CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

       Jetlag prevented Katie and David from going on the town their first night in St. Moritz, but, after a good Swiss breakfast of bread and cheese, they walked through the winding streets whose picturesque structures had been converted into high fashion shops for Rossignol  and Bogner ski clothes, Ender shoes, Louis Vuitton luggage, Koenig, Cartier  and Gübelin jewelry, and Breitling and Chopard watches.

       They stopped into Badrutt’s, which had opened in 1896,  and marveled at the vast open space of the foyer and public rooms. David thought the ice rink had nothing on Rockefeller Center’s. While there, Katie heard from Greta that Alessandra Baldassari would be delighted to have them for lunch at the exclusive Corviglia Club on the mountainside at one o’clock.

       Katie had checked the internet for information on the club, opened in 1930, whose members had included Coco Chanel, the Aga Khan, Prince Rainier III, Philippe de Rothschild, Gianni Agnelli and Aristotle Onassis. Membership was limited to 160.

           After taking a bright red tram up the mountainside, Katie and David didn’t think the building looked like much from the outside, appearing to be little more than a wood-and-stone chalet  with nothing distinctive about its architecture. Outside was a terrace from which to watch skiers come down the slopes. A bronze mountain goat stood on the edge of the terrace, as if to guard against a Swiss troll.

       At the door a young hostess welcomed Katie and David cordially by name, leading them to a table where Alessandra Baldassari sate. She waved to the two Americans and got up from her seat, thanking the hostess and saying, “Buon giorno, parle italiano?”

       Katie answered that she did but that English would be better for the interview.

       “No problem!” said Baldassari. “English, Italian, French, German, Spanish,  I speak them all. I have to in this business.”

       It was not meant as a slight to Katie, for in Europe, especially in a multi-lingual country like Switzerland, it was essential to be able to converse with people from all over Europe in their own languages  with facility, which was a talent Katie, who only spoke a Neapolitan-inflected Italian and little French, had long cursed herself for lacking.

       Baldassari looked less flamboyant than Katie and David had imagined. She was tall, with high cheekbones and forehead, brown eyes, an attractive bump on her nose, her blonde hair swept back, only a little make-up to enhance a natural beauty that suggested she had once been a model. She appeared to be in her late forties. There were no rings on her fingers and only a silver bracelet She wore black twill slacks and a vibrant multi-colored V-neck shirt and what looked like a vintage Cartier watch.  An  expensive looking ski parka was set on the back of her chair. Her voice had a slight smokiness to it, though she  said quietly, “This place allows people to smoke out here in all this fresh air. Okay, let’s order lunch, then we talk.”

       David noted that he didn’t see a kitchen on the premises.

       “Oh, they bring the food up from Badrutt’s. The club is only open for lunch.”

       Katie was not about to ask if Baldassari was a member of Corviglia or not, assuming she had access because she was a valued member of a friendly press. Not having read any of her work, Katie didn’t know how friendly it was to those Baldassari reported on, hoping that she would, out of professional courtesy, allow Katie to ask questions that dug a little deeper than the usual society reportage about who showed up where wearing what.

       There was no actual menu; a waiter recited the small number of options available that day. Baldassari suggested the Älpermagronen, a herdsman dish of macaroni, Swiss cheeses, cream, ham and potatoes (right).

       “It’s a little rich,” she said, “but you work it off on the slopes or dancing in the discos.”

       David said, “Neither is my usual sport. How about karaoke?”

“Oh, yes, karaoke is very popular here, especially  with the Japanese and Chinese visitors.”

Baldassari ordered a Swiss Chasselas wine, then said, “So, Katie, you’re doing a story on St. Moritz social life? You know, I am familiar with your work, all those investigatory stories —very impressive—but this doesn’t sound like your kind of story.”

       “Usually it’s not, “ Katie replied, “but I want to take some time off from those kinds of stories, all of which nearly got David and me killed.”

       “Hm, that’s not too likely here, but I’d stay off the toboggan run. The hospital is filled with broken and bruised first-timers.”

       “I’ll remember that,” said David.

       Katie said, “I’d like to get into some of the clubs, see who goes there, maybe a private club if that’s possible.”

       “With me it’s possible, but let’s start with the ones open to the public, which attract a lot of merely rich men looking for young women. At the private clubs it’s the exact opposite.”

       Katie was edging towards asking about the Pierces, first inquiring about some of the big names still in town. Baldassari rattled off a few and said, “I can introduce you to a few. There is always a party going on where someone takes over the club for the night.”

       Katie asked, trying to sound nonchalant, “By the way, do you know if Angus Pierce and his son are in town?”

       “Yes, they are. They have their own chalet, but Richard Pierce spends almost every night at the clubs. His father goes to private homes for dinner with his friends.”

       The wine came, was opened and poured for tasting. Baldassari pronounced it fine with a nod of her chin, then said, “Do you know much about Angus Pierce?”

       “A bit. I thought it unusual a South African would have a chalet in St. Moritz.”

       “Angus could have a chalet in Tahiti if he wanted to. The man is very rich and fairly sinister. He’s hated by the British here, and the French are cool to him, though they find his son engaging. Angus is known to have what are called ‛special tastes,’ even for St. Moritz. He’s well known for liking young girls—young even by his son’s age.”

       “Which is what?” asked David.

       “Richard (left) must be thirty now. Red hair like his father's. He and his father are very close, and the word is that he meets these young girls at the clubs, they’re impressed by who he is, he invites them to his chalet, and afterwards they show up on Angus’s arm at a party somewhere.”

       “Is he alone in St. Moritz in going out with these girls?” asked David.

       Baldassari smiled and said, “Everywhere in the world where rich people gather there are always a few who have ‛special tastes’ that can be satisfied, and the local police do not bang down their doors looking for problems, as long as no one gets killed.”

       “Well, that’s good to know,” said Katie. “Because he has a similar reputation in the U.S. By the way, do you know the name Jeffrey Epstein?”

       Baldassari said she had heard of him but that he had never been to St. Moritz. “I understand he has money, but the Old Money here wouldn’t have anything to do with him, not least because he’s Jewish.”       “Don’t the Rothschilds have a place here?” asked Katie.

       “Yes, but they are in a class all their own, with roots in the nineteenth century. Plus, St. Moritz wouldn’t be what it is had it not been for Noémie de Rothschild (right), who built a ski resort here with French style,  in Megève. Her first hotel  was Le Palace des Neiges, then she built the ski lifts and an airfield. Her son Baron Edmond de Rothschild built the first golf course here on Mont d’Arbois in the sixties. So, everybody owes the Rothschilds a big favor.  But American Jews with no pedigree? Nothing to stop them from coming here, but they would certainly not be welcomed. Why do you ask about Epstein?”

       “Only because the Pierces are supposedly  good friends and travel together sometimes,” said Katie. “And rumor is they seem to share the same ‛special tastes.’”

       Baldassari shook her head and said, “Fortunately I do not attend such parties. And it’s not something anyone who lives and works here would want to read about. Least of all the people at those parties.”

       The food arrived and all three ate with gusto.

       “So,” said Baldassari, “if you want to go to a couple of the public clubs with me tonight, I’ll show you around. And I’ll see if I can find out where Richard Pierce might be tonight, too.”

       “I think I need to go shopping,” said Katie.

       Baldassari looked her up and down, then David, and said, “Whatever you wear you’ll fit right in, Katie. A lot of people wear ski parkas and pants from the top designers and they cost a fortune. David, if you have a good blazer or sweater, you’ll be fine. I’d take you shopping but I have a story to write, but I’d be happy to recommend some local stores and give you some names. I hope I’m not being crass, Katie, but I assume you don’t have a fortune to spend on a reporter’s salary. I know places you can get very nice things and not spend a fortune.”

       Katie thanked her host and brightened at the prospect of a new outfit or two. David looked rather glum at the prospect.

                                                     *          *        *

       “If you don’t mind, Katie,” said David, “I’m just going to go back to the hotel and rest up for a strenuous night of disco and karaoke.”

       “Drink tea and honey for your vocal chords,” she replied and set off to go shopping. She passed all the store windows with name brand thousand-dollar parkas and two-thousand dollar handbags. Off the main street, Via Maistra  (left), there were shops owned by locals to serve locals that Baldassari had recommended, and, without too much trouble, Katie found a black, well-cut ski jacket that looked more likely to be worn inside than out. It cost 550 Swiss francs (about $600), but Katie thought she could wear it anywhere back home. She had already brought a pair of black slacks with her, and she was advised her flat shoes were a better bet on the slippery streets. 

       Baldassari met her and David, dressed in his blue blazer and gray slacks, at an Italian restaurant named Roberto (right) on Via Tegiascha,  offering a menu of Italian and Swiss dishes. At eight o’clock trio ate family style, sharing large plates of  zucchini salad, trenette pasta with lobster and a fritto misto of seafood, along with a bottle of Swiss Fendant.

       “The clubs get going about ten o’clock,” said Baldassari, who was dressed in a well-cut black  suit  with a gold brooch on its lapel “so take your time eating.” Meanwhile Baldassari held forth on the town’s social life, with stories from its history to the present day,

       “It’s a lot more lively than it was in the eighties and nineties, but there’s a lot more Eurotrash, Russians and Asians now, and in some places you might as well be in Monaco or Mallorca. It’s not as elegant as it used to be, though one or two clubs like the Dracula still demand formal clothes for the men.”

       “Which club are we going to?” asked Katie.

       “I think we’ll start at the Polo Bar at Badrutt’s. It draws a fairly young crowd, and it’s not too excruciatingly loud.”

       The Polo in fact looked fairly sedate, with rustic ceiling beams and murals, once the site where the Senate voted to make Romansh the fourth national language of Switzerland, though it would be rare to hear anyone speaking it. Certainly not at the Polo, where the heightened conversation competing with the music was an amalgam of French, Italian, German and English. The bar itself was a small semi-circle tucked in a corner of the room with shelves containing no more than a dozen bottles of spirits.

       The room was full by ten o’clock, though the bar closed at midnight, and the clientele ranged over two generations, with a fifty-fifty split of what seemed those under thirty and those over fifty, dressed in various forms of expensive casual chic clothes, including turtlenecks and ski sweaters that reeked with designer labels.

       “Anybody here you know?” asked Katie.

       “A few, nobody you’d need to talk to. Small fry, fly-in, fly-out types. Let’s move on. There’s  a new place this year everyone seems to clock to. It’s called La Grotta, because it’s built into a hillside.”

       The trio exited the Polo and hailed a taxi waiting outside. Baldassari just said, “La Grotta,” and the driver just nodded and started off.

       “La Grotta gets a younger crowd overall,” she said. “Some of the younger aristocrats. The American girls seem to like it because everyone seems to speak English. Now, that’s not a bad story line for you, Katie. ‛Americans in St. Moritz.’ It certainly narrows down your pool of people.”

       Katie felt disingenuous knowing that she had little interest in anyone but the Pierces, but she said Baldassari had a good idea about that, “especially given my American readership.”

       La Grotta (right) was indeed carved into a mountainside and entered through a short, low-lighted cave leading to wrought-iron doors. Even in the cave they could hear throbbing disco music that got louder as they approached the entrance. Once the door was opened a blast of bass-and-drum cacophony hit them like a thundercloud. A tall, muscular, well-dressed, very good-looking Black man asked if they had reservations, and Baldassari flashed her press card and they were ushered right into what looked like a maelstrom of bodies speckled from spinning ceiling lights that changed color.  The clientele was certainly young, dressed in everything from jeans and parkas to disco dresses with plenty of sparkle.

      David thought he’d never seen so many beautiful-looking people in one place in his life, every one of them whom could be his son or daughter.

       Katie thought that even if she could speak with some of the guests, the noise level was so high that she’d be shouting questions at them.

       Baldassari said, “That’s what it’s become. In the past these places were more civilized, and people actually enjoyed conversations. But let me see who’s here.”

       She pointed to a couple of guests she knew—one was a scion of the Ferragamo fashion family, another an American girl from Bel Air. “Ah, there’s Richard Pierce, speaking to that brunette with the bob over there.”

       Katie and David zeroed in on the young man near the mirrored bar, who was well over six feet tall and lanky, not quite as handsome as he was rugged looking, with thick red hair and that difficult-to-maintain look of having precisely three days’ growth of beard. He and the girl, who looked to be in her early twenties, were both drinking Champagne.

       “Can you introduce us, Alessandra?” Asked Katie.

       Baldassari took Katie’s arm, said “come on,” and headed for the couple across the room, pushing their way through a few dancers with their hands in the air.

       “Richard!” called Baldassari. "Let me introduce you to some American friends.”