It was my first day on the job; La Bohème was a very classy and very expensive restaurant. Its popularity on weekends and reputation for fawning service made it a perfect place to apply for a busboy’s job while attending school. My tri-lingual (French, Italian, and English) background and polite demeanor had impressed the general manager during my two-hour interview. He hired me as a busboy—the wait staff were all career people with years of experience, all of whom had risen through the ranks; therefore, they were generous with the large tips they got. It was not unusual for a busboy to make over a hundred dollars on a slow Friday or Saturday night. Unfortunately, I was the new kid on the block, so I got the Saturday afternoon shift. While La Bohème may have been extremely popular for high-powered business lunches during the week, not a lot of folks were interested in footing the bill if it was on their own nickel, and not the company’s. Still, I had to start somewhere, and it gave me a chance to observe the other busboys for an hour before I actually got to do anything.
In retrospect, it was something only a new busboy would have done, and it was only because nobody had told me about her. Two women walked in, one lithe, with distinctly oriental features and long black hair, the other, a slightly older blonde. I noticed that she carried herself regally. It was evident that they weren’t just any two women by the horde of photographers who were stuck at the edges of that barrier known as the red carpet leading to the front door. No photographers ever set foot on that red carpet unless they were paying customers and unarmed. It was something even the most notorious paparazzi just did not do. Anyway, the photographers weren’t that unusual; La Bohème was where the rich and/or famous came for an undisturbed lunch or dinner. Once inside, celebrities didn’t get any different treatment than the anonymous—or so I thought. When the maitre’d saw them, he greeted them by name, which obviously meant that they were regulars, and immediately conducted them to a table. Since there was only one other occupied table, there was no reason for them to wait. However, he went into the kitchen immediately after seating them. Well, they were left alone; there was nobody else on the floor, and we had a reputation for service. I brought their bottled water, handed them each a rose (a restaurant tradition) and cheerfully promised I would return with menus. After dropping off the menus, I was startled to find frowns on the faces of the shift manager and maitre’d, who were waiting at the kitchen door. Actually, it wasn’t a frown; it was a look of shocked horror. One of the other busboys pulled me into the kitchen with near-panic as the other two brushed past me, headed for the table I’d just “opened,” as we would say at the restaurant. “Do you know what you just did? You just opened a table for the Contessa! Only the top three people in the restaurant are supposed to wait on them!” he urgently hissed. Well, hell, I didn’t know. Who was “the Contessa?”
He was kind enough to crack the door so I could hear snippets of the conversation coming from the table. “Comtesse, please accept my apologies,” the manager said in a failed attempt to sound French, “but he is a brand new busboy; you were the first table he would have been scheduled to attend. If you wish, we will terminate him immediately.” I couldn’t hear her answer, but I saw the maitre’d signal for me. My stomach dropped. Fired before I’d been on the job for an hour. I hurried, trying not to run and trying to keep my face from showing the worry that I felt. “Mr. Christian,” the manager imperiously said (why did he sound like Marlon Brando on Mutiny on the Bounty?), I want you to apologize to the Comtesse for your lapse in judgment.”
Nobody had told me about her, and I was just being eager to please and uphold the reputation of La Bohème. Why should I apologize? That was the first thing that had run through my rational mind. My next thought was, apologize, dummy, so you can keep your job! The conflict made me hesitate enough for everybody to notice. The Contessa was amused, but my superiors were not. My goose was cooked. “Excuse me, but I believe that since he is brand new, an apology for something he most likely did not know was an offense would be—hypocritical, don’t you think?” The blonde woman had spoken, in a quiet voice, smooth and sweet as honey, melodious in its feminine alto, yet it was quite clear that it was a voice that was not used to being disobeyed. She smiled sweetly at the manager, and continued, “His service was exemplary. He upheld the restaurant’s reputation, and I am certainly not that vindictive.” She paused, obviously thinking, then turned to me. “Would you care to join us for lunch instead of being our busboy, Mr. Christian?” Definitely not Marlon Brando.
My superiors looked as if they’d been shot. I looked at them, confused. Just how far did the restaurant’s reputation for service go? The manager sighed and said, “He would be delighted, Comtesse.” He pulled out a chair, indicating that I should sit. Whoever this woman was, it was clear that she was beyond celebrity. I didn’t think she owned the restaurant; I had interviewed with a man who said he was the owner.
“Feel free to order anything you want, this meal is on me,” she said with a smile. I was dying to ask her who she was and why she was getting such particular service, but a wary glance from the manager (who was acting as the head waiter), kept my mouth shut. The other woman was pulling a PDA and cell phone from her briefcase. The Countess looked at me with sea-green eyes and a smile. “So, Mr. Christian, what is it that led you to work in this wonderful restaurant?”
“I’m a college student, and I needed to earn more money so I can do my summer abroad in Italy. La Bohème needed one more busboy on weekends, so I figured that my language skills may give me an advantage, and the tips here are excellent.” I hesitated. “May I call you Contessa?” She inclined her head, an interested smile on her face. She asked me what I was going to do in Italy. “Work on my language skills and immerse myself in the culture, mostly. I’m interested in working overseas in the diplomatic corps when I graduate.”
“How delightful,” the Contessa said. It looked like she was going to say something else, but the oriental woman interrupted by handing her the cell phone. “Yes? Hello, Michael darling, yes, I’m in town for the San Riemo opening. Yes, of course I know it’s not until a week from next Tuesday, but what makes you think that I have no other business here in the United States?” She rolled those beautiful green eyes, listening to the conversation at the other end. I looked at her, perhaps less than tactfully, for the first time. There was nothing remarkable about her physically. She was attractive enough. Her breasts were not overly large, and she obviously made no effort to hide her midsection as her hips flared out from a decent-sized waist. She had to be in her mid-to-late thirties, about fifteen years older than I was. Her blonde hair was cut straight to the shoulders; it was thick, but the cut itself was unremarkable. Her eyes were the most outstanding feature if you’d have put me on the spot. Still, there was something else about her that left me erotically intrigued in spite of the situation. “Yes, Michael, I’m sure your protégé would like to meet me, but I’m going to be otherwise occupied. Kisses, ta!” She handed the phone back to the oriental woman with a terse, “Not until after lunch, please, Jennifer.” The two women placed their orders immediately after the phone went back into the briefcase, and I followed suit.
I don’t remember what we had, or the details of our lunch conversation. I was in the company of a woman who was clearly very rich, famous (except to me), and amazingly classy. She held court at the table, telling a story about Switzerland, one of her acquaintances and some famous acrobatic troupe. After all the staff had stopped laughing, the Contessa removed a pocket humidor and removed a slender cigar. Before anyone could react, I had my job-issue cigar tool out and offered to clip it. “Thank you, Mr. Christian,” she acknowledged while allowing me the honor of performing the service. Once I had lit it for her, her companion removed a gold cigarette case, and pulled out a long, very slim cigarette. I also lit that, and the woman said “Thank you,” which were the first words I’d heard her speak since she’d entered the restaurant.
The Contessa took a draw on her cigar, inhaling deeply, holding the smoke before she exhaled a thick gray-blue stream through her lips. She promptly began another story, regaling the assembled staff with more exotic exploits. I watched her handle the attention as if she had been born to it, smoking her cigar, inhaling each draw as if it was the Capri 120 her companion was languidly smoking. She looked entirely regal, alluring, dangerously so, yet so obviously untouchable. I wanted to be that cigar. My fascination with her grew with each thick stream of smoke she exhaled, sometimes through her nostrils, sometimes through her mouth, sometimes through both. When she finished the cigar and the stories, she stood, signaling that the luncheon was over. Her companion stood as well, her cigarette long since finished, and gathered the briefcase. Addressing the restaurant staff, she proclaimed, “Thank you all for yet another marvelous luncheon. Perhaps I will call again before I leave the country.” I expected no personal recognition, but she smiled at me and graciously said, “Thank you for the luncheon company, Mr. Christian. Good luck with your schooling.” Her aide also flashed me a brief smile. They left the restaurant headed for the throng of photographers outside and their limousine. I’d just had a thirty-five dollar lunch on her generosity, and it was still my first day on the job.
It was also my last day on the job, because I got fired at the end of the shift, about forty-five minutes later. The manager’s official reason was that I did not meet the restaurant’s standards for job performance, but the maitre’d privately told me that, although it was the manager’s fault for not telling me, and that I did everything right for most customers, the manager was not amused at being subservient to the new hire. Since there was nothing he could do about the woman who had put him in that position, he took it out on me. “Sorry, kid. We all liked you.” Unemployed, but with a major Renaissance paper due at the end of the week, I could not dwell on my loss. It would have been easier if I hadn’t had extremely erotic daydreams (and a couple of wet overnight dreams) about the mysterious Contessa. I managed to turn the paper in Friday afternoon, on time, and felt really good about it, until I realized that I wasn’t going to be making any money on Saturday. I was sulking by myself in my room after reading the want ads from the previous Sunday’s paper, when I should have been out partying with the rest of the campus. My phone rang, temporarily breaking my rapid descent into a truly foul mood. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Mr. Christian?” a female voice asked. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d heard it before. I confirmed that she had reached a Mr. Christian. “Is this the same Mr. Christian with whom I had lunch last Saturday at La Bohème?” Again, I confirmed it, simultaneously realizing who was on the phone. I was absolutely shocked that she would be calling me, and wondered why. “My name is Jennifer Liu, and I’m the Contessa di Saltieri’s personal assistant. The Contessa would like to know if you would be interested in attending a small black-tie reception she is holding for the San Riemo opening tomorrow evening at eight. I apologize for the short notice, but I wasn’t able to obtain your number until earlier today, and was unable to leave a message. Would you be able to attend?” I told her that I wasn’t working at the restaurant any more, and didn’t think I could afford to rent a tuxedo for the evening. I asked her to thank the Contessa for her consideration. “I see,” she replied, “Could you hold for a moment?” After about a minute of silence, she returned. “She would very much like it if you would attend, and has agreed to take care of your attire for the evening. Can you get to Davison Formals downtown tomorrow morning before noon?”
An offer like that doesn’t come every day. Besides, it was an opportunity to see a woman who had haunted my dreams ever since our first chance encounter. “I will certainly be there Ms. Liu, and please give the Contessa my sincerest thanks for her generosity.” She told me that I could tell her myself at the reception the following evening.
The next day was spent in a fit of activity and spending some more money that I really didn’t have. I went to the formal wear shop by city bus, and was waiting for them to open the doors at ten a.m.; in my eagerness, I forgot to check when they opened, so I got there almost an hour early. They were expecting me—I don’t know why I was surprised at that. The style had been pre-selected, so all they had to do was fit me. While I was downtown, I bought a new bottle of cologne, then waited for the right bus to get back to school with the tuxedo, accompanied by much curiosity and razzing. Then it was off to the campus barbershop for a touch-up and by the time I’d gotten everything else done I needed to do, it was almost six p.m. There went my careful plans to brush up on San Riemo, whoever he or she was. After I cleaned up, put my new cologne on, and dressed, I heard a lot as I left my room. The tuxedo got me a lot of attention. This wasn’t entirely a bad thing, since the gorgeous and unattainable Carolyn Sanderson gave me a nice, big, smile when we shared the elevator. However, the other comments I got as more people climbed on the elevator made me change my mind about taking a city bus to the party. I called a taxi (more money) from the front desk. It took fifteen minutes, during which I sincerely wished someone would talk to me instead of pointing and whispering among themselves.
I instructed the cab to take me to the Grand Hotel, which was where this “small” reception was. When we got to within one block, we could already see the traffic. A police officer stopped the cab. “Where you headed?” After hearing the answer, she looked at me, and then somewhat hesitantly waved us on. We made it to the hotel’s circle after another twenty minutes. When I stepped out of the taxi, a big burly officer in full dress uniform put his hand on my chest. “No sightseers or photographers allowed, son. Go back home, please.”
With as much respect as I could muster, I replied, “I was invited, sir.”
He looked at me. I understood his suspicion, because I probably was the only person with a tuxedo arriving in a shabby taxi—everything else was either a limo, or impressively expensive. He sighed. “Let me take you inside, then. You’ll never get past the security otherwise. Please don’t be trying to fool anybody. I’d hate to arrest you for a frat prank.” The officer accompanied me past the security guards, who were definitely not pleased to see me—the officer was right. He took me to a table manned by a youngish, somewhat-snooty looking man. He looked at me with a pained expression and asked me for my engraved invitation. Make that snotty.
“I have a verbal invitation from her personal assistant, Jennifer Liu,” I replied, and immediately felt the policeman tense.
The guy at the table looked extremely pained and muttered something to himself. He pulled out a notepad. “What’s your name and affiliation?” he asked, obviously aggrieved.
“Kevin Christian, but I don’t think I have an affiliation.” The man looked up sharply. He was about to say something to the cop, but happened to glance at the notepad first. His thin lips pressed together tightly, and he looked like he had a bad case of heartburn. He stumbled over the words, but managed to tell me that yes, I was expected. He opened a drawer, and handed me a handwritten envelope. “Thank you, sir,” I first addressed the police officer who actually smiled, then I turned and said to the dork at the desk, “And thank you so much.” You dickless prick. I looked at the envelope. “Mr. Christian, formerly of La Bohème.” I chuckled, and for a moment, lost my anxiety at being in the middle of a sea of elegance. I showed my invitation to the two huge men standing at the elevator. They pushed the up button without comment, the first time all night that had happened to me. In a few seconds, I was on my way up.
My calm state of mind vanished when the doors opened to the hallway of the hotel mezzanine, full of elegantly dressed men and women milling. Many people seemed to know each other. I, on the other hand, knew precisely two people here, and neither of them beyond a chance meeting. Although my attire was designed to allow me to fit in, I suddenly realized how out-of-place I really was. I’d never been good at meeting strangers, and I was preparing to spend an evening with about 500 of them. Not that anybody really noticed me or approached me. I got a drink, some food, and ate by myself, leaning against a wall in the hallway. After about a half-hour, a large crowd of people appeared at one end. By the commotion, I figured that the Contessa was somewhere in the middle. As they grew closer, I could see her hair, but I could feel a sense of electricity gathering in the crowd and watched the throng grow. As they passed, threatening to pull me along, I could see that she was indeed surrounded by layers of people, but she was somehow holding court in the middle of chaos. There was a young, dark-haired woman with a dark complexion on the Contessa’s arm, but she wasn’t the focus of all the attention. I wasn’t even tempted to try to attract the Contessa’s attention; it would have been a waste of time.
After another fifteen minutes, I debated on leaving. I felt out of place. I probably looked like it, too. I made another pass through the hors’d’oeuvres and got another drink from a different bar table. This one was next to a bank of doors that opened to the outside. I tried one, because there wasn’t any sign on it, and stepped out onto the hotel’s mezzanine balcony on a beautiful, half-moon lit, comfortably cool, fall evening. There were other people out here, too, but they were scattered in couples and threesomes, and I was far enough away from them that I didn’t sense anybody wondering about me. I ate while looking at the line of traffic below, attempting to approach the hotel, with enough space and solitude to regain some level of comfort. I don’t know how long I spent looking and musing on the mezzanine balcony while nursing my drink, but then I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Hello, Mr. Christian, I’m happy to see you here.” It was Jennifer. She leaned against the railing next to me, looking quite stunning and sexy as all hell in a simple black dress with a narrow white band around the neckline. I noticed her for the first time. “The Contessa will be happy as well. She regrets that you were fired from La Bohème on her account.”
“Well, things happen,” I replied, waving my hand dismissively. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.”
Jennifer lowered her small black handbag to her side, pulled out the same cigarette case I’d seen the previous week and removed a Capri 120. She handed me her lighter. I took the hint, and cupped my hand around the flame as she leaned forward slightly. “Thank you…” She paused. “I never got your first name.” I told her. “Thank you, Kevin.” She took a nice easy draw on the long white cylinder, accepting her lighter.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Ummm… I’m not really sure I belong here. I’m probably going to leave soon.”
“Oh no, Kevin, don’t do that! She wants to talk to you at some point tonight,” Jennifer said. “Not very many people get her attention like you did, and there are a lot of people who would love to be in your shoes.” I explained that I had nobody to talk to, and had no idea who San Riemo was, and that I was just plain—uncomfortable. She relaxed against the railing. “I can handle the first two, if you would like, which hopefully will take care of the third. I have the evening pretty much off, which is why I’m out here, and she’s in there. I can spend the time with you here,” Jennifer smiled at me, a genuine smile that reached her dark eyes, putting me at ease. “Carla San Riemo—the woman with the dark hair you’ve seen the Contessa with this evening—is an up-and-coming artist—a painter who captures the essence of the desert. She’s someone whose work I can actually relate to, as opposed to the majority of what ‘art’ is today. The Contessa is her patron, and her first solo show opens on Tuesday.”
Ah. That answered the question about the woman I’d seen earlier with the Contessa. “Ummm,” I hesitated. “Would it be impolite for me to ask—?”
“Who is the Contessa, and what’s it like being her personal assistant?” Jennifer’s eyes twinkled with a mischievous smile as she finished my question for me. She took a carefree drag, and put the cigarette into the sandy ash stand. She noted my open-mouthed stare. “Sorry, but everybody wants to know that, so I’m not reading your mind or anything like that.” I closed my mouth and smiled back sheepishly. “Well, the short story is that she’s not really royalty. It’s a nickname-turned-honorific.” I nodded. “She’s the heiress to two different Swiss fortunes, and has a third in the wings, believe it or not. She’s an only child due to family tragedy, which she would rather not talk about, because she always gets asked, and frankly, it’s painful. She doesn’t mind spending her money quite freely, in the most unexpected of places. However, she’s a very shrewd businesswoman, and several companies and personal fortunes have been lost underestimating her business acumen.” She paused. “I can’t tell you her real name. Only she can decide if that’s something you should know.”
I nodded in understanding. “It’s important to separate friends from acquaintances.” Jennifer smiled, saying that I’d gotten it exactly right. “I have so many other questions about the Contessa, and would love to ask you, since you’d probably know the answers, but it would be entirely rude of me.” She cocked her head. “I’m speaking with you, and right now, I know more about your employer than I do about you.” The honest grin that came to her face made me feel good. Jennifer removed the case, another cigarette, and handed me the lighter again. “Should I just keep it?” I joked.
“Only if you promise to be out here when I step outside for a smoke,” she shot back with a giggle. “Let’s see, me… Where do I start? Ok, here’s the extremely short version for me. How about I was born in Seattle, and I have a degree in art history. I guess you could say that I don’t have the talent, but I have the dedication.” She let me light her cigarette again. “Anyway, I found out that a B.A. in Art History didn’t get you a job in art. I met her six years ago while I was working as a swing shift desk clerk at a hotel. Of course, the manager pushed me aside to wait on such a celebrity. There was some confusion about her reservation, and she mentioned that she needed a new personal assistant. I was thinking, ‘Now that’s a job I’d like to have,’ because she was such a patron of the art world. The manager had a fit, because not only did I actually say it, I said it loud enough for her to hear.”
Jennifer stopped to take a long drag from her cigarette and resumed, “She seemed to be amused, not offended by my mistake, and asked me why I wanted the job. So, I told her that I had a degree in art history and that I was really organized, and that I would love to work for someone so involved with the arts. I thought I could do a good job and have lots of fun doing it. She asked the manager if she could borrow me for the night. Nobody ever refuses her anything, so the manager let me go with her—with pay, by her explicit request. At six a.m. the next morning after having worked with her non-stop through the night on her schedules and contacts for the next two weeks, she said, ‘I think you’ll do.’ Her job offer was—breathtaking, to say the least, and I quit the hotel on the spot, packed my stuff, and joined her as her PA four days later. We’ve been inseparable since then except for Christmas every year. She gives me two weeks of vacation each year, but I usually don’t take the second one. I mean, I get to run around the French Riviera and Monte Carlo for at least two weeks every year, and Sundance for a week. I can ski in the Alps at the drop of a hat. Who needs a plain old vacation?”
The expression on my face must have amused her because she laughed again. “The truth is that the details aren’t so glamorous. For every fun day I get, I’ve worked three fifteen-to-eighteen-hour days scheduling and planning and prioritizing contacts, requests for media interviews, and weeding out the numerous requests for money. Still, I don’t think there’s anything I could do that would pay me as well, or be as much fun. That’s about it for me, Kevin.” Jennifer suddenly got a startled look and patted her hip. She took a beeper out of a very well concealed pocket. “Duty calls,” she cheerily said as she produced a cell phone, and turned away. After a few seconds, she smiled at me, put her cigarette out, and went back inside. She was right about one thing: I didn’t feel so bad about being at the party now. I also figured I wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon, since I still had her lighter.
I hung out on the balcony for a while, feeling no temptation to go inside, except when it was time for another drink. The room had filled, and the atmosphere was very hoity-toity, not unlike the guy at the desk. I got sneered at while standing in line for my drink, and heard a few stage-whispered derisive remarks definitely aimed at making me feel unwelcome. I must have become invisible when the Contessa’s entourage entered the room, because suddenly, no one even noticed me enough to sneer. The woman seemed to be unable to go anywhere without an accompanying throng. Jennifer was at her side, taking notes. I could tell that the Contessa was speaking to her, but how Jennifer managed to hear what was being said in the middle of all that hubbub—that took talent. The Contessa was still completely at ease, in control of the situation, despite the people vying for her attention. She was absolutely gorgeous, though. The formal dress (custom designed and made, I was sure) enhanced her regal air. I gaped as the crowd passed. “We do not gawk in the art world,” a thin male voice sneered. The man it came from had a bushy mustache, and he wasn’t small by any means like the guy at the reception desk. “And who are you? Whoever you are, you certainly don’t belong here. Come with me to security, young man, your tactless gawk has given you away.” He put his hand on my shoulder. I protested, and pulled out my invitation. “Big deal, so you forged an invitation. If my protégé can’t get a legitimate one, I don’t see how you could.” He turned sweet. “Look, I know you just want to see the Contessa, kid, everybody does. I’ll make you a deal: I’ll let you off if you just leave quietly. No security, no cops.”
Jennifer appeared out of nowhere before I could say anything else. “Hello, Michael,” she said perfunctorily before turning to me. “Hey Kevin, can we go outside?” The man gaped stupidly at her.
“We do not gawk in the art world,” I snidely reminded him, and moved to let Jennifer take my arm. She took the hint and smiled at Michael. He sprinted off in search of the Contessa.
Jennifer looked at me. “I think I’m glad I found you when I did. What was that all about?”
“He was trying to get me thrown out. Said something about—“
“His protégé.” She leaned against the rail and quickly produced her cigarette. I lit it, and she exhaled, “Michael Doritskouris, sculpture artist par excéllence. He’s been trying to get the Contessa to sponsor him or his latest protégé since before I’ve been working for her. He’s a pain in the ass.” Jennifer took another easy drag. “Right about now, he’s trying to find out who you are from her. He’d like to find somebody he can make into a suitable protégé. Suitable meaning someone that the Contessa would sponsor. I’m glad I could help piss him off. But that’s not why I came to find you. I talked to the Contessa about you, and she did see you, but she’s helping Carla—the girl is shy and she really doesn’t like crowds. So the Contessa’s being the center of attention instead.” I nodded in understanding. “However, she still wants to talk to you. Would you be able to have brunch, say around eleven-thirty tomorrow? We’ll send a car for you if you give me your address. I should have sent one for you tonight, but things got a little crazy today. I apologize, Kevin.” Jennifer said. I told her she didn’t need to apologize, but that I would definitely accept the offer for brunch. “Great! You don’t need to dress up for tomorrow. She likes to be very casual the day after a party. If you bring the tux with you, I’ll make sure that it gets returned, too.” She pulled out the PDA. Noticing my bemused look, she replied, “Hey, it’s my constant companion,” with a smile. I gave her my address. “If you want to leave now, I’ll arrange for a car to take you back to the dorms. I’m afraid that I’m going to be a lot busier than I thought for the rest of the night, so I won’t be able to hang out with you.” I gave her back her lighter, and thanked her for everything, especially the company. “No problem, Kevin, see you tomorrow morning,” she smiled before turning away and disappearing into the crowd inside.
“Ohhh, I am sooo glad that’s over. I didn’t know that Carla was afraid of crowds,” the Contessa di Saltieri said as she relaxed into the contours of a large, soft chair. “I was hoping she’d take much of the spotlight tonight, Jennifer.” Her personal assistant stepped out of the bathroom and made a sympathetic noise. “I apologize for interrupting your evening off, dear.”
“That’s OK, Amanda. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it,” Jennifer replied good-naturedly, with just a hint of fatigue.
“Well,” the Contessa sighed, “what’s on tomorrow’s schedule?”
Jennifer walked over to the chair and consulted her PDA. “There’s an eleven-thirty brunch with that yummy Kevin Christian—” she began, standing next to her employer. The fatigue had vanished from her voice.
“You like him,” the Contessa said with a smile. She ran her hand along Jennifer’s dress, and then pulled the zipper to the slit down. Her hand immediately started stroking the skin of her personal assistant’s exposed leg.
“Yeah, well, he’s cute,” Jennifer shot back with a grin, before the Contessa’s touch sent a shiver through her, drawing a soft, dreamy sigh. “He reminds me—ohhhh—of an old boyfriend.”
“What else tomorrow?” the Contessa said with a hint of amusement, now stroking her personal assistant’s leg on purpose.
“Mmmmm,” Jennifer purred. “There’s a three o’clock interview with Mr. McLaren, the business reporter from the local paper. After—” Jennifer drew a loud breath. At some point during the conversation, she had parted her legs, allowing the Contessa access to her inner thigh. “Ummm… At eight, there’s the private function at Michael’s gallery… less than… a hundred.” She gasped as the Contessa’s hand moved further north.
“No panties tonight, dear?” Jennifer moaned no, and shook her head. “Then I think it’s time we retired for the evening.” the Contessa said with a smile, standing up. She leaned towards her personal assistant and gave her a short, wet kiss. Jennifer leaned against her employer as the Contessa put her arm around her waist, and they disappeared into the grand bedroom of the Presidential Suite.
I had a hard time sleeping that night. I was too excited by the evening’s developments. I had been invited to brunch with the Contessa (and a few dozen of her friends at some swank restaurant, I was sure.) I’d even get a ride to and from, probably in a limo like the one that dropped me off at my dorm. The evening was made better by the big, big smile and hello Carolyn Sanderson gave me when I walked into the dorm. She was talking to her date at the front door at the time. An hour later, he took the time to stop by my room and threaten me if I so much as looked at his girlfriend again. I shrugged and told him “OK,” even though Carolyn went through boyfriends on a bi-weekly basis, and I was not even on the list of possible suitors. Not even that could ruin my mood. I finally got to sleep at two or so, a fitful, erotic one, filled with dreams of the Contessa.
The limo driver called at ten to tell me that he would pick me up around eleven. As I climbed in, I saw that it was one of the Grand Hotel’s limousines. Thankfully, only the security guard was around to see me leave this time. That probably meant that we were having brunch at the Grand Tower, the rotating restaurant on top of the hotel with the dazzling view of the city and surrounding countryside. I knew that under normal circumstances, brunch wasn’t cheap or casual there, but I figured that she’d probably just rented out the place for the event. When I arrived, the driver let me out and took the tuxedo, saying that he would take care of it, while the doorman immediately led me into the hotel. “Please follow me, Mr. Christian.” He walked purposefully across the lobby to the elevator and stepped in, with me right behind. When we were both on the elevator, he pulled out his key, and turned it, closing the doors. Although I was flattered by the attention, I couldn’t understand why the hotel would hold an elevator just for me, Contessa or no. He then took his access card, and placed it in the slot that allowed for access to restricted floors. That was when I had my first inkling that things were not going the way I thought they would. He punched the button for the 22nd floor, which was two floors below the restaurant level.
“Excuse me,” I asked, excited and scared to death at the same time, “but where is the Contessa’s brunch being held?”
“In the Presidential Suite,” the doorman replied. He smiled at me. “You don’t know, do you?” Before I could ask anything else, the car stopped and the doors opened. Two large men immediately blocked the way out. I had to show my identification, and submit to a security check with a very sensitive metal detector before I was allowed to leave the elevator with the doorman. He forestalled any questions by putting his finger to his lips. Puzzled, I could only follow. He rang the doorbell and waited, still smiling.
“Hi, Kevin!” Jennifer said as she opened the door, a smile on her face, a piece of toast in her other hand, and a bit of orange marmalade on the corner of her mouth. “Come on in, the food just got here.” My jaw dropped as the Contessa, wearing a pair of loose fitting jeans and an untucked, well-worn, short-sleeved white dress shirt, stood next to a buffet table with a mini brunch. She smiled at me. “Uh, Kevin… Remember? ‘We do not gawk in the art world’ and all that jazz?” Jennifer softly sang, and I walked in far enough for her to close the suite door behind us, unsure of what protocol or manners required in this situation.
“Good morning, Mr. Christian, I’m so very happy you could join us,” she said, in the voice that had haunted my dreams (and left me very erect.) “Would you like some breads, or something light to begin with? You can order an omelet, or a Belgian waffle, but it will take a few minutes for it to arrive.”
“Thank you—” I stammered, unsure of how to address her, or if I should bow or what.
“Contessa,” she supplied, clearly amused. “I do not merit a bow since we’re not at court and this little gathering is definitely informal. A traditional European greeting might set you at ease.” She came over, gave me a chaste hug, and kissed me on both cheeks. I almost came on the spot. Her scent was fascinating, a mixture of cigar smoke and wildflowers. Jennifer was giggling softly, and gave me a little push towards the food.
“Eat,” she ordered, “so I don’t feel guilty about being the only one in the room stuffing her face.” I finally was able to move, but still was recovering from the shock of having brunch with the Contessa in her suite. Just me, her, and Jennifer. My heart was slowly returning to its normal pace. Jennifer pointed to the left side of the buffet table with her elbow, since she had a plate full of fruit. “Start there, and we’ll eat at the dining room table. Waffle or omelet?”
“Waffle, please.” The smell of food wafting from the table in front of me had awakened my appetite. “Butter and syrup, if it’s not too much trouble.” Both women laughed and told me that the hotel would be thrilled to cater to my slightest whim as long as I was in this room. I could have gotten boysenberry syrup made from fresh boysenberries had I desired. Jennifer sent the order to the kitchen and said it would be 5 minutes, explaining that they would reserve an elevator for the food, and rush it downstairs from the brunch upstairs.
I must have looked a little lost; the Contessa patted my shoulder. “Please accept this as an apology for the loss of your job. If you’re inclined to be vindictive, I’ll be happy to get the manager who dismissed you to apologize before you tell him that he’s fired.” She smiled again, but something told me that she was not making a joke.
“No, he’s probably got a family to support,” I sincerely replied. “I couldn’t sleep knowing that I’d stopped somebody from making a living out of revenge.” That was true enough. I’d had a difficult time when I was in high school firing a kid at McDonald’s who didn’t want to work at all. “But thank you for the apology. I don’t get a chance to eat like this very often.” I put a sausage on my plate. “You’re going to have to forgive me, but I am so intimidated right now, that I’m probably being entirely too careful about my behavior.”
“Everybody acts like they’ve got a steel priss rod up their ass when they’re alone with us, Kevin,” Jennifer chimed in from the table. “We’re used to it.” The doorbell rang again. I went to get it, without thinking. “Hey, that’s my job!!!” she laughed. Two waffles arrived, piping hot, with small bowls of warmed syrup. “Butter’s on the buffet table, Kevin.” I sat down between the two women and began to eat slowly. They seemed hungry, so there wasn’t much meal conversation, except for the occasional polite request of the person at the buffet table.
After the meal was finished, the Contessa lit a cigar, and relaxed into the big leather chair. Jennifer pulled an ottoman over and sat next to her. I hadn’t noticed her sweats and oversized U of Washington sweatshirt until then. Seemingly, from out of nowhere, the PDA made its appearance. The Contessa lit Jennifer’s Capri 120, then turned to me. “Kevin, would you like a cigar? It’s hand-rolled, specifically for me.” Jennifer nodded eagerly, prompting me, so I accepted. The Contessa clipped it, and then she lit my cigar. “That was for the courtesy at La Bohème,” she smiled. It was a very good cigar from the first draw. “Now on to business,” she began. “First, if I remember correctly, you were planning to visit Italy this summer, and tips from La Bohème were going to help you finance this trip. You also want to be a diplomat after you graduate from school.” I said yes, a little distantly as she seemed to exhale a thick cloud of cigar smoke forever. “Without the tips, would you be able to go this summer?”
“I wouldn’t be able to stay for the summer but I could probably make it two or three weeks, depending on the charter fares.” I’d done that for France the year before, and had been able to get a decent round trip fare. The drawback to waiting until the last minute was that fares may not go down, or they may sell out. She took another long draw on the cigar. I watched her throat work as she swallowed the smoke, then exhaled through her nose. “So,” I resumed, trying to get my mind to go in a direction other than how sexy the Contessa looked, “I don’t really know yet.”
She nodded and turned to Jennifer. “First class round-trip to Rome from here,” she casually said, spending ten thousand dollars as if she’d just spilled two drops of water. “All you have to do is plan your travel dates by the end of the month, Mr. Christian. Jennifer will be in touch.” I opened my mouth to say—something. I wasn’t going to protest—that would have been stupid, and I finally closed my mouth when nothing intelligent came to mind. “This is how you can thank me,” she continued, after waiting for me to say something. “I will be at my villa in Italy during July. You must come and stay for a week. I will take care of any formal clothing you need,” she smiled. “And if you can make it to Switzerland during the dates that Jennifer will give you sometime this spring, I guarantee that you will make it into the State Department. I am hosting an international reception, and many diplomats will be attending.”
I grabbed her hand and kissed it while on a knee, tears of joy and disbelief running down my face, thanking her incessantly. She sat up and asked Jennifer for her ledger. Jennifer went into another room while I babbled some more. “Thank you,” the Contessa said as Jennifer returned, smiling at me as if she knew what was happening. “Pay to the order of Kevin Christian, correct?”
I gasped yes as she wrote the check. She wrote something in the ledger before handing me the check. It was for three thousand dollars. “I… I… I don’t know how I can thank you enough, Contessa. You are far too kind,” I sniffled through more happy tears. She waved her hand dismissively.
“This should help you with your incidental expenses in Europe, including your trips to the villa and to Switzerland,” she said, with an even, businesslike tone. “I am happy to have been of service, Mr. Christian. I admire your career goal, and the fact that you are an American who can speak three languages.” She asked me a question in Italian, which I answered. “Excellent accent. Where did you learn to speak like that?”
“My best friend growing up was my next door neighbor, named Geno Donofretti. He was the first of his family to be born in the United States, and his family spoke Italian in the house most of the time, because Geno’s grandmother always wanted to know what was going on. We spent a lot of time in each other’s houses, and Geno’s mom started teaching me a little bit of Italian every day when I was four. By the time they moved away, when we were 16, I was pretty good at it. I started taking French in junior high school, since I was way past the Italian class. Language is something that seems to come easily to me. I placed into second year Italian in college, and third year French. My degree is going to be in Liberal Arts, with a specialization in Romance Languages.”
Jennifer giggled, “You’re just a true Renaissance man, aren’t you? And you like it, admit it!” We all laughed. I had gained enough ease to ask the Contessa about her art involvements in the city, and what her life was like, in general.
She again held court, talking about her love of the arts, and providing a small insight of what her life was like through a couple of stories. She also revealed something about my Art History teacher, whom she knew from her younger days. When I finished my cigar, the Contessa stood and stretched. “Mr. Christian, I have had a most wonderful late morning with our visit. As much as we would enjoy relaxing with you for the day, I’m afraid that the business reporter from the paper would not appreciate our current attire, and we have a reception at Michael’s gallery this evening.” She smiled in an impish way. “Although I’m sure he’d love to see you again after last night…” She paused, while Jennifer and I chuckled softly. “…You’ve already returned the tuxedo, and probably have morning classes at university.” That was a prelude to dismissal, kind and gentle.
“Thank you, Contessa,” I bowed. “I am truly honored by all of your attention and your kindness. I will see you this summer in Italy and Switzerland. That is the least I can do. However, you are correct. I have an eight a.m. French class to lead, and I’m not prepared in the least.” That much was true. Who had time to prepare for such mundane things when the Contessa looked your way with purpose? “If I may?” She extended her hand regally, allowing me to kiss it. I smiled, and Jennifer stood at the door as I turned to leave. I looked at her awkwardly, not knowing whether to kiss or shake her hand.
She solved the problem by giving me a hug and a peck on the cheek. “I’ll call the car for you,” she smiled. “It’ll be ready by the time you get downstairs.” She touched me on the shoulder. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again this summer, Kevin.” With that, I left the Contessa’s suite, and headed towards the guards sitting by the elevator at the end of the hall. It had been a surprisingly great day.
“He excites you, does he not?” asked the Contessa di Saltieri, somewhat rhetorically.
“Oh yeah”, Jennifer replied without hesitation. I thought I was going to cream my sweatpants when he lit the cigar. You know what cigars do to me, Amanda.”
“Yes, I do, very well, dear,” the Contessa returned with a mischievous smile of her own. “As much as I would like to light one up now and take advantage of that—” Jennifer made a noisy inhale and her eyes drooped. “—we have a business engagement in an hour,” she finished with a sigh.
Jennifer let her disappointment show, but resumed her official duties. “If it’s OK with you, I’ll have the hotel set up a hospitality suite somewhere else. That way, we can be fashionably late if necessary. But given the time—we’re definitely taking separate showers. A cold one for me.”
Amanda giggled while her personal assistant turned away, heading for the other bedroom, which had been unused since their arrival, other than a cosmetic mussing of the bed and some obvious signs of bathroom use. “Jennifer,” she called, waiting for the young woman to poke her head out the doorway, “this evening after the reception. I promise.”
“Make that an ice bath,” Jennifer grumbled, not bothering to hide the smile.