Opening night would be a major—a molto, molto magnifico—event. An event to go down in the history of Sheboygan. It would be dazzling!
By the time Peter unlocked the door to his apartment, he couldn’t wait to start his list.
It was past midnight when he finished. He walked to the closet in his spare room to retrieve his pelzkeppe. As he reached for the big round box in which he stored it, he stubbed his toe on the gray metal box that held the archive of his father’s life. He stooped down and moved the box farther back inside the closet.
He settled his pelzkeppe on the wig stand and returned its box to the shelf in his closet.
THE DAY THEY WERE SORTING out the contents of the upstairs sitting room, the room that had once been Mr. Zender’s study, Mrs. Zender sat in a red Bibendum chair and supervised their clearing out the drawers of a giant executive desk. Mrs. Zender said, “I am in no great hurry to move into the Waldorf.”
Amedeo, who was sweating, said, “At least it’s air-conditioned.”
Mrs. Zender ignored him, and Mrs. Wilcox, forever worried that someone was offended, said, “I’m sure, Mrs. Zender, that you will be sorry to leave this house. It must hold a treasure of memories.”
Mrs. Zender rolled her eyes. “There were parties, Mrs. Wilcox. There were many, many parties.”
Mrs. Wilcox said, “I read about some of them parties in the Vindicator.”
Mrs. Zender said, “There were boating parties and tennis parties, and pool parties and lawn parties. I didn’t boat, and I didn’t play tennis, but I always dressed for the occasion. Dressing up has always been entertainment to me.”
Mrs. Wilcox said, “To me and my family, reading about all the goings-on in the paper, this here house was like the court of Versailles.”
Mrs. Zender protested, “Not Versailles.” She thought a minute and said, “Sissinghurst. The only things missing from an English country weekend were the horses and the dogs. Mr. Zender couldn’t ride, and Mother was allergic to dog dander. But there were plenty of dinner parties with white-glove service. And after-dinner drinks on the boat. There was one party when our crew took our guests down the river to Paloma. Everyone got off to be met by a fleet of cars that took them to a country barbeque place where Mr. Zender had arranged for take-out baskets of barbequed ribs and cornbread. Mr. Zender reigned over it all. The viceroy of Mandarin Road.”
“Yes, I remember reading about that party. The Vindicator had pictures in the Sunday section.”
“When we moved here after Daddy died, the house was already big enough for an embassy, but Mr. Zender insisted upon enlarging it. He added a dock and a boathouse at the end of the dock and a three-car garage with living quarters over it. The rooms over the garage were for ‘our couple,’ which was what Mr. Zender called the butler and cook.” Mrs. Zender looked at Amedeo and said, “That’s when we had people.” She sighed and said, “The butler was Bridges, and his wife was Mrs. Bridges. Before Mr. Zender hired them, we had had a housekeeper named Jessie Mae who cooked, and a laundress who came twice a week. Bridges demoted Jessie Mae from housekeeper to cleaning lady and hired a cook. Jessie Mae quit. She called Bridges ‘the Führer,’ because he would never give her a lift to the city bus stop, which was a mile and a quarter up Mandarin Road back then.”
“Still is,”William said.
Mrs. Zender paid no attention.
“Jessie Mae was a proud cook, but Mrs. Bridges told Mr. Zender said there was too much fried food on Jessie Mae’s menus and that the vegetables were overcooked. My mother, who was still alive at the time, agreed. Mother always had a problem with weight. My weight. But to me fried and overcooked are as Southern as marinara is Italian. I missed Jessie Mae’s collard greens, cooked, overcooked, with a strick o’ fat and a strick o’ lean, but the cook who Bridges hired made béchamel instead of gravy and said that collards are cow fodder.”
“There’s a lot of people who would say that,”William said.
Amedeo said, “William knows that I prefer artichokes.”
“Have you ever had collard greens—done right?”
“Never.”
“I’ll fix us some,” Mrs. Wilcox said.
“And I’ll open some champagne. Champagne and collard greens. Mr. Zender did not allow collard greens on our menu. He was a thin man.”
“I remember from his pictures in the Vindicator that he was,” Mrs. Wilcox said.
“Just before Jessie Mae quit, Mr. Zender called her into his study—this very room we’re sitting in now—to talk to her about her attitude. Jessie Mae listened to everything he had to say, and then she said, ‘Mr. Zender, you are one shallow man. If I gonna stick you with a toothpick, it gonna go right through you—front to back—and still have room to pop an olive on the end.’ Then she untied her apron and dropped it on this very chair and walked out.”
Mrs. Zender began to laugh, and William and Amedeo did too. Mrs. Wilcox smiled hesitantly before allowing herself to fully engage. Then Mrs. Zender added dreamily, “I missed Jessie Mae. I still do. But then, what could I have done?”
Mrs. Wilcox’s lists were growing in number and complexity. One list was for the furniture and objects that Mrs. Zender wanted to keep for the Waldorf and her “shelf of her past.” Those items were ticketed NFS—NOT FOR SALE—and tucked away in one of the guest bedrooms. A second list was for items that would be put up for general sale. She made a third list for special dealers who might be interested in large items like the paneling, the bathroom fixtures, or the cabinetry. The fourth list was for items that she wanted to recommend to Bert and Ray. They would be let in first, before she even advertised the sale.
The Bert and Ray list was the best. There were many fine family heirlooms, including some antebellum cabinet pieces, several superb sets of fireplace tools, an old mercury-backed mirror in a hand-carved frame, and a brass fender large enough to be the guardrail of the balcony in a small theater.
Preparing for the sale involved Mrs. Wilcox’s examining the undersides of chairs, the insides of drawers, the bottoms of bowls and cups and saucers, always looking for clues as to their ages and makers. She sometimes sent Mrs. Zender searching through papers to find any record of when these purchases were made. The search was almost always fruitless, but going through her papers prompted an endless recital of stories.
Mrs. Wilcox was an apt listener. She enjoyed hearing tales of a life frosted with glamour, and Mrs. Zender needed someone who would not interrupt with stories that could possibly compete with hers.
The names Bert and Ray came up time and again, and the closest Amedeo ever heard William argue with his mother was when he heard him say, “Ma, they got eyes in their heads. They can see what all we got.”
Mrs. Wilcox looked a little embarrassed and explained to Amedeo, “William don’t feel as in thrall to Bert and Ray as I do.”
William said, “Ma, you’re even. You are out of debt, Ma.”
“Well, William, we’re out of debt because of them and the career they led me to.”
“Right! And because of you they’ve made enough good buys to put them in a new income tax bracket. Ma, you don’t have to be beholden to them anymore.”
Mrs. Wilcox looked over her lists and did not reply.
William said, “Ma?”
“Yes, son?”
“Ma, did you hear what I just said?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Well?”
“Well, that piano is gonna be a problem. It’s so outta tune. Can’t hardly keep a piano in tune with all this here heat and humidity. I think I gotta call in a regular piano dealer.”
AFTER EXPLAINING HOW THE NAZIS HAD BEGUN THEIR CAMPAIGN against Modern art by commandeering and corrupting the word degenerate, Peter wrote brief biographies of each of the artists to be represented in the Sheboygan exhibition and why the Nazis thought each of them was degenerate.
Henri Matisse: Degenerate because he was a member of a group of artists called Les Fauves, which translated as the “Wild Beasts.?
?? Matisse dared to paint oranges and apples in bold, flat colors that sometimes did not even hint at their natural shades, and at other times he left whole sections of his canvas unpainted. (Hitler had a particular distaste for any work that he considered “unfinished.”) What would happen to German culture if it allowed itself to be contaminated by Wild Beasts?
Pierre-Auguste Renoir: Degenerate because he was an Impressionist. He painted the way he did because he had a disease of the visual cortex, as did all the Impressionists. What would happen to German culture if it allowed itself to be contaminated by the work of people who were diseased?
Pablo Picasso: Degenerate because he drew inspiration from the tribal art of Africa. And what would happen to German culture if it allowed itself to be contaminated by the primitive aesthetics of the black subhumans of the Dark continent?
Vincent van Gogh: Degenerate because he was a diagnosed epileptic. He was crazy enough to cut off his own ear and give it to a prostitute. He had committed suicide, hadn’t he? What would happen to German culture if it allowed itself to be contaminated by the work of crazy suicidal epileptics who cut off their own ears?
Marc Chagall: Degenerate because he was Jewish. The Jews—just by virtue of being Jews—by even a fraction of their heritage were the absolute worst contaminators of the Aryan race. What would happen to German culture if it allowed itself to be contaminated by Jews?
Georges Braque: Degenerate because he was a Cubist, a geometrician who painted in squares and triangles and scribbled dots and squiggles and wrote random letters and numbers on his canvases. His work did not deserve a frame. Braque was out of touch with reality. What would happen to German culture if it allowed itself to be contaminated by the work of men who lived in a fantasy world?
For the cover of the catalog, Peter chose to reproduce Picasso’s Harlequin at Rest, a significant masterpiece from the artist’s Blue period.
On the inside of the front cover, Peter selected a quotation by Goebbels that had appeared in the original 1937 catalog of Entartete “Kunst”:
. . . the frightening and horrifying forms of the Exhibition of Degenerate art . . . [have] nothing at all to do with the suppression of artistic freedom and modern progress. On the contrary, the botched works of art . . . and their creators are of yesterday and before yesterday. They are the senile representatives no longer to be taken seriously of a period we have intellectually and politically overcome.
On the inside of the back cover, he included another quotation—an epitaph:
Anybody who paints and sees a sky green and pastures blue ought to be sterilized.
—Adolf Hitler, 1937
PETER VANDERWAAL SLIPPED A NOTE into the invitation he sent to Amedeo and his mother. The note read, “This show is major. The opening night party will be molto, molto magnifico—so glamorous that even Jake has promised to wear a tux. I pray that he has bought one. A rented tux is so father-of-the-bride. How do you like the title? If you tell me it’s brilliant, I’ll know that you are captive to truth and integrity. This is an offer you can’t refuse.”The note was signed, “Godfather.”
As soon as the invitation came, Amedeo knew his mother wouldn’t go.
Even though Loretta Bevilaqua had known Peter for a longer time than Jake had—Loretta and Peter had actually grown up on the same street in the same neighborhood—Jake and Peter were better friends. As adults all three had gone their separate ways until they joined forces to save from demolition three tall towers that had been built in the backyard of the house at 19 Schuyler Place. It was while working on the campaign to save the towers that Jake and Loretta met and fell in love.
After the towers had been safely moved to higher ground, they continued to require care and maintenance, and Jake was appointed their chief curator, so several times a year he traveled to Epiphany to check on them and do necessary repairs.
When Amedeo was little, and Loretta and Jake still loved each other, they used to make the trips to Epiphany together. Peter had often arranged to visit his mother at the same time. Peter loved the towers as much as Jake did, and he would accompany Jake on his tour of inspection, and then they would all gather at Mrs. Vanderwaal’s house. Amedeo loved those visits with Peter and his mother.
After Jake and Loretta fell out of love and separated, Loretta stopped making the trips to Epiphany, but Amedeo continued to go along, and Peter continued meeting them there. Other than at camp and school, most of Amedeo’s time was spent in the company of adults. None of Loretta’s friends made a great effort to entertain him. Most often, he was relieved of having to say anything other than please and thank you, so those became his conversational necktie and jacket and allowed him to watch and learn the language of handshakes and air kisses. Loretta Bevilaqua said that learning to deal with boredom was the job of childhood and church, and only one of them was optional. Of all the adults that Amedeo spent time with, Peter and Jake were his favorites. They too allowed him to be a quiet observer, but he was relaxed and never bored when he was with them.
Jake was an artist, and most of his friends were artists. After the divorce, when Jake moved into the loft that he had been using as a studio, Amedeo split his weekends between his mother’s apartment and his father’s studio. There were no neckties and jackets in his father’s company, and there he learned the language of bear hugs and smooches and high opinions loudly spoken.
Friendship takes up time, and Loretta was too efficient for it. Friendship is a combination of art and craft. The craft part is in knowing how to give and how to take. The art part is in knowing when, and the whole process only works when no one is keeping track.
Before he met William, Amedeo often felt more left out in the company of kids than in the company of adults, for his conversational necktie and jacket were inappropriate in one direction, and the loud, easy, sometimes profane talk among Jake’s friends was equally inappropriate in the other. His friendship with William was there in the age-appropriate middle. It was there, and it was singular—well, one-on-one. It had all begun on the other side of Mrs. Zender’s door, and without ever saying it, they both knew that what happened at Mrs. Zender’s stayed at Mrs. Zender’s. This friendship was Amedeo’s, and it was William’s, and it was theirs, and for as long as they could, they drew a thick black line around it and put up a NO TRESPASSING sign.
Loretta Bevilaqua knew how much Amedeo loved Peter, and she correctly guessed that he would not want to miss the grand opening of Once Forbidden. Amedeo correctly guessed that his mother would make arrangements that would allow him to go without her having to take the time to go herself.
Amedeo definitely wanted to go to the molto, molto magnifico party, but he also didn’t want to miss out on anything at Mrs. Zender’s—especially the library.
Mrs. Wilcox always saved the most difficult room for last. Usually, that was the dining room, where most families kept their heirloom silver and porcelain, but in Mrs. Zender’s house, the library would be, hands down, the most difficult, and the library was the room they were now ready for. It was the one Amedeo wanted to do most, and it was the one he was going to miss, and his mother had already had his good navy blue suit dry-cleaned, pressed, and the sleeves let down, and she had already made reservations for him to fly as an unaccompanied minor to New York to meet Jake, and then travel with him to Sheboygan.
Amedeo waited until Friday to announce that he would have to miss work.
Mrs. Zender asked to see the invitation, and when Amedeo showed it to her, she commented, “Interesting title. What does it mean? Once Forbidden?”
She examined the invitation closely and read the inside fold several times. Peter had written: Thirty works of Modern art selected from the original 1937 Degenerate “Art” exhibit in Munich, Germany. “Do you know which artists’ works you’ll be seeing?” she asked.
Amedeo pointed to the front of the invitation. “There definitely will be a Picasso. Seeing a real Picasso will probably be a thrill for the kids in Sheboygan, but over the years I’
ve probably seen more of Picasso than his wives and kids ever did.”
Mrs. Zender read the name again. “Once Forbidden.” She smiled mischievously at Mrs. Wilcox and said, “I savor the forbidden. When Amedeo returns he will explain it all.” She then announced that she too would be taking the weekend off. “I’ve scheduled a pedicure.”
PETER VANDERWAAL LOVED BEING A host. opening nights were show business after all, and Peter loved show business, especially when he was writer, producer, and director, and had center stage all evening. He moved from one cluster of people to another, dispensing charm and accepting compliments like a film star at an awards show.
He watched a senior citizen point to an unpainted part of a canvas by Henri Matisse and listened to him ask a docent if the artist had run out of paint. The docent replied that no, parts of the canvas had been left bare on purpose to enrich the parts of the canvas that were painted. Peter smiled and mouthed thank you to the docent before moving on to a small group standing in front of Picasso’s Harlequin at Rest.
Among them was a ten-year-old. There were not many children at the opening. Amedeo was the only one whose name had been written out on the envelope and the only one who had a name tag, which he had proudly stuck onto the lapel of the jacket of his good navy blue suit. The ten-year-old, like the others, had been vaguely included when the invitation was addressed to “So-and-So and Family.” Peter had wanted this to be a grown-up event. The children would have their turn. As a matter of fact, they would have many turns. School tours were scheduled for every day of the week for the entire run of the exhibition.