Charlotte gave her a once-over. “And let me guess, you’re from London?”

“You’re partly correct. I grew up in London, but I’m American and live in LA these days.”

Charlotte tried again. “Then I’m guessing you work in entertainment?”

“Guilty as charged. I make films.”

“Anything we might have seen?” Lucie asked, putting down the camera.

“Probably not. I directed a short that won an award at Venice many years ago, and I worked in Paris for a while for Claire Denis and Eugène Green. Everything I’m working on right now is in development. Speaking of which, I saw you both at the hotel earlier today at lunch. It was like a scene straight out of a Merchant Ivory film! What happened? Did Madame Zao succeed in convincing you to take her rooms?”

Charlotte paused for a moment before answering. “As a matter of fact, she did, and we are very grateful.”

“Lucky you! So, how is the view?”

“It’s okay,” Charlotte said.

“It’s pretty incredible,” Lucie said, talking over her.

“Well, I wish I had complained about my room in front of Madame Zao! Isn’t she a character? I love it! There aren’t enough characters these days, especially among the rich. Everybody with money has become so cookie-cutter—they dress the same, collect the same ten artists, stay at the same hotels around the world, and even eat at the same restaurants. They all want to be miserable and dissatisfied in the same place.”

“Do you really think that’s true?” Lucie asked.

“Why don’t we do a little experiment? What neighborhood do you live in?”

“The Upper East Side.”

“Oh, that’s too easy. On the Upper East Side, the only places the rich will eat at are Swifty’s, Orsay, Café Boulud, Elio’s, and Sette Mezzo. Lunch at Sant Ambroeus or Via Quadronno, and if you’re vegetarian you go to Candle 79. Going downtown means only going as far south as Doubles. Am I right or am I right?

Lucie gasped. “How on earth did you know?”

“I cheated. My father lives on Ninety-First between Lex and Third. His wife only ever wants to eat at Swifty’s.”

“How boring. This is why I live in Gramercy Park—the best food is all downtown. The real downtown!” Charlotte sniffed.fn1

“I wouldn’t disagree, but my point is there’s so little originality among the one percent crowd these days. I wish we still lived in the time when the heiress Millicent Rogers would marry an Austrian count and announce that, for her honeymoon, she was going to Africa to discover a new breed of monkey! Now, the man who built these gardens was quite the character. Krupp, in his time the richest man in Germany. Do you know how he spent his dosh?”

“How?” Charlotte asked.

“He liked to host lavish orgies, usually with thirty or forty young men. Local fishermen. He probably shagged them right here on this terrace.”

Charlotte’s jaw dropped as Lucie tried to stifle a giggle.

Olivia continued her story. “You know, he was married with two daughters when he started coming to Capri, but his wife back in Germany suddenly began receiving anonymous letters and compromising photos.”

“What happened?” Charlotte asked, finding herself strangely curious about this sordid tale.

“What always happens. The press found out, and it became a huge scandal in Germany, of course. So he committed suicide, and his wife ended up in the loony bin.”

“How shocking,” Charlotte said, shaking her head.

“Actually, it’s quite a tame story by Capri standards. This has always been an island of sybaritic pleasures, and people have been coming here since ancient times to indulge in whatever got their rocks off. Krupp wasn’t the first. Do you want to know what Emperor Tiberius used to do with virgins up at his palace?”

Lucie, who was getting uncomfortable with where the conversation seemed to be heading, spotted waiters entering the lower terrace with silver platters of cocktails and canapés. “Why don’t I get us some drinks?” she said, making a beeline for the steps. As she wandered through the lower garden, she suddenly passed by George Zao standing stock-still in front of a clump of trees, staring at something.

“Oh, hello,” she said, trying to be polite, although she wondered, Why is he always staring like that?

“Lenin,” he said, turning to her.

“Pardon me?”

“It’s a statue of Lenin.”

“Oh, wow. I guess it is, isn’t it?” Lucie said, noticing for the first time the white marble bas-relief depicting Lenin in profile that was partially hidden by foliage.

“Don’t you find it odd?”

“Odd?”

“That there would be a statue of him here.”

“There are lots of statues here.”

“Yes, but why one of the most famous communists, on an island devoted to conspicuous consumption?”

“Is that what you think of Capri?”

“Just look around you,” George said with a half smile, before walking off.

Lucie frowned, not knowing what to make of their encounter but feeling strangely annoyed. Was he somehow criticizing her? Was she being unobservant or obtuse, or, worse, being labeled a conspicuous consumer herself?

Lucie went up to the waiter standing beside a small circular fountain filled with lotus flowers and grabbed three flutes of champagne off his silver tray. As she walked carefully up the steps trying not to spill any of the bubbly, she came upon Rosemary Zao dressed in a shimmering gold caftan festooned with peacock feathers. She thought it was funny how different mother and son looked—he was way underdressed in a brown linen shirt and awful mustard-colored jeans that were too tight on him, looking like he had stumbled into the wrong party in the wrong decade, whereas his mom’s outfit was a party unto itself.

“Ah, Lucie! How pretty you look in blue! Do you like your room? Isn’t it nice?” Rosemary asked excitedly.

“Yes, it’s very nice. Thanks again, Mrs. Zao. It’s such a treat to be able to enjoy the view.”

“I’m so glad. I told you the suite was amazing, didn’t I? Now, let me ask you something. You are hapa,fn2 yes?”

“Um, yeah.” Lucie nodded, caught off guard. It wasn’t very often that she was asked that question so directly.

“Which side is the Chinese side?”

“My mother is Chinese.”

“How nice. My husband, Emerson, was hapa too—his grandfather was Australian. That makes George one-eighth Aussie, although he looks Chinese, don’t you think? But that’s why he’s so handsome. He’s like Bruce Lee. You know Bruce Lee’s mother was half German?”fn3

“I didn’t, actually,” Lucie replied politely, although her mind was reeling. Did Mrs. Zao actually just say that her son was handsome because he was one-eighth Aussie?

“I think you and George have a lot in common. You two should be friends.”

Lucie could feel her jaw tighten in annoyance. What was this woman talking about? She had nothing in common with her son.

“You could be a good influence on George. He’s too serious for his age. He worries too much.”

“What does he worry about?” Lucie asked, before regretting it instantly. Why did she ask a question when she could have just made a quick exit?