Nearly sixty years after Rousseau’s death, the city fathers, still ambivalent about honoring their native son, placed their statue of him amidst such thick trees that he could not be seen from the city shores. And there he sits, to this day, in semi-exile, gazing out thoughtfully at the descendants of the grim old Calvinists who threw him out. Honorine blew him a kiss when it was time to go.
As we drove away from the city, I said a trifle apprehensively, “Hey. Are we anywhere near that weird underground nuclear laboratory full of subatomic particles zipping around in tunnels like race cars until they smash into one another, and either reveal the secrets of the universe . . . or blow us all to smithereens?”
“The particle collider. It’s in the other direction, away from the city and the lake,” Jeremy assured me. Nevertheless, we all cocked our heads for a moment, listening for any warning rumblings that might set off a tsunami in the lake. All was quiet, and life above ground continued undisturbed.
And so it was here—in a country known for discreet banks, assemblies of diplomats, excellent clock-making, beloved chocolate, fine skiing, and somewhat kitschy decor—that Parker Drake chose to be domiciled. We had booked into one of several hotels suggested in the invitation, so that we could stay overnight after the party.
As we drove farther along Lake Geneva’s northern coast, I gazed at the rippling water that reflected a bright blue sky and towering mountains, as far as the eye could see. Nestled into sloping valleys were adorable old churches and little storybook farmhouses with steep triangular tiled roofs.
We settled into a cute, country-style hotel—with rustic wood beams painted in bright primary colors of blue and yellow and red, and decorated with childlike images of Alpine cows, sheep and flowers—not far from Drake’s stomping grounds. If I’d had time, I would have gone out into the hills and yodeled and gathered edelweiss. But there was no time to lose. We got into our costumes and masks, then piled back into the fairly stodgy but expensive rental car that Jeremy believed Uncle Giles would have chosen to ferry his family to a masked ball.
According to the e-mailed directions, Parker Drake’s secluded chalet was between Nyon and Allaman, along the “Route du Vignoble” in the wine-growing region of Lake Geneva. The high road where we were now driving, which also overlooked rolling fields of yellow and red flowers, afforded a splendid view of the famed terraced vineyards of the area, stretching from the steep hills right down to the shores of a dreamy blue Lake Geneva. When the sun was setting across the lake, as it was now, it turned the fields and hills to the color of pure gold.
But Drake’s chalet was not visible from the road. Passing through wide vistas of farmland, we almost missed the driveway. It was Honorine who spotted the entrance, somewhat recessed from the road and flanked by thickets of pine. We turned in, and faced an enormous metal gate, painted to look as if it were made of logs from bluish-silver-grey beech trees.
The gate was dramatic yet rustic-looking, and, despite this Alpine setting, it reminded me of cattle ranches in American Western movies. As we got closer, I saw that the “logs” actually spelled out in gigantic letters:
CHALET DE DRAKE
.
“Geez,” I said. “Somehow it looks like ‘the von Trapp family meets Bonanza’.”
We paused there uncertainly, until a voice from out of nowhere demanded, “Please announce the number on your invitation.” A moment later the directive was repeated in French, then German.
Startled, I dug out the card from my purse, and handed it to Jeremy, who recited the code to whoever, “P3JQ5RL7.”
I still don’t know where that intercom was hidden. After a momentary silence, the gate creaked open, and we motored on. Drake’s driveway continued for a long, long way. The whole time, all we could see were fields, blue sky with big white puffy clouds, prodigious evergreen, and towering Alps.
But just as I was getting lulled hypnotically by the sameness of this terrain, we were unexpectedly confronted with a barricade of dense shrubs, completely blocking the road. For one terrifying moment, it looked as if we were about to crash headlong into this wall of evergreen. But before Jeremy could jam on the brakes, the entire row of shrubs automatically swung open—as one, joined unit—for it was actually a secret gate.
“Good God,” Jeremy muttered. “Who does he think he is, James Bond?”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “Bond is trying to be
him
.”
At last, the way was clear, and the chalet now loomed into view, set against a backdrop of big, beautiful leafy trees of deep green and maroon. “Chalet” was a word entirely too modest for these digs, which was actually a compound of structures surrounding one majestic main building. The whole thing was situated behind a large man-made pond, or what the French call a
miroir d’eau
, architecturally designed to provide a perfect, stunning mirror of the chalet. We entered a big, circular driveway that slowly took us around this fancy pond.
We had caught up to a caravan of cars ahead of us, bearing other guests, all snaking around the large circle. This part of the driveway was flanked by tall, strange pine topiary, sculpted into severe, imposing, narrow triangles—seven on the right of the chalet, and seven on the left. As we approached, something about these towering, forbidding sentinels looked spooky, as if they were giant, other-worldly guards on the lookout for, well, interlopers like us. Beyond them loomed the big chalet.
“I am not exactly certain I like this place,” Honorine said in a gloomy voice from the back seat.
I knew what she meant. There was a hint of the dungeon about the chalet, with its predominantly austere violet-grey color. High, narrow, rounded four-story turrets stood up on both sides like tall pencils, with peaked, pointy roofs that resembled upside-down funnels. The main building was four stories high, dominated by a low-hanging, steeply-pitched, sloping roof of an even deeper plum grey color. As our car crept closer to the front of the chalet, I saw that the front door was flanked by two white pillars, approached by a flight of stone steps.
The cars ahead of us took turns pausing to deposit their passengers, before being speedily driven away by valets. “Wow,” I said, fascinated. “Lots of people here tonight!”
We watched the arriving guests as they approached the open front door. Because everyone was dressed in period costumes nearly identical to ours, with white wigs and masks, their appearance contributed to the odd impression that we had discovered a phantom party attended by ghosts of France’s
ancien régime.
“The guests are wearing masks,” Honorine commented. “But not the servants!”
Jeremy pointed out Drake’s P.R. man, who wore a suit and no mask, and he didn’t engage with the guests at all, but hovered about, directing the servants. The guy was very tall, thin, with sandy hair cut close to his scalp; and he seemed to be looking over everyone’s heads while he assessed the situation.
We were now “up at bat” as we reached the front steps. Jeremy stopped the car, and several footmen in livery snapped into action, opening the passenger doors for me and Honorine, and taking the keys from Jeremy as he got out, so that the young parking attendants could abscond with the car. As we ascended the stone steps and reached the arched front door, one of the footmen asked for our invitation, which I silently handed to him. He placed it under something that looked like a lamp, but was actually a scanner that picked up a computer code. He nodded to us, and we walked inside.
The huge entry hall resembled a fancy hunting lodge, with rustic beamed ceilings and oak panelled walls. A very wide, steep staircase was to our right. To our left, where all the servants were ushering the throng of visitors, was an enormous medieval dining hall. The room was already filling up with guests, who were chattering so loudly that their voices filled the air with a strange, reverberating hum of such explosive power that it made me think of the underground nuclear science lab full of subatomic particles racing about in a massive burst of energy.
The dining hall had rows of long tables made of rough thick wood, all set with candelabras, goblets, cutlery and plates—silver for the men, gold for the women. Butlers directed us to our places; Jeremy was put opposite me, and Honorine was seated alongside me. We were midway down the table.
Even if Jeremy had wanted to talk to me—which he didn’t, since he’d sworn the three of us to silence, to avoid being caught—it would have been impossible to hear him, because of the cacophony of excited voices all around us. I watched in amusement as one waiter swooped down on us to fill our goblets with the choice of wine or diet cola; while another went up and down the table, placing big fondue pots with little fire burners underneath; and a third server set platters of caviar, and salad with shavings of black-and-white truffles; and another waiter offered bread, fruit, and a vegan health platter. Something for every appetite. Meanwhile, female servers descended on us, carrying silver trays with silver tongs, which they used to deposit small round items on each plate.
When I peered at my plate, I saw what they were. Miniature hamburgers. They were clearly designed to please the men in the party, because, while the women were given one each, most men accepted three or four of these on their plates, and it was apparently as satisfying as eating a big steak.
I looked at my cutlery, and saw that many guests were happily picking up their long pronged fondue forks to spear chunks of bread that they dipped into their cheese fondue. I laughed out loud. All this hoopla, and all this expense and exclusivity, and in the end, what the masters of the universe apparently wanted to eat at a charity gala . . . was fondue, burgers, and caviar.
Jeremy grinned at me, but poor Honorine looked utterly baffled at this culinary mixed- bag, especially when she bit into a hamburger and discovered a soft center of foie gras. If someone had served this eclectic dinner to a Frenchman, I suppose it might have been tantamount to a declaration of war.
Afterwards, dessert arrived—ice cream sundaes atop brownies. Throughout the entire dinner, there was absolutely no sign of the hosts. Now fully sated, the guests began to make their way out the back door of the dining hall, and into a grand ballroom.
This was a salon done entirely in gold and silver, except for the floor, which was made of alternating black and white diamond-shapes of marble. The walls were covered with gold- framed mirrors, gold light sconces, and gold-and-silver wallpapers of eighteenth century courtiers. Directly in the center of the room was a large white marble sculpture of the Three Graces, poised in their tunics over a circular base, with sculpted fish and turtles at their feet.
It was really quite an astounding spectacle, because, under the twinkling chandeliers, a throng of masked women, all dressed alike, began dancing with a matching throng of men who all resembled one another. And because the room was mirrored, the images swirling around were doubled and trebled and quadrupled, until you really didn’t know if you were about to walk up to a real person, or run smack into a mirror. Somehow, the guests managed to keep dancing round and round and round, giddily following the dizzying path of the music, which at this moment was a Strauss waltz.
“What do we do now?” Honorine whispered to me. But a young masked man was already approaching to claim her as his partner, and he danced her away.
Jeremy took my hand and led me to the ballroom floor. We’d gotten only halfway across the room when the band stopped playing in mid- crescendo, and everyone fell silent, coming to an abrupt halt. A moment later, we heard loud, clanging bells from the chalet’s tower, making the kind of racket that is usually reserved for the birth of a king or the crowning of a pope. As it turned out, it was Drake and his wife, who were now making their grand entrance.
Parker Drake’s costume bore some resemblance to the other men’s, except that his black coat appeared to be made of silk and leather. He stood erect and rigid, his forearm held out for his wife’s gloved hand to rest lightly upon. Tina’s dress was sort of like ours, except that hers was entirely of gold silk satin. They both wore elaborate powdered wigs, but her eye-mask was gold, not white like the other ladies’; and Drake’s mask was silver, not black like the men’s. So, evidently, the black- and-white rule for masks didn’t apply to our hosts, as if these two gods were not required to play by rules that they themselves had designed for mere mortals.
Butlers now scurried around with trays of empty champagne glasses, shaped in the old-fashioned way, with wide, shallow cups (which some glassware historians claim were designed to resemble Marie Antoinette’s breasts). When we were all clasping an empty glass, Drake raised one hand in a brief, dramatic signal.
The ballroom lights were dimmed, and the sculpted fountain in the center of the room was suddenly illuminated by lighting at its base. A split second later, the fountain’s jets went on, spouting not water, but some leaping golden liquid that splayed out in several arcs and descended into a foaming, bubbling pool below.
“Champagne for everyone!” Tina Drake cried out, and the guests all laughingly rushed over to fill their glasses at the fountain. The butler had already filled two glasses, which he now carried ceremoniously to Drake and his wife.
One of the masked men, surely on cue, shouted out, “A toast to the host!” and everyone repeated, “To the host!” and then, like crashing cymbals, everyone clinked glasses and drank. After Drake had drained his glass, he actually tossed it up into the air, and his serving men scrambled to catch it before it fell and broke. The whole thing looked completely orchestrated, yet the crowd applauded as one of the servers caught the glass.
The music resumed, and Jeremy steered me across the floor, propelling us closer to the Drakes, so that we could get a better look. Drake and his wife were chatting to some of the guests, who clustered adoringly around the couple, jockeying for position and hanging on his every word, laughing hard at the smallest joke he made, as if they hoped some of his magic for amassing money would spill onto them. And these, I might add, were people that the rest of the world would consider already very rich indeed. I thought of all the other “important” people who had been ogling for an invitation and hadn’t gotten one.