Villa Coco

Dinner was very late for American tastes: eight thirty. I took the Baronessa’s comment to mean I was to wear my best clothes; of course I had packed only one jacket and tie, and that only because I imagined life with a “Baronessa” would entail at least one night of fine dining. I had not imagined I would be expected to dress to celebrate a septic tank. I was told my room was opposite hers (“with the animals,” she added unhelpfully), then was left to discover what this might mean. I took my duffel up the stairway I had first seen her descend and found myself in an upper hallway painted its entire length with vines, leaves, and flowers; here and there, I noticed small birds or insects. I also noticed at least five open doorways, any of which, I thought, might be her room or mine—until I looked into the first one, seeing a boudoir done in pink, with two tubs set into the floor and an enormous Japanese print showing, in vivid anatomical detail, a woman at her bath. I took note that this must be the Baronessa’s quarters and found, in the room opposite, a painting of a lion attacking a sheep: the animals. I set my bag inside, closed the door, and lay down for a moment on the surprisingly lumpy bed.

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My memory of that day has the overwhelming blur of a border crossing, where the onslaught of unknown languages, scents, tastes, habits, and customs causes one to pick those details necessary for survival—visa requirements, currency exchange, common phrases—so that the amusing or decorative—the station clock, the officer’s mustache, the dusty false flowers in the window box—are often forgotten. Or, at least, held in suspension, waiting to be useful. And it was only later that I made out the framed ex-voto paintings (one man saved from drowning, another from industrial mangling, a third from fire, all by the intervention of a rather Dietrich-like Mary); the stenciled roses near the ceiling; beside the bed, an antique photograph of a handsome, serious, and somehow familiar young man in wire glasses; the magnolia leaves outside my window tilting back and forth like hands drying themselves in the sun: the details that would become my life’s companions until Christmas. If I managed to stay.

When I came downstairs, the two elderly women were already seated at the dining table with a chair between them. They were chatting in English, presumably their preferred language when together. The chandelier above was lit, as was the candelabra, with its base of fruit and sculpted cherubs. Pippa was staring at an ice-filled glass, which she held with a perplexed expression. I assumed it was the gin I had brought. She had changed for dinner—meaning, she had changed her flower. It was now a red silk chrysanthemum. The rest was all flowing robes and harem pants and scarves, at least two. The Baronessa was in a long blue quilted jacket and wore a pendant in gold Arabic script. I now see them as bohemian elegance, but back then, to me, they looked like a pair of lesbian hippies. Then again: What did I know of dining with aristocracy? My experience extended only to my parents’ “fancy” dinners, to which my mother wore a cream silk blouse and pearls, my father a cardigan, and salmon mousse was unmolded in the shape of a fish, to the oohs and ahs of the guests—the height of 1980s suburban sophistication.

“You look very comme il faut,” the Baronessa said sternly.

I looked down at my navy blazer, chinos, and yellow tie, very pleased. “In a good way?”

She paused. “A tie seems extreme for a weeknight.” My hand moved automatically to my tie, but she went on: “Now sit right here,” patting the chair between them. “We need a man to separate our femininity. Giovedì, this is my friend Pippa.”

I greeted Pippa and, glancing up at me from her glass, she looked even more perplexed. Perhaps this was as exotic an experience for her as it was for me.

I took the seat between the two ladies, and now we were three, all in a row, facing the kitchen, where I at last got a look at Nimali, the cook. She was a short, sturdy, fortyish woman with a prominent nose, large Cleopatra eyes, and black hair pulled into a braid that fell to the small of her back. She wore a brightly flowered housedress such as my grandmother used to wear, which tied in the back, and she stood with two hands firmly planted on the cutting board, staring at us with pursed lips. Her eyes met mine. She looked at the old women, then back at me and shrugged: sympathy toward this new arrival, this American, who was, like herself, a mere servant here. I marveled at how many of the people I had met had come from afar—Ghazel, Estelle, Nimali, and Vinsanda—and it made me curious about the world my employer had created. “We were talking about Pippa’s family,” the Baronessa was saying. “Princess Margaret is her cousin, and Pippa didn’t know she was once my guest! What a nuisance. Someone called us ahead of time and said to put a bottle of whiskey in front of her, plop!, like that at the table. She drank from it the whole time. And it was lunch. I remember we had linguine alle vongole.”

“Buone!” cried Pippa.

“Buone!” replied the Baronessa, adding that the clams had come straight from the Adriatic. These cries of “buone!” and “buono!” and so on were a particular affectation of conversation at Villa Coco; later, I was to realize it was an aspect of Italian conversation in general. It meant “delicious,” referring to the food just mentioned, and it did not matter if the talk was of a death in the family, a crisis of the heart, or the Titanic disaster—if one noted that the penultimate dish served to the ill-fated passengers had been foie gras, the very mention of the delicacy would bring cries of “buono!”

“You know this story, Lisabetta. That I once . . . had the princess’s mother,” Pippa remarked. Her voice startled me, both rough and smooth—like a bottle of whiskey set in front of a princess. Her accent was startlingly British. I was slow to understand that the princess’s mother would be the Queen of England. “And she admired . . . something of mine. That spelled disaster! You know if the Queen admires . . . something of yours . . . of course you have to give it to her. Usually it’s a bowl. A serving spoon. Just my luck . . . that she took a liking to my sofa.”

The Baronessa said that of course she knew this story!

But Pippa went on: “Naturally I could not give it to her! It was . . . Gustavian!”

I laughed as if I understood a thing she was saying.

Pippa lifted one beringed finger in the air. “So I had one of my masterstrokes!”

She turned to me and I blinked in expectation.

“I had it copied!” she said grandly. “Copied by an infamous falsario . . . a counterfeiter. I sent the copy to the Queen . . . and kept my own. I’m sure she never knew the difference.”

The Baronessa winked and stated that the princess was an inspiration to others.

“Maybe she was testing you.”

I was the one who said this, and both women turned to stare at me. I could see the petals shivering in Pippa’s hair.

“I am certain you are saying something very interesting, young man,” she told me in her clipped accent, “and that we would grow to become friends, but I am afraid I only understand . . . the King’s English.” She gave me a warm smile and put her hand on mine as she spoke very carefully. “The American dialect . . . Is. Beyond. Me.”

Imagine the effect on an arrogant young American, who has never bothered to learn a single word outside his language, a nightingale who thought he spoke in the sharp, clear language of all birds, only to awaken inside a cage of cockatoos. I sat there absolutely still as Nimali set down a soup beside the princess and began to ladle it into her bowl. A silence held the room in suspension. I saw the Baronessa’s eyes go to Pippa and then to me.

“Then I will translate!” she announced.

The rest of the dinner was as absurd an event as I have ever attended. I would ask the princess a question, for instance, “Where did you last travel?” and then, like a food taster passing an approved dish to the king, the Baronessa would lean politely and repeat my question to her friend, who listened intently: “Pippa, he’s asking about your time in Zanzibar.” Then the ridiculous process would be reversed—even though I made it clear I could understand the princess perfectly—“Tell him I found great love and great disappointment,” and the Baronessa would turn to me, light flashing on her pendant, and say: “Pippa says she found great love and great disappointment.” This had the effect of doubling the experience for everyone but Pippa. Nimali stood with a platter of roast pork, her eyes wide in alarm; even someone who spoke no English could understand the absurd back-and-forthing, like a hostage negotiation.

Eventually they wandered into their own conversation, leaving me behind. The Baronessa related the entire story of the pozzo, which surprised me, as it seemed as inappropriate a topic as I could imagine. “I know you are an early riser, so perhaps you can inaugurate it!” the Baronessa offered, and Pippa seemed to take this as a great honor. Then their talk became more intimate; of course they had forgotten I was there.

“He’s very handsome,” Pippa said, specifically looking away from me. “But what will you do with an American?”

The Baronessa said Americans could be taught.

“They can be taught to speak English, even be English, perhaps,” Pippa replied, “but not to be Italian.”

My employer agreed that this was so and said I was called Giovedì. Like a girl Friday. “My man Thursday!” she said with delight. “He is here to . . . count the spoons, as you suggested. But my bedroom and other rooms are not ready. We await Oscar.”

“Ah yes!” Pippa said mysteriously. “And has the . . . other gentleman approved?”

“Giovedì has a degree in archives,” the Baronessa said, and this seemed to settle whatever strange matter they were talking about.

I pretended to be occupied with my wine, which was remarkably sour, and began to enter my own thoughts, my discomfort at being treated like a servant by this houseguest, when I heard a new direction of the conversation: “And, Lisabetta, speaking of great loves, what about yours? Have you made contact?”

I did not lift my gaze. I could hear my employer shuffling restlessly beside me.

Pippa: “You told me you would try Venice—”

“In Venice, it may be I have met some success,” the Baronessa announced. “But there are serious obstacles. And there is some urgency.”

Pippa leaned across the table with a fork in her hand. “Do not give up, Lisabetta! We must act while we are young!”

I am afraid to say I snorted a little at this remark. The table looked at me while I struggled seriously with my salad. I caught the cook’s eye. Then I saw a mouse run across the kitchen counter. Nobody else seemed to notice.

The Baronessa changed the subject to one of local tragedy: a woman in the nearby town of Rignano had been discovered dead in her own home, a woman approaching the age of our two ladies, cut down, as the Baronessa said, in the “prime of her life” as owner of a restaurant where she made her own tiramisù—

A cry from Pippa: “Buono!”

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From Villa Coco by Andrew Sean Greer. Used with permission of the publisher, Doubleday. Copyright © 2026 by Andrew Sean Greer.

Audio excerpted with permission of Penguin Random House Audio from VILLA COCO by Andrew Sean Greer, excerpt read by Edoardo Ballerini. Andrew Sean Greer ℗ 2026 Penguin Random House, LLC. All rights reserved.