Tom Cruise wedding in Bracciano Castle (Rome)
'The New York Observer', December 2006
by Mauro Suttora
"Sounds like hassle".
"Let's go home, then".
"Sounds like hustler".
"Yes, but it's Hassler instead, can't you read it above the front door?"
Rome, Saturday November 18, 2006. One pm. Marsha, my New York girlfriend, has dragged me in front of the hotel atop the Spanish steps where Tom Cruise is staying with his fiancée Kate Holmes since five days now. The sun is shining, I left home just to buy the papers.
The Rome apartment we're renting in Via Margutta 33 is at walking distance from the Spanish Steps. Truman Capote lived for a few months in our very flat 53 years ago, in 1953, when he was just a young American gay touring Italy. He wrote about it ten years later in the short story 'Lola', the name of his roommate (a black young she-raven, possibly the only female he ever loved).
During that same year 1953 the movie 'Roman Holidays' was shot in this very building courtyard. I feel so Gregory Peck, the journalist whose pad princess Audrey Hepburn slept in...
Marsha has accompanied me outside, and after stopping at the newsstand she convinced me to climb the steps:
"Let’s get a glimpse of history in the making..."
"Come on, Marsha, you always act so celebrity-free while in New York City. Who cares about today's marriage?"
"Just a little curiosity, mummy has asked me about it".
"Ah, you're constantly on the phone with your mummy in Manhattan, from Rome too. The umbilical cord. Will you turn cordless someday, honey?"
"See, all this crowd in front of the hotel... Romans are curious as well, despite their pretending being jaded after 27 centuries of celeb-watching".
"No locals, it's just tourists. Italians have better things to do than wasting time after Tom Cruise or any other self-appointed 'wedding of the century".
"Here they are! Who's coming out of the limo?"
A black Mercedes stops in front of the Hassler Hotel. I crane my neck.
"Jennifer Lopez and Victoria Beckham. The worst of the worst".
"But they're getting in".
"Nobody coming out. Come on, let's go, Marsha".
"If all these people keep waiting, Tom and Kate are due out any moment. They have to come out in any case, the ceremony at the castle is supposed to take place today at 6 p.m."
"Maybe they're already there, at Bracciano. I wonder why they switched from lake Como to Bracciano. All American actors love lake Como and its Villa d'Este Hotel in Cernobbio, what's so special in Bracciano?"
"The castle".
"Yeah..."
"I would love to marry in a castle..."
"Yeah... Alright Marsha".
"Let s go see this one".
"What? You want to go to Bracciano? Today?"
"Yes, let's follow them when they come out of the hotel".
"What if they take an helicopter?"
"Go and get the car".
"But Bracciano is 30 miles away... And it's gonna be flooded with people this afternoon".
"Look, they're coming out!"
A black SUV is exiting the service entrance, but it's impossible to see anyone behind its darkened windows.
"Who knows, Marsha, it could have been anybody. Let's go home now".
"No way. Get the car, we're definitely going to the Bracciano castle".
"Keep your wide mouth shut".
I would have loved replying so, just to bet on her recognizing the Cruise/Kidman pun. But in these moments she always gets a humour failure. I know her, she's so surcharged now: impossible to joke, impossible to stop her. No way to discuss nor to object. She is determined, my only answer can be "Yes", or leave.
When my Italian friends ask me how I stand her, I reply that I like her exactly because of this: she's so imperious, doubtless, energetic, aggressively American. Very sexy, to an old (in the Rumsfeld sense), lazy, dreamy European. Besides, she turns so sweet in bed. So, I am totally subjected when she gets into one of these fits of hers. Probably also because I love her. That's why I don't rebel. Oh, did I say I love her? Sometimes I forget.
O.K., I decide to go with her to the Tom Cruise wedding in Bracciano Castle. So I head for the Villa Borghese underground parking, to get our car. A wonderful Lancia Ypsilon compact, and it's a sunny day right after a shower, why not travel through the country to Bracciano anyway?
"Why not", the magic words which make it impossible to argue with Marsha, my beautiful love.
I look at her while driving on the Cassia old consular road lined with parachute-shaped maritime pine trees: she's so excited to go to the marriage in the castle. And I'm so happy to offer her this gift, in order to make her love Italy evermore.
"Do you think the castle will be surrounded by journalists?"
"Of course. But I'm one. I'll get a pass, don't worry".
We arrive in Bracciano at 3 pm. Lovely town, no one around. 50,000 people expected for Tom’s wedding, headlines a daily we bought. There are maybe 50 in the old grey street climbing to the castle. When we arrive in the square in front of the castle, we notice a small crowd of reporters in front of the entrance. Umberto Pizzi, the king of Rome paparazzi, is cruising aimlessly. Two press helicopters hover noisily.
“Mauro, I lllove this castle!” Marsha is thrilled “It’s humongous, it has got eight towers instead of four! Wow! We re definitely gonna get married here!”
“Yes dear, like Christiane Amanpour and James Rubin back in ’98. And I read in the paper today that Keira Knightley wants to marry here too. Bracciano weddings are becoming fashionable”.
I speak with some colleagues I know, they’re surprised to see me: “Have you come from New York just for the wedding?”
“Of course”, I joke them. “And my girlfriend Marsha is invited, so I’m getting in. She belongs to Scientology”.
“We’ll call you around 10 then, can you keep your cell turned on? Is there a reception inside? Is there any reception before the ceremony? When are you getting in? Have you seen John Travolta, he was supposed to land in Rome with his private jet this morning…”
“Sorry folks, I can’t embarrass Marsha, and those people are real paranoiacs, I had to sign a promise of silence. They’ll ask for all of our cellphones at the entrance” .
“And you’re not going to break the embargo, are you?”
“I really can’t”.
Marsha looks at me wide eyes open, she knows only a few words in italian and understands that the almighty Italian journalist Mauro has found a way to sneak in.
“Bye now, we’ll come back and get in later, now we want to tour the town before darkness”, I salute my fellow Italian reporters who are green with envy.
I take Marsha by the hand, we go around the corner and sit down in a café where we order one macchiato and one cappuccino.
“Mauro, is there really a way to get in?”
“No way Marsha, it’s all sealed. Worse than the Kremlin”.
“But I understood…”
“Yes, you understood well: I pretended you were invited, and me along with you, but that we can’t report anything”.
“…”
“Ok darling, now let’s go, otherwise they’ll find out about our joke”.
We proceed to visit Bracciano. Very nice town indeed. Marsha calms down and suddenly doesn’t give a damn about the wedding of the century. Her window of interest has run out, the castle vision has satisfied her. I love her also because she changes her mind often and fast, even before the job is done. We’re not going to get stuck here. Bracciano won’t be our Iraq.
We’re back in Rome right after sunset. While driving, I entertain her by singing the most famous song about Rome: “Arrivederci Roma, goodbye and au revoir/ Voglio rivedere via Margutta…”
My colleagues stay on in front of the castle until 3 a.m. Can’t get a glimpse of anything. At that time, Marsha and I are celebrity-free again, sleeping in the Truman Capote’s bed of the Audrey&Gregory building after a lovely candle-lit al fresco dinner at Edy, our favourite osteria in vicolo del Babuino.
“I guess the word romantic comes from Rome”, whispers starry-eyed Marsha just before closing them.
Mauro Suttora
