The only part of the apartment that seems to be intact is Gruart's closet, which is packed with designer clothes, most freshly dry-cleaned and in their plastic wrapping. On the top shelf of the closet are dozens of white Tupperware bins of shoes with masking-tape labels on them reading strappy gold glitter high-heeled sandal and low bendel's black. But there's no underwear or lingerie, and no makeup in her medicine cabinet. In fact, the only sign of life in the bathroom is a Japanese porn magazine. "I like Asian food, and culture, and girls," shrugs Mario. "I especially like Asian girls." Mario is unclear on what was in the apartment originally, what exactly Gruart took with her, what items of hers he may have thrown away. "I'm just living here and trying to make my own self more comfortable," he says. "Because this is the place that I am."

He may not be for long. November's rent hasn't been paid, and Mario has about $75 right now, so his plan is to stay only until Gruart's security deposit and first-month's rent run out. "I have to meet someone with whom I can become involved in a relationship," he explains matter-of-factly. That's the way he's survived in recent years, living with a series of women, and men. The only reason he moved in with Gruart at the end of the summer was because his benefactor at the time, an elderly man on Barrow Street, died of a liver disorder, right after Mario was arrested for possession of marijuana and resisting arrest. "He was an old man who drank two or three bottles a night," explains Mario. "He supported me in many, many ways. And I took care of him in what he needed."

In case he doesn't meet a new patron right away, Mario scans the help-wanted ads in The Village Voice, chewing on a yellow highlighter. "I got to figure out what to do; otherwise, I'm going to be on the street, or in a shelter," he says, running the pen over an ad for a dog-walker. "I'll do anything for money. I mean, I've done anything in the past. But my specialty is reptiles."

Mario's dream is to work on a breeding farm for snakes; he once had a collection, he says, of more than 30 turtles, some of which made their way into one of Gruart's earlier apartments -- she took care of them for a year even though she complained about the stink. In lieu of real reptiles, Mario has strategically placed a few reptilian figurines around the apartment, on the arm of the easy chair, on top of the television. A snakelike Darth Vader, holding a red neon laser, stands watchfully on the window ledge next to Gruart's bed.

Gruart didn't have the savings to rent her own place when she returned from Europe in the late eighties, so she hopscotched around town, living in sublets with models she'd known from Milan and Paris or their friends. She first moved up to West 95th Street, into the apartment of Brenda Jordan, a model turned born-again Christian, who was often away doing missionary work in Guatemala. Gruart found work on the Greenwich circuit, modeling department stores' new lines at evening events in suburban towns. She was jealous of the new breed of supermodel, however, and was angriest about Linda Evangelista's success. Evangelista, she felt, was her "type," and she'd cut and color her hair to resemble the model's newest style.

"Is it weird that your sister disappears and you throw her stuff out? Yes. Is it a crime? No."

In 1989, at a party prior to the Met Costume Institute ball, according to friends, Gruart met Bob Marx, the son of the Marx Brothers' Zeppo and the stepson of Frank Sinatra. They began to date, although she didn't believe it was exclusive on his end, and she'd often fly to Palm Springs with him on a private jet to visit his mother, Barbara Marx Sinatra. "She'd talk about how she came upon a trunk of Barbara's jewelry, thousands of things all mixed together," says a friend. "She said, 'You can't imagine the life Barbara has.' " After Marx, an entertainment lawyer, gave her a pair of Cartier earrings, Gruart told her friends that she was about to be engaged, though she also complained that she wasn't sure Marx's bank account was big enough for the lifestyle she wanted. (Marx did not return calls for comment.)

Yet when Marx broke up with Gruart a year later, she was devastated. She began attending Mass at Unbroken Chain and Times Square Church, and shopping at an even more frenetic rate. "I knew the Lord would not be happy with me in low-cut dresses, but Lourdes would buy beautiful things," says Jordan. "She'd say, 'I'm going to wear this to such-and-such party and make Bob crawl.' " Gruart wanted to be a member of the class of people who lived expensively, got their names in the papers, and did little else. She had tasted this life in Europe, and she knew that in order to get it for herself, she needed to marry a rich and famous man. But for the first time, she was realizing that it might be more difficult than she thought. "She started to think that she wasn't going to end up a Park Avenue lady," says a friend. "Much less Jackie O."

In 1991, Gruart began to spend winters at her parents' home in Florida, commuting to Miami for trunk shows at department stores. She was well liked professionally and became part of the burgeoning social scene, going out to Thierry Mugler's parties at the Century restaurant and to Gianni Versace's first party at his new mansion. She tried to book catalogue or print work, to no avail, and resisted advice that she try to break into the Spanish market. "She had a $40,000 confirmed booking for a Coke commercial for Spanish TV, and she canceled at the last minute," says model turned actor Erik Fletcher, Gruart's best friend in recent years. "She was like, 'Eww, it's Spanish!' I was like, 'It's TV!' "

When she returned to New York full-time two years later, Gruart started working as a fit model for Upper East Side designer John Anthony. Though she'd remain there for three years, Gruart hated the job, and quit in a huff after the designer cut her wages and refused to include her in his runway show. (John Anthony would not comment.) She kept working here and there: an ad for Hackensack's Riverside Square mall, a fitting for Vivienne Tam, a few showroom bookings. "She really gave it 100 percent," says Ken Metz of NMK Agency. "Always kept her book current, did tests for new photographers. Most girls don't want to get out of bed for an unpaid test, but Lourdes was always willing." Without a regular source of income, however, Gruart began to grow desperate. "She even approached one of my best clients," says a model who had been friends with Gruart since the old days in Milan. "Told them she'd work for less than me."

It had been three years since her relationship with Marx had ended, and Gruart had started to obsess over past mistakes she'd made with men. She decided that she shouldn't have resisted the advances of one of Marx's friends, Mohamed Khashoggi, the son of Arab oil magnate and arms dealer Adnan. He'd once asked her to his home in Paris, she recalled; now she tried to follow up on the invitation, in vain. "Lourdes wasn't always the easiest person to get along with -- she invented the word high-maintenance," admits Fletcher. "But once this Mohamed thing started, she became unbearable."