The Valentino Affair (8 page)

The City of Light was everything that Rodolfo expected: vibrant, exciting, how he wanted his life to be. Nighttime found him in the demimonde, either the bars of Montmartre or the smoky cafes and bistros half-hidden down a Latin Quarter side street, sipping Pernod with some adoring
fille
or else soaking up the heated philosophical debates that frequently lasted into the dawn. The relaxed Left Bank liberalism was several light-years removed from the stuffy Catholic confines of Taranto, and, for a young man eager to drink his fill of life’s pleasures, it was heaven on earth.

It was also hugely expensive. In a matter of months, the wild young man frittered away the nest egg provided by his ever-generous mother—he had never made any serious attempt to find employment—and he was reduced to wiring home for more money. Ever sweet, ever obliging, Gabriella came through once more. Rodolfo, his pockets once again bulging with francs, now decided on one huge flourish: He headed for the gaming tables at Monte Carlo. The plan was to win a fortune at roulette or chemin de fer, enough to set him up for life. The reality was a sudden, jolting lesson in fecklessness. He lost every sou. With his tail planted firmly between his legs, Rodolfo Guglielmi slunk back to Taranto.

His homecoming was predictably grim. Members of his extended family unleashed a storm of biblical contempt upon this prodigal son, cursing him for not being more like his older, more responsible brother, Alberto, who held down a steady job in local government. Why, they growled at Gabriella, don’t you take a firmer grip on this wastrel? To her credit, she did try. But every attempt was doomed to failure. Just one of those flashing smiles from her son was enough to melt any anger beating in Gabriella’s breast. Deep down, she knew that Rodolfo was not destined for the conventional life. And when he began to talk of the riches rumored to exist in faraway America, she bowed to the inevitable, even promising to sponsor his journey—though with the proviso that this time, once he landed on American soil, there would be no more handouts; he would stand or fall on his own. Other members of the Guglielmi family lit candles of celebration. Putting an ocean between them and this embarrassing spendthrift was the answer to all their prayers.

On December 9, 1913, Rodolfo hefted his luggage up the gangway of the SS
Cleveland
as it lay docked in Genoa harbor. In his pocket were a second-class ticket and a banker’s draft for a hefty sum. As the ship’s whistle moaned its mournful good-bye to his homeland, Rodolfo’s first move on board was typical—he sold the draft at a discount and traded up to a first-class cabin.
¹
This gave him the opportunity to rub shoulders with the kinds of socially prominent passengers whom he hoped might ease his passage in America. Thanks to his mother, he had already added French to his native Italian and the first-class salon provided the right setting to hone his faltering English. The voyage also gave him an opportunity to show off his dancing skills. In Paris he had been quick to pick up the latest dance sensations, especially the sultry and provocative Apache with its air of masculine domination, and he used this now to great effect during the organized dance sessions on board the ship. Lithe and sinuous, he looked magnificent in his tuxedo—even if at this stage his puppy fat was corraled by a corset—and his exotic Latin air ensured a ready supply of dance partners. He was a prodigious networker: His calling cards—gaudy affairs printed on expensive paper and bearing a heraldic crest that hinted at a lineage soaked in old European nobility—were scattered around the salon like confetti.

After twelve champagne-filled nights spent dancing into the early hours, Guglielmi got his first glimpse of the promised land as the
Cleveland
nosed into New York harbor. The fastest-growing city on earth, with its swaggering architecture, took his breath away, and Rodolfo fell in love at first sight. The next day he passed through the Great Hall at Ellis Island and out into America. There was nobody waiting for him at the “kissing post,”
²
and it was a similar story as he went searching for the Manhattan ferry; he was entirely on his own.
³

The city was everything he had imagined it to be and more: fast-paced, overcrowded, and, above all, exciting. He watched openmouthed as flashy automobiles rolled impressively past. Although the teeming streets of Lower Manhattan were still filled with the sight and often overpowering smells of horse-drawn carriages, Detroit was already reshaping the American landscape, and, for a car nut such as Rodolfo, it was like wandering through the world’s greatest auto showroom. He vowed that one day it would be him sitting behind the wheel of some gleaming roadster.

For now, though, he had to fathom the subway system. After several false starts, he eventually made his way to Giolito’s on West 49th Street, a hotel that catered mostly to Italians fresh off the boat. He had been given the address by a fellow passenger on the ship, and after renting a suite—half measures were not in his nature—he celebrated at Rector’s, a nearby restaurant famed for its lobster and other succulent dishes. Rodolfo chomped his way through the expensive menu, and then, flushed with adrenaline, he cruised out to take in the sights.

At first he found himself caught up in the joyous festive spirit, the sidewalks full of happy, smiling faces, wide-eyed children pressing their noses against brightly lit store windows, but slowly his sense of well-being began to fade, and the next day, Christmas Eve, found him overwhelmed by a sense of utter isolation. He was 4,500 miles from home, and only now did the enormity of what he had undertaken really hit home. He missed his family and, above all, he missed his beloved mother, the rock who had always been there to bail him out whenever times got tough. Never had he felt so alone. By his own admission, that night he threw himself on the bed and “cried like an infant.”
⁴

Just a few blocks north, Blanca de Saulles was also alone and thoroughly miserable that Christmas. Over the holidays, Jack had been harder to pin down than Harry Houdini. The early part of 1914 brought no improvement. Most evenings Jack contrived to absent himself from the apartment, either leaving his young wife alone or else obliging her to attend the theater in the company of some friend, usually some sympathizer from the Chilean expat community. But all that changed on March 10, 1914.

That was the day when, after fifteen months of behind-the-scenes maneuvering, Jack was finally nominated for that prestigious diplomatic post. But it wasn’t Chile, as he’d been angling after and the press had so confidently predicted. No, he had been nominated for the post of minister to Uruguay.
⁵
This must have stung. Chile was one the South American “A-B-C” countries as they were known in Washington, Argentina and Brazil being the others. These were the major South American players on the international stage. Uruguay, by contrast, was a political minnow, but any disappointment that Jack felt was well camouflaged at his confirmatory press briefing. “President Wilson selected me for this post because he knows that I am in hearty sympathy with his policy as to South American republics, which, as I understand it, is to establish a common understanding with them all.”
⁶
Newspaper editors dug into their morgues and exhumed Jack’s daredevil credentials, rehashing the tale of his pursuit of Blanca, spicing up the saga with ever more outlandish deeds of derring-do. One breathless account had our hero dueling to win “the hand of the señorita,” adding with a swagger: “he did not get the worst of it in any of these duels.”
⁷

Although Blanca would have preferred that Jack land the plum posting of Chile, she realized that Uruguay wasn’t a bad second choice for a man in his mid-thirties just getting his foot on the diplomatic ladder. And there were other considerations in play. Uruguay, like its South American neighbors, was a Catholic stronghold, a place where unmarried women were still chaperoned; as such, it would be unlikely to offer Jack the kind of temptations that had been so freely available on the Great White Way.

After a year of political foot dragging, the confirmation process now moved on apace. And it became apparent that any skeletons lurking in Jack’s closet had been thoroughly exorcised when, on March 24, the Senate Foreign Relations Committee reported favorably on the nomination of John de Saulles as envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary to Uruguay. Shortly thereafter he was sworn into office. All he needed now was the date of his posting.

Until that happy day arrived, Jack suggested that Blanca take a vacation in Europe. The break would be good for her health, he said. Blanca didn’t need to be asked twice and immediately booked passage on a steamer bound for Liverpool. Jack decided to cash in on Blanca’s euphoria. While she was packing, he tutted that his new position would entail higher living costs; a minister for the US government would be expected to maintain certain standards and to entertain all the right people, even before leaving to take up the appointment. And because most of his money was tied up, he wondered if Blanca could cover his temporary financial shortfall. Of course, she said, and left two blank checks to fund any emergencies.

Then she and Jack Jr. headed for the port. Also traveling with them was Anne Mooney, now fully recovered from her throat operation. Once Blanca had resigned herself to the fact that Ethel would not be returning, her relations with Boobie had improved markedly, with the nurse proving herself a more than capable replacement. After a week at sea they docked in Liverpool, and from there Blanca caught the train to London. She spent the first few days with an aunt who was married to the chief of the Chilean Naval Commission at London, Admiral Joaquim Munoz Hurtado, a well-connected figure who proved invaluable in gaining Blanca entrance to the rigidly formal London social scene.

In his wife’s absence, Jack traveled to Washington and his regular haunt, the Shoreham Hotel. Checking in alongside him was his old buddy from the Democrat trenches, Dudley Field Malone. The two men began making the rounds of the Washington power circles and the after-hours parties.

Rodolfo Guglielmi sporting a bookish, studious look

Once Rodolfo Guglielmi shook off his initial bout of homesickness, he fared well in New York. Rather than settling in the densely populated Italian neighborhoods of Lower Manhattan and Brooklyn, he took rooms in Midtown’s bustling theater district. He could afford it. Unlike most immigrants, he was flush with money and in no rush to find work. As a consequence, his appetite for extravagance ran amok.