The Count’s real name was Germano de Cillis. His family owned a failing textile business in the Veneto; the Count suffered to work at its helm, though his dreams lay elsewhere.
For many years he had conducted several affairs. Few people knew this about de Cillis, but he was at heart a romantic. When one of his affairs became more serious, he had decided to marry.
“She is the one,” he told his best friend, Giorgio. “I am sure of it.”
He began to describe his fiancé’s good qualities. “Not only is she beautiful,” he said, “but she is perfect in every way. Intelligent, sophisticated, charming, sociable.”
If Giorgio was surprised, he did not show it.
“What will you do about your other lovers?”
“I have told each of them that it is over,” he said. “They must look to be entertained elsewhere.”
Everything had been organized. The reception was going to be in a famous Venetian restaurant. The guests had arrived in the church and were waiting for the bride. The priest and Germano stood at the altar, surrounded by hundreds of white roses. When, however, his fiancé’s father turned up without the bride, everyone looked anxiously to the front. “I am sorry to say,” he said, putting on a grave face. “My daughter has chosen to stay at home.”
The wedding guests filed out of the church. The priest came over to commiserate with Germano.
Germano gave a shrug. “If this is love,” he said, “I dedicate the flowers to your next victims. I for one will turn my back on this outmoded ceremony.”
If something died in his soul at that moment, Germano was determined not to show it. “Mio caro,” he said, turning to his best man. “The night is young. Let us celebrate.”
He took out his phone and scrolled down a list of names.
He winked and smiled at Giorgio as he called into the phone:
“Felice! It’s been a long, long time.”
The show must go on.