His chauffeur, Franco, drove us the seven hours from Rome to Milan, stopping every now and again for gas or a bite to eat. We then took a three-hour train ride across the border and through one tunnel after another as Papà read the newspaper and I sat next to him with my book. We had lunch in the dining car and I peered out of the window hoping to catch my first glimpse of the Alps.
The man my father called Foffo wasn’t nearly as open or warm as I had hoped. He was polite enough but seemed rather sad and eclipsed in the presence of my father. After kissing me on each cheek, he showed me to my room and made sure I had everything I needed, but his manner was somewhat detached. He also appeared to be living in the past. His chalet, named Chesa D’Ancora, in a nod to his prewar screen name of Maurizio D’Ancora, was crammed with mementos from his films. In a separate chalet that was a shrine to his career, there was a screening room, where he watched many of his old productions.
We would have dinner together at one end of a long table but when we were finished he entrusted me to his son’s former governante, who took me to the chalet next door so that he and my father could speak in private. The cause of Rodolfo’s sadness, I later discovered, was his errant son Maurizio’s ongoing relationship with Patrizia. The rift between father and son had deepened and they weren’t speaking to each other at all. While I settled down to watch the movie Camelot, Papà offered his advice as the head of the family. People had always sought his counsel and Foffo was no exception. Even though my father had a reputation as a firebrand who could flare up at the slightest thing, I only knew him as calm and reasonable.
“Together, we could do this,” he’d say, rarely using the word I. Or, “Maybe if we try to look at things from his perspective.” He always made sure to stress the importance of inclusion when making decisions that affected the future of the business. Oversights and mistakes undoubtedly rattled his cage but when it came to solving a crisis he’d be cool as a cucumber. If anyone could bridge the divide between Rodolfo and Maurizio, it was my father, and that trip to Switzerland paved the way for their eventual reconciliation.
As for me, I just loved waking up and staring at the picture-postcard view of the mountains through my window, the first time I had ever seen them. My wood-paneled room was cozy, with a single bed and a duvet I could sink into. In the mornings after breakfast we would go on walks and one day we all went on a lengthy hike along a rocky path through the Engadine valley. When the sun is shining there, with its twisting footpaths and picturesque stone houses, nothing is quite so beautiful. There, for the first time, my father talked to me about being a young man. I listened attentively, trying to keep up with the punishing pace he set as he marched on using an Alpine stick.
“When I was younger, I used to ski in those mountains,” he said, pointing to the distant peaks. “But then I had a bad accident so I turned to rock climbing instead.” Seeing my surprise, he laughed. “It wasn’t always about work! I used to love sports and was a keen equestrian too.” I was astonished and wondered what else he might tell me about his childhood, but that glimpse was all and he said little more.
We plodded on with my uncle Foffo and the governante trailing farther and farther behind. When I asked if we should wait, he scoffed. “They’ll catch up soon enough.” Even though my legs were sore for days, I was so proud of the fact that I not only kept up with him but also managed to reach the end of the twenty-kilometer trail that day. Most of all I enjoyed spending time with my daddy. It felt like such an adventure and even though it was only for two or three nights, it was precious nonetheless.
Our time together was over all too soon, and once we returned to Rome he was off again. My father was never busier than in the 1970s. An Italian newspaper had recently dubbed him “Aldo the Great” in recognition of his latest achievements in America. Sales there were at an all-time high and there were more than five hundred staff catering to customers who lined up outside the stores eager to get their hands on the latest items. By then there were three stores in Manhattan, including one on the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Fifty-Fourth Street. When he opened another right across the street, the area became known locally as “Gucci City.” Then he attended the launch of an eighteen-thousand-square-foot store on North Michigan Avenue in Chicago. It was the most lavish by far, with its own artificial lawn laid on the sidewalk that wrapped around the entire corner. Standing shoulder to shoulder with my uncle Vasco, he answered questions about the future of the company and proudly described his sons as “three cannon blasts with common sensibilities,” assuring reporters, “We all speak the same language.”
Further stores opened in Tokyo and Hong Kong, and Gucci was becoming so popular that mass purchasing risked jeopardizing the integrity of the brand. When a Japanese tourist walked into a New York store and bought sixty bags all at once, my father decided to do something about it. All too aware that the man was taking them back to Tokyo to sell on the black market at three times the price, he limited purchases to one of each item per customer.
Then he had to deal with the next problem—counterfeiting. Nothing infuriated him more than to see imitations for sale. The idea of a knockoff being sold as genuine Gucci angered him so much that he was known to challenge hawkers on the streets before buying all their stock and throwing it away. He once bought a score of fake Gucci watches and would wear them from time to time to see if anyone could tell the difference.
Whenever he spotted someone with a fake Gucci bag he would point it out immediately. “You know that’s an imitation?” he’d say disdainfully.
“But how can you be sure?” they’d ask, surprised.
He’d smile indulgently and reply, “My dear, how does a mother recognize her own children?”
Famously, he once noticed that a passenger was carrying a fake purse on a flight from New York to Los Angeles. Leaning across the aisle, he tapped her on the shoulder and asked with a smile, “Excuse me, signora, but what is an elegant woman like you doing with a Gucci imitation?”
She was visibly taken aback. “My husband bought it for me!”
Nodding sympathetically, Papà scribbled on one of his business cards and handed it to her. His note read, “Please give this lady a thirty percent discount on a real Gucci handbag. Signed, Aldo Gucci.”
As well as his own personal crusades, my father set up an entire department whose job was to thwart the counterfeiters in every country where they appeared. Lawyers engaged by the company, who were to become an integral part of Gucci affairs, were rarely idle.
To unwind from the stress of keeping on top of such a vast enterprise, he and my mother began to escape to the sun whenever possible. Without doubt, their happiest times together were in Palm Beach, where he initially rented a two-bedroom bungalow with a pool. He loved the area so much that he bought a larger property close by. It took a bit of searching but eventually he found just what he was looking for—a Mediterranean-style villa with white stucco walls and a red-tiled roof on North Ocean Boulevard. There was a sweeping lawn that led down to the beach, past a guest cottage and pool with its own cabana. Sitting on the terrace listening to the sound of crashing waves, my parents thought they’d found their Shangri-la and few would disagree.
Busy with my studies and enjoying life as a boarder, I was still excited to go there during my school vacations. We’d wake up early, take a dip in the ocean, and wander barefoot through the garden picking grapefruits for breakfast. My father never sat still but occasionally I’d find him lying by the pool without a care in the world. The only thing we had to be wary of was encountering poisonous snakes. My mother was confronted one day with a four-foot-long diamondback, which slithered across the kitchen floor as she stood frozen to the spot. After reading up later on its symbolism, she was alarmed to discover that a snake often signifies an unexpected disaster befalling the head of the household. She prayed that wouldn’t be the case.
Fortunately, our head of the household was in high spirits. When he was in the mood to go out we went to res
taurants like La Petite Marmite, my personal favorite, where I had escargots for the first time and always ordered the same thing. Occasionally—and only when it was just the two of us—my father ordered frog’s legs or cow brains, and whenever we had a whole fish, he’d eat the head, including the eyes, delighting in telling me how crunchy they were as I winced. My mother never would have allowed him to have those kinds of dishes.
Papà liked to tease the staff, too. A hapless maître d’ might approach him and say, “Buonasera, Dr. Gucci. How many are we tonight?”
“We?” my father would say with a grin. “Why? Are you joining us?”
In Chinese restaurants, he’d suddenly start juggling plates or toss one at me, certain that I’d catch it. Or he’d take the order pad and jot down something vaguely resembling Mandarin before handing it back to the waiter and telling him, “With rice please.” His humor was contagious and I’d cry with laughter while my mother kicked him under the table, imploring him to stop. The more she protested, the more capricious he became and we’d beg her to see the funny side. “Relax, Bruna!” he’d say mischievously. “It’s just a bit of fun!” She’d shake her head and call us both crazy but I think she sometimes only pretended to be cross.
On special occasions, my father would take me shopping to my favorite store on Worth Avenue. While he waited outside the dressing room, I’d try on outfits and parade in them for him. “Bellissima!” he’d cry, clapping his hands and making me feel like a million dollars. “Oh, I love that orange color on you!” He may not have been around very much in my childhood but when he was, he sure made up for it.
On Sundays, the three of us would curl up in bed and watch the American “Holy Rollers” on TV. Our favorite was the bewigged Christian evangelist pastor Reverend Ernest Angley, who broadcast from his Temple of Healing Stripes in Ohio. How we would laugh at his antics as he “saved” the sinners who collapsed under the “power” of his hands as he cried, “Praise the Lord!”
Florida was the only place in the world where my father didn’t go to the office every morning. Instead, he’d spend a few hours pottering about and freeing up his mind for what he called “more profound matters.” My fondest images of him are his watering the lawn in shorts, barefoot, the grass between his toes. Or sitting on the porch, filling his pipe with that distinctive blend of cherry tobacco. I’d often find him there, deep in thought and staring at the horizon with his pipe sticking out of the side of his mouth, left elbow on right forearm.
My mother loved Florida too and virtually lived in a bathing suit and pareo as she lay in the sun or puttered around the kitchen preparing lunch. We were there as a family far more than we’d ever been in Berkshire and it was the one place she came to think of as home.
Palm Beach was undoubtedly where Mamma and Papà were most openly affectionate and endearing with each other. I’d hear him calling out to see what she was doing or catch him taking her some iced tea on a tray. “Bruna! Dove sei? Vuoi qualcosa?” (Where are you? Do you want something?) he’d cry, and for a few precious moments I was able to enjoy that rare feeling of togetherness under the same roof.
I didn’t appreciate it until much later on but whenever I think of our times there, I realize now that they were the best years of our lives.
Home is a concept I haven’t always found easy to grasp. As someone who grew up constantly on the move, it took me a long time to understand that home is wherever I make it.
Florence was my father’s “home,” and then Rome, where he was married with children before he met my mother. She has always considered Rome “home” but then she went to live in London—twice—and Berkshire, where she desperately tried to create a home. Florida became a home for us all and then there was New York, although Mamma never liked it as much as Papà. “I was so bored and had far too much time on my hands,” she complained. “All I ever did was wander around Bloomingdale’s and Saks Fifth Avenue buying things I didn’t particularly need. I can’t stand department stores now!”
By the age of ten, I’d been shuffled back and forth between England and Italy, never living in a place for too long before it was time to pick up and go. I spent month-long vacations in America and summer breaks on the Italian coast. Boarding school certainly felt like home, with Bee and all my friends. The longest spell I’d had anywhere was Berkshire so I suppose that was my true home. Certainly, when I think of my childhood “home,” that’s the place that springs to mind.
One Saturday in 1973, that sense of familiarity would be disrupted for good. On a weekend back from school my mother sat me down to tell me something. “We’re moving,” she announced as I drew a sharp intake of breath. “We’re going back to Rome.”
I could hardly believe my ears. My heart began to pound in my chest and my head went into a spin. She was tearing me away from the place I loved without so much as an explanation, but I knew better than to question her. Objecting to any decision always ended in tears, so quizzing her would be futile. Besides, I didn’t think anyone would pay me much attention.
Even so, I couldn’t pretend to be anything other than heartbroken. This would be the last time that I would allow myself to feel fazed by a move from one place to another. As a result of all this relocation I have never felt particularly attached or committed to anywhere and can now transfer from one country to another without much fanfare. I became a gypsy.
I didn’t find out what had triggered this latest move until I was a grown woman. Much to my surprise, it had begun with a painter who’d been hired to redecorate the house. When my father came across a photograph of my mother in the man’s belongings, he immediately suspected they were having an affair. Furious, he pounced on her when she came home from shopping, shouting, “What do you think you’re playing at?” She was about to protest her innocence when she saw the rage in his eyes. Dropping her groceries, she fled from him screaming as he ran after her and slapped her. He stopped only when he remembered the incident with her brother and realized he might have gone too far.
My father eventually calmed down enough for Mamma to assure him that nothing had happened. He seemed to accept her answer and then he left for New York. Or so he said. Unbeknownst to her, he canceled his flight and checked into a local hotel instead. In the early hours of the following morning, he crept back into the house expecting to surprise her in bed with her lover. Instead, he was astonished to find her sound asleep, alone. She awoke with a start, turned on the light, and found him standing over her with a shamed expression in his eyes. “Bruna, my angel, perdonami!” he said apologetically. “I should have trusted you. Ti prego,” he implored. “Please forgive me!”
My mother was visibly stunned by the extent of his jealousy.
“How can I make it up to you?” he pleaded, sensing her shock. “Ask me for anything—anything at all.”
“I want to go back to Rome,” she announced suddenly. “I’m homesick, Aldo. I can’t be on my own here any longer. It’s time to go.”
My father had no idea she felt this way. On the surface, everything seemed okay. I was doing well at school and they were traveling together more. He knew she struggled with her English and that she would have liked to feel more connected, but he never suspected she was so miserable. Knowing he was in no position to argue, however, he agreed without another word.
And so it was that in the late summer of 1973, I had little choice but to pack up my belongings and say good-bye to all my friends. My father decided that the house wouldn’t be sold in case we wanted to come back for family holidays or even to live one day. That was my dearest wish.
Still trying to swallow the bitter pill I had been given, a few days before we were due to fly my mother sat me down on her bed and said she had something to tell me—never a good sign. Feeling my stomach tighten, I braced myself for the next bombshell.
“Your father has a wife in Italy,” she declared as my mouth dropped open. “And three sons.”
My ten-year-old brain was barely able to take in the news. He
was married to someone else? With other children? I was utterly confused. “Wait, aren’t you married to Papà?”
“No, Patrizina. I’m not,” she said remorsefully, trying to soften the blow.
My mind swam. Like any child, I’d always assumed my parents were together to the exclusion of anyone else—that it was just the three of us in this world. The idea that my father had another family was difficult to envisage but one thing my mother had said stuck with me. “I have brothers?” I asked, my eyes wide.
“Yes,” she replied slowly. “Their names are Giorgio, Paolo, and Roberto but they’re much older than you. They are married, with children of their own.”
My heart skipped a beat as I carefully stored away their names. Questions flooded my thoughts. What were they like? Did we look the same? Were their children my age? Instead, I asked a more poignant question: “Do they know about me?”
She nodded. Why hadn’t Mamma told me before? I wondered. And if they’d been told about their little sister, why didn’t they try to contact me?
“You have to understand that this isn’t an ideal situation,” she said as my face fell. “You can’t presume that they’ll embrace you right away. They’re much older than you and have their own lives. You won’t have anything in common with them. Besides, they don’t care much for me and weren’t too pleased when they found out about you.”
Once she registered my expression, she insisted, “You are just as much your father’s child as they are but they, well, they see it differently.” She tried again. “It’s nothing to do with you personally. It’s all about money.”
“When will I see them?” I asked, ignoring her pessimistic outlook. I was eager to set my eyes on these walking, talking brothers of mine, whatever they thought of me.
In the Name of Gucci Page 14
