Mac, after taking a sip himself.
“Only the best for the Palais,” said Florence. “We have our standards here, war or no war.”
“It is good you got here early enough to hear Florence sing,” said her husband. “She is quite extraordinary, a classically trained opera singer. She entertains the customers with an aria or two while they order their dinner. It is well received; they keep coming back for more.”
“How wonderful,” said Carla.
“Do you sing, dear?” asked Florence.
“Only in the shower, I am afraid, but my mother says that I am quite good. What else would she say, right?”
“Actually, my mother said the same thing to me about my shower singing; then she sent me for lessons, which I took for years. It got me into Paris society, however, which was her intent. We would get invited to all the soirees, as it was known that Florence would entertain.”
“I have always wanted to sing. Maybe, I can get Mac to send me for lessons.”
“How marvelous. I will give you a few pointers around the piano after dinner.”
“Oh, I couldn’t impose on you like that. I don’t even know what I would sing.”
“We have lots of music. I will play the piano, you will sing, and that's final.”
“Florence, you go get yourself ready to sing. I will order you the Coquille St. Jacques. She loves Coquille. You should try it, Carla. It is quite divine.”
“Then, I will.”
“I will try it as well,” said Mac. “You cannot get any closer to the sea, that's for sure.”
“You will adore it, I promise you both,” said Frank. “How about some Beef Wellington, as a main course? Surf and turf!”
“Sounds great,” said Mac, with Carla nodding her head in agreement.
The room lights began to dim, but for a spotlight trained on the parquet floor in front of a white baby grand piano. Polite applause erupted as Florence Gould took her place next to the piano, bathed in the spotlight, her diamonds glimmering, along with her ruby red lips. She acknowledged the applause of the audience with a smile and a bow, as she sat at the piano to play the prelude to Aida, along with the small orchestra behind her. Madame Gould entertained her guests with grace and enchantment, as they sought to refill their cocktails before dinner.
“Welcome to the Palais,” offered Florence to her adoring fans, as she finished her musical interlude. “Enjoy your meals, and don’t forget to leave your money at the Casino,” laughed the beautiful, ebullient woman, along with the rest of the crowd. “I hear the house has been on a losing streak. Get it while you can!”
Mac, Frank, and Carla rose to their feet along with the rest of the patrons to the restaurant, as Florence returned to the table, fanning herself elegantly, due to the hot lights of stardom.
“That was wonderful, Florence,” said Carla, “your voice is incredible.”
“Brava!” said Mac. “Wonderful performance!”
The Coquille St. Jacques was brought to the table in large mollusk shells, the sauce oozing over the top. The scallops were sweet and tender, the Gruyere cheese gloriously delightful. The Wellington was done to a turn, the surrounding pastry seemingly from the finest Parisian bakery. The pate between the meat and the pastry was scrumptious.
After the couples inhaled the chocolate soufflé, that no one had actually ordered, they retired to the salon with snifters of fine brandy, and cigars for the gentlemen.
“There it is, Carla,” said Florence, pointing to the piano standing proudly on the side of the room. “Come, let's leave the men to discuss their politics, while we play on the ivories.”
Carla hesitantly accompanied the society grand dame to the baby grand piano, watching her seat herself on the embroidered bench, motioning to Carla to join her.
“Here we go, Carla. How about ‘Stormy Weather’? Here, the music and the words.”
“I will give it a go,” said Carla, as the woman played.
“Don’t know why, there's no sun up in the sky, stormy weather,” sang Carla, meekly.
“Come, come, Carla, you can do better than that! Belt it out,” yelled Florence, over the piano. “Your voice is great; let everyone hear you! Can you hear back there?” Florence pointed to a man in the rear of the salon.
“Since my man and I ain’t together,” belted out Carla, now more confidently.
“That's it, let it rip, girl!”
“Keeps rainin’ all the time,” Carla continued, more forcefully, and more gutturally.
Carla finished the song, as a crowd began to form around her, including her husband and Frank Gould. After polite appreciative applause, Mac put his hand on his wife's shoulder.
“Mac, she has a beautiful voice,” said Florence excitedly. “Get this girl some training. She could be a star.”
“Thank you, Florence,” said Carla. “I sounded good?”
“Wonderful,” offered Frank Gould. “You most certainly have talent, young lady.”
Mac was beaming at his wife, even if he was a bit reticent of his wife's exposure. She had a beautiful voice, for sure, but he was not entirely comfortable with the idea of his wife becoming a grand dame of the ivories, like their hostess.
The two men went off to explore the casino together.
“So elegant,” exclaimed Mac. “Almost makes you happy to lose your money.”
“Exactly. Florence is a genius, really. She designed it all. No matter who is here, the French, the Germans, the Italians, the one thing they have in common is their penchant to leave their wallets on the felt tables, and they do it with a smile on their faces. Some win, but most lose. Those who win will come back, and they will lose too. Either way, the house wins,” laughed the multimillionaire.
“People never tire of losing their money?”
“Of course, those who can control themselves. And if they leave, new ones will come. Now, it is the Germans turn to lose their blood money. Who would have thought that you can make more money from gambling, than you can make from gold, manufacturing, or just about anything else? Florence, that's who! She is more like a business partner, than a wife. I am sure you have heard the rumors about her tawdriness. All true! But she is the earner in the family, that is for sure.”
When Carla and Florence joined their husbands in the casino, Mac and Frank were seated at the blackjack table, Mac up a bit, Frank not caring, as either way he will get the money. The Goulds excused themselves, but not before getting Mac and Carla to agree to join them again for dinner the following evening.
“I love her,” said Carla, as the older couple left the casino. “What a fun woman! So worldly! So talented! She's my hero!”
“I’m glad you like her, dear. Frank is a bit of a drip, but I understand he is quite sick. That explains a lot.”
“Well, I loved the way she got me to come out of my shell. I can’t believe I sang in front of a whole room of people. She said that is how she got her start in Salon in Paris twenty years ago, forcing herself to sing in a room full of the rich and famous.”
“You want to be a salon singer?” asked Mac, somewhat sarcastically. “You have a beautiful voice, but you will never have to sing for you supper with me around.”
“I know, I know. I just like the gaiety of it all. Florence does not have to sing for her supper, that's for sure. She just enjoys the entertaining. I think I do too. I would like to take lessons. Maybe even acting! What do you think?”
“Whatever makes you happy,” offered Mac, with a shrug.