Should somebody
closed their eyes for a second in the shuttle bus serving from the tourist
centre to the Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California, and opened them again
within the immense estate, somebody would find themselves wearing period-piece
dresses.
All around financial experts, politicians, writers and movie stars
back from the 20's are merrily chatting, waiting to enter the many fitting
rooms where they will find bathing suits and new clothes generously donated by
the host, William Randolph Hearst, tycoon.
Some guests, men but
most of all women, barely seduced by the usual life of the party, actress
Marion Davies, are looking for an elegant way to bolt, heading for the indoor
pool, an outburst of gold and blue, marble and Liberty lamps, that is said to
hide, from time to time, Johnny Weissmueller and his spectacular diving from
the tiny trampoline.
On the way to their
forbidden amusement, some couples decide to indulge in a tennis game, loudly
taking up the many courts in the compound garden, conveniently concealed with a
colorful multitude of trees and flowers, both exotic and local.
Some envious souls
sneak into the labyrinthine hallways of the big villa, an endless heap of
bedrooms, private spaces and locations decorated with legendary splendour,
looking for the cheap detail, for the planning mistake to blame on the creator
of the venue, architect Julia Morgan. And a quick glance at the ball room, an
indiscreet intrusion into the refectory in search for some dinner preview, a
solitary eight ball game could maybe meet that gloating tendency.
Possibly
puzzled by the sewing room, specifically designed for the mistress, though,
they might now prefer to exit and enjoy the fascinating sight of the cultivated
land declining towards the dark stain of the ocean, away in the distance. Atop
the hill, where the whole residence has been built, are winding pathways,
softened by North African tiles, fencing in flowerbeds, revealing icy statues,
leading to fountains.
The same pathways
will have meanwhile led to the cellar the bravest ones, sick of waiting for
the possible showing up of their host and his ridiculous amount of spirits: thousands
of bottles of select wines, neatly placed on dark wooden shelves, will have
then welcome the unexpected visitors, with dusty indifference.
A clock ticks the
time: it is 11 p.m. It is now time to reach the private movie theatre where,
perhaps, will be finally possible to shake hands with the wealthy
philanthropist and see one of the many movies he has produced so far, in anticipation
of a movie inspired by him.
E.M.