A Rather Lovely Inheritance

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First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, January 2007

Copyright © C. A. Belmond, 2007

Readers Guide copyright © C.A. Belmond, 2007

All rights reserved

NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Belmond, C. A.

A rather lovely inheritance / C. A. Belmond. p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-09791-5

1. Americans—Europe—Fiction. 2. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.E46R37 2007

813’.6—dc22 2006016657

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T
HE CASTLE IS DARK, AND THE WIND BLOWING AGAINST ITS STONY ramparts seems to evoke evil echoes of all the intrigue, murder, incest, piracy, scheming and passions of the past. There is a dank dungeon in the bottom of this castle where unspeakable torture and misery were the fate of anyone who got on the bad side of kings. Below us, the sea is crashing against the rocks, tempting anyone desperate enough to hurl herself into its cool, caressing oblivion. And in fact, there is a woman poised high on the rampart, decked in elegant crimson brocade and gold-encrusted jewels that catch the envious gleam of the sun. Her long golden hair is streaming in waves that whip around her shoulders as she gazes down at the sea with such a dramatic, defiant look that perhaps she truly is contemplating choosing death over whatever foul destiny the men in her life have decreed for her . . .

“Fuckit!” the actress cried out, her brow furrowed into a furious scowl. “There’s sand and crap blowing in my eyes, I’m drenched in sweat under all this stinky upholstery I’m wearing, and now there’s no more sun so I’m freaking freezing in this wind.Will you get the lousy shot before I go goddamned blind and die of pneumonia up here?”

“Cut,” the director, Bruce, said disconsolately. “Bitch from hell,” he added to no one in particular. And then somebody’s mobile phone rang. Bruce turned and glared at his crew.

“Whose phone is that?” he demanded. “Tell whoever it is to kiss my ass!”

We had all chucked our phones into a pile in the soundman’s van and turned them all off, as we always do. Or so I thought.

The soundman’s assistant pawed through the phones, selected the offending one, and answered it. “It’s Penny Nichols’ phone!” he announced. Everyone turned around and stared at me as he added, “It’s your mother calling.”

“Better not tell her to kiss Bruce’s ass, then,” said my boss, Erik, our set designer.

“She’s says it’s important, and terribly urgent, but not life-threatening,” the assistant called out. The whole cast and crew waited.

“Ask her if I can call her back in ten,” I said, mortified. The guy spoke into the phone, then gave me a thumbs-up.

It’s just like my mother to chat with strangers like that. And it probably didn’t faze her in the least to be informed that our little rag-tag production company was in the middle of a shoot. I am a freelance historical researcher and set-design consultant for Pentathlon Productions, the cable TV company that has cornered the market on historical sagas and sudsy “bio-pics,” usually filmed in New York State even though our movies supposedly take place in the most glamorous capitals of the world. Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, and Queen Elizabeth all sailed up the Hudson River to view their kingdoms, and what they didn’t find on the banks of New York was provided in B-roll stock film footage. We never, ever get sent somewhere beautiful on location—except this time, because the new production assistant is a society girl whose overseas connections actually got Pentathlon its first co-production deal with additional European financing to make
Josephine, Queen of the Romantics—
otherwise known by its old working title, “Napoleon’s Wife.”

For once we were really shooting in Europe, in an authentic castle on the gorgeous Riviera coastline near Cannes, where Napoleon landed on the beach to make his comeback.There’s only one problem, from my humble historical perspective. I couldn’t find any evidence that Josephine actually came to this castle and hung out on the walkway, scanning the horizon for signs of her emperor-husband’s boat. But nobody cares because it looks so great.

Josephine Bonaparte was being played by Louisa Santo, a pop singer who goes by the stage name of Larima. A beautiful girl from Spanish Harlem, she did a stint at modelling before the music industry got hold of her and spun her into one of its golden canaries. Her music is tinny but mainstream, the kind you hear in department-store fitting rooms and hair salons, with repetitive tunes and fake-defiant lyrics about bad boyfriends. However, she surprised everyone by being able to act well enough for television, which she instinctively knew requires a sphinx-like stillness of the face; and she looks dignified and regal in a gown, instead of bridesmaidenly. In short, the camera loves her. Unfortunately for Larima, she signed on to do this production for a modest fee, just before her first big record hit, so she’s stuck with us and has made it very clear that she wishes we would all sink into the sea.

From my perch on a rampart below, I could see how bloodshot the director’s eyes were. Bruce is a bit of a Napoleon himself: balding, stocky, tyrannical, with a short-man complex. He truly loves his work and has no further ambition to be anything but a regularly employed movie-of-the-month hack, as he cheerfully calls himself.

“At least we don’t have horns honking,” the assistant director told him consolingly.

“Horns? Of course we don’t hear horns.We can’t hear the dialogue, either.The minute she opens her mouth the wind snatches every word she says,” Bruce snapped.

Sound has been a terrible problem every step of the way on this shoot. No matter where we’re scheduled to film, there always seem to be hopeless traffic snarls barking at us. Even way up in rented villas or in obscure village churches we could hear the roar of trucks, the shouting of workmen, the shriek of sirens. Already today, high up on the ramparts of this castle by the sea where car traffic is not allowed, we had to halt filming when a wealthy-beyond-reason retired basketball star and his pals went zooming by on speedboats and power skis, whooping and shouting and spraying each other with expensive champagne that they shook up and uncorked. Machinery is the bane of our existence as we struggle to re-create romantic history.

But at least this time we’re really here on the glorious Riviera, we keep telling each other. We have authentic ruins for backdrop, genuine castles to shoot in, better antiques to borrow. At least we’re not parked in the same old vans, eating out of the same old plastic foam boxes, shooting under the same old tree—whether it’s the story of Catherine the Great, Nefertiti, or Madame du Barry—on the banks of the Hudson River in New York.

For the company’s real specialty is to take any woman of history, no matter what century, rank, or nationality, and run her life story through the formula of plucky-heroine-with-many-lovers, jewels, dresses, furniture, and untold power. The blueprint is simple. The Heroine of History is born either high or low, but in any case she’s flung into an early, disastrous marriage, love affair, or rape with the master of the house, who’s enough to put any girl off sex for life; and she’s often cast out into the street. Nonetheless, being plucky, she steers her own destiny with remarkable ease, collecting various lovers, especially the One True Love whom she usually loses in the end. She compensates for her heartache by achieving business or political World Domination, becoming as scheming and ruthless as everybody around her. Still, you admire her, because she has nice hair and good wardrobe. Were you in her place, you’d do the same. The Heroine of History is just like you and me, only with money, palaces and servants.