“I’m done with all of them,” he told Mamma. “È finita” (It’s over). Poignantly, he added, “If it wasn’t for you and Patricia, I think I would have shot myself.”
Devastated, he flew to Italy with my mother and a heavy heart. Not long after they’d arrived back in Rome, one of the first things she did was to hurry to her bank and retrieve the shares and money he’d entrusted to her before his sentencing. Glad to be rid of the responsibility, she handed the package back to him with a sigh of relief.
“I knew it!” he exclaimed, his eyes glinting with gratitude. “You’re the only person in the world I can really trust.”
Gucci may no longer have been a company my father recognized but he still had a precious 16.7 percent stake, and that at least made him feel like he owned a piece of the empire he’d built. It wasn’t over yet. Since his days as a delivery boy riding his bicycle on the bumpy streets of Florence, he’d been committed to the success of the family business. For over seventy years, he had been utterly devoted to the company. He knew nothing else, and—for him—there was no Plan B.
Even though my mother had been waiting patiently in the wings and we’d have both loved for him to be more involved in our lives over the years, we knew that his continued involvement with the business is what kept him going. I’d seen firsthand how he never gave up without a fight and I couldn’t help but wonder what his next move might be.
When he heard that an old friend wanted to see him, he was pleased. Severin Wunderman was the Belgian-born Holocaust survivor and watchmaker whose fortune Papà had helped make back in the 1970s. Wunderman was now on the Gucci board and my father hoped he might be able to influence his nephew to allow him to stay on as a shareholder at the very least.
Papà had asked me to join them and when I opened the door to let Wunderman in he seemed friendly enough, but within a few minutes of his arrival, my father realized that this was more than just a social call. No sooner had we settled around the coffee table than he interrupted my father’s discourse about his visions for the company. “Come on, Aldo, it’s time to let go!” he said with a smile that stretched his sallow skin over the bones of his face. “You’ve accomplished great things! Now spend some money and enjoy your life!”
My father’s expression froze and I sensed the immediate shift in his temperament. He stared at Wunderman, who carried on trying to use whatever leverage he could to persuade Papà to sell the last of his shares. Knowing how much my father had done for him over the years, I felt my flesh crawl. Wunderman seemed to completely overlook the fact that my father had already been so badly treated by members of his own family.
I watched the shutters come down on my father’s face and knew that the meeting was over. As soon as Wunderman left, he fell back into his armchair, physically deflated. Inadvertently, his visitor had achieved exactly what he had been sent to do, as it was now painfully obvious that my father didn’t have a single ally left anywhere. When he pulled himself together, the words he spoke were spat in anger. “Sell, he says! It is I who has been sold out! They’ve all turned their backs on me! Even Severin!” In that moment he wanted nothing more to do with Gucci. He would sell after all, he announced. “You and Bruna are my priority now.”
As if to ratify his decision, he was informed by the US authorities that because of his criminal conviction his residence permit would be revoked. Without it, he would no longer be allowed to remain indefinitely. In choosing to make his home in the States and pay federal taxes, he’d inadvertently opened himself up to future prosecution while his family escaped scot-free. He joked that he’d return his green card gift-wrapped in Gucci paper with a red bow but in the end it was stuffed inside a bundle of other documents and mailed to the authorities.
With his American dream shattered, it was time to wrap up his affairs and return home to Italy for good.
I, too, had fallen out of love with the United States and decided to move back “home” to Berkshire so I could be closer to my parents once they settled in Rome. Santino and I enrolled Alexandra in my old school Hurst Lodge and it was a joy to be back in the English countryside and watch my daughter playing in the garden where I’d spent so much time as a young girl.
Papà visited us often, delighting in the precious moments with his beloved granddaughter, who would be “a great beauty,” he foretold. One of my happiest memories of this sorrowful period in his life is of Alexandra sitting with him at the grand piano while she bashed at the keys and they sang together disharmoniously. There he was, blessing our house again with his color and vitality. It felt good to be back there together.
Eager to ensure I was looked after, my father managed to secure me a position at Gucci UK as creative director for London, Hong Kong, and Tokyo. The arrangement would keep me connected to the business until such time as I wanted out or he sold his shares. Left to my own devices, I had little contact with anyone in Milan or New York. I retained my place on the board but couldn’t bring myself to attend meetings if it meant sitting across the table from my cousin Maurizio.
The curtain fell in April 1989. After protracted and painful negotiations, my father’s time with Gucci was drawing to a close—as was mine. I flew to Geneva with him for a meeting with Investcorp, where, in my capacity as a company director and Aldo Gucci’s daughter, I would be asked to sign a number of documents as part of the settlement—or, as I called it, hush money.
The night before our fateful meeting we had dinner at the Beau Rivage, the lakeside hotel with a view of the city’s historic Jet d’Eau fountain, a landmark symbolizing strength, ambition, and vitality. Several legal advisers accompanied us but it was by no means a sociable event. Needless to say, Papà didn’t take much interest in the food on the table. Even though he was going to leave Switzerland a wealthy man, he couldn’t help but reflect on how his life’s work was about to be cut away from him at the single stroke of a pen.
The following morning, we walked the short distance to the office, where we were ushered into a boardroom full of expectant faces and took our places around a large black table. On it sat a single telephone and two small parcels wrapped in Tiffany blue. My father’s mood was somber and his gaze steely as he addressed the phalanx of Investcorp representatives, warning them that their new power-hungry young chairman would ruin the business they were buying. It was a symbolic if futile gesture on his part but his last task at Gucci. This was his moment and he wasn’t going to let it pass without saying something.
“Heed my words, gentlemen, this company will not be the force it was for as long as my nephew is in charge.”
They thanked him courteously and then waited as he stared at the sheaf of papers setting out the terms of the sale. These included an order preventing us from discussing company affairs or divulging any information for ten years, and banned us both from using our names on any product or venture.
As his fountain pen hovered over the dotted line, I felt a rush of blood to my head. It was a similar feeling to the one I’d had in the New York courtroom. Once again, he was forced toward a destiny other than the one he would have chosen.
Accepting that there was no alternative, he lowered his pen. I heard the nib scratch the paper as half a dozen pairs of eyes bored into him. Signing his name with a flourish, he then handed over his share certificates and—in the process—his last connection with the company. In the awkward minutes that followed, the document was checked and rechecked by lawyers and then, while the ink dried, we had to wait in silence for what seemed like an eternity until the telephone on the desk rang, shattering the hush. Only when someone on the other end of the line confirmed that the funds had been wired to his bank were we free to depart.
To mark possibly the worst moment of my father’s life, our hosts then handed us the two farewell gifts. My father received a heavily engraved silver Tiffany box that would hold no more than two cigars. I was given a small silver milk jug. God knows what they were meant to symbolize. After a lifetime of dedication unsurpassed by anyo
ne in that airless room, these gaudy little trinkets no doubt chosen by a clueless secretary were so implausible that they were practically insulting. It would have been better to receive nothing at all.
On the theme of destiny, the author Anaïs Nin once said that none of us are “in bondage to our past” if we have the courage to examine how the past shaped us. The past was what Gucci had been all about, and for my father it had also been about the future—not just his but mine and that of his family. What future did he have now? he must have wondered as we left that building.
All his life he had felt he had the power to change his destiny, but toward the end, circumstances forced him into situations beyond his control. As a witness to what he experienced, I, too, learned a valuable lesson—that none of us know what’s around the corner.
There are consequences for every choice we make in life, some of them unforeseen. When my father decided to gift his sons his shares in Gucci he’d never have suspected that they’d sell them one day, or that the nephew he brought back from exile would prove to be so duplicitous.
I’d never considered the ramifications either, and now I pondered what to do next. Having been paid off by Investcorp not to talk about what I knew, write a book, or get involved in any commercial ventures in the name of Gucci for the next ten years, I was at a loose end. Needless to say, I no longer worked for the company and faced the difficult prospect of helping my father pick up the pieces after the spectacular loss of everything that was so dear to him.
Soon after our trip to Geneva, he flew to Palm Beach alone. There was no need for my mother or me to accompany him, he’d said. We both had things to take care of at home, and besides, he was only going to supervise the sale of the house. We knew how difficult that would be for him. After returning from his farewell dinner at Club Colette one night, he walked into the house to hear the telephone ringing. It was my mother in Rome and she was hysterical.
“Aldo! Are you all right? I had a dream—a terrible dream!”
Accustomed to her random nightmares and realizing it was the early hours of the morning for her, he tried to calm her down. This time, though, she wouldn’t be placated. She said in her dream she’d had a clear vision of him lying facedown on the rug in the bathroom. Papà assured her he was fine and then went to bed. The following morning, however, he called her back to admit that something was indeed wrong and that he was having difficulty urinating.
After extracting a promise that he’d return to New York and see his doctor immediately, she called me in London. “Please, Patricia, fly to New York today and make sure he keeps that appointment. I’m worried he won’t and I’m convinced there’s something wrong.” I was on the next Concorde flight out. Within hours of my arrival later that day, Papà was sent to the hospital for urgent tests on his prostate, which had become grossly enlarged. After I called Mamma to give her the news, she too jumped on a plane.
By the time she arrived, my father had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. It had started in his prostate, just like it had for his brother Rodolfo. Although he was in otherwise excellent health for his age, the doctors said the disease had already spread and had metastasized to his bones. Chemotherapy might slow things down, but there was no cure.
“No cure.”
I heard the words but to begin with they fell on deaf ears as we tried to absorb this latest blow. Papà appeared to be in complete denial. He didn’t care to know the medical details and instructed the doctors to deal only with my mother and me. Under further questioning, however, he admitted that he’d experienced discomfort for months but—coming as it had in the middle of negotiating his severance from the company—he had chosen to ignore it. These, then, were the consequences.
Wringing her hands, my mother kept repeating, “I knew it, I knew it!” Her worst nightmare had come true.
“I don’t want anyone else to know,” my father announced.
“But, Aldo, what about your family?” she asked.
“No!” he snapped. “They don’t deserve to be told.” Turning to us both with a grave expression, he made us swear that we wouldn’t mention anything so we gave him our word.
In spite of his diagnosis, over the next few days he remained remarkably upbeat, talking about what we’d all do together once he was released from the hospital. As soon as he was allowed home, he and Mamma flew to Palm Beach for a few weeks to be alone in the place that was so dear to them both. My father had built the house from scratch just for us; no one outside our little family had ever stayed there and nothing had ever tarnished the magical quality that seemed to act as a salve on any woe. They were never able to recapture that special alchemy anywhere else.
This, their last visit before it was sold, would have been a sorrowful trip, especially for Papà. To stroll around his tropical garden and tend to his precious lawn must have broken his heart anew. Although I longed to spend every minute I could with him from now on, I’m glad I didn’t witness that final farewell.
Almost as soon as they flew back to New York, I was able to share some news with them of a different nature. “I’m expecting,” I told them, hoping that it might bring some respite. “The baby’s due in February.” They were delighted to have something to look forward to and, I think, glad to see that things between Santino and me seemed to be more bearable.
By coincidence, my father and I attended the same ultrasound clinic—he for his prostate examinations and I for my pregnancy. One day we emerged simultaneously from our respective appointments and locked arms in the reception area. “Papà, it’s a girl!” I declared.
My father laughed. “Thank goodness!” he cried. “If it was a boy I wouldn’t have wanted to know.” The prospect of another granddaughter certainly seemed to boost his morale, at least for a while. That is, until the time came for him to leave America for good.
Having prolonged his stay for as long as he possibly could, he and my mother boarded a Concorde to fly out of John F. Kennedy airport for the last time. After thirteen years of shuffling back and forth to London en route to Rome, he had become one of the supersonic jet airliner’s most familiar faces. For all its glamour, champagne, and caviar, what he loved the most about the Concorde was its speed—as though it was a reflection of him. He was saying good-bye to that, too. Shortly after takeoff, he took my mother’s hand and, turning to her, asked quietly, “Is it okay if I cry now?”
Unable to answer, she nodded and squeezed his hand as he stared out of the window at the disappearing cityscape and allowed his tears to fall.
In spite of his condition and the course of chemotherapy he’d started, the summer of 1989 was both memorable and without precedent. Gathering our little family, Santino, Alexandra, and I, along with Mamma and Papà, went to the seaside town of Porto Ercole, an hour and a half by car north of Rome, where my parents kept a small apartment. My father had suggested we charter a boat for the week we were there and sail along the Argentario coastline, famous for the shimmering olive trees from which it gets its name.
Heading across the clear open water on an old wooden schooner, we’d drop anchor in a secluded bay and settle down for a plate of spaghetti alle vongole followed by branzino (sea bass) with boiled potatoes and parsley. Lying under a canopy in his swimming trunks, enjoying the salty air and the warmth of the sun on his ravaged body, Papà read and occasionally swam before taking a nap. I had never seen him so at peace, no doubt wondering why every summer couldn’t have been like this. Facing the last few months of his life, he realized that it isn’t money or success that matters, but the company of those we love. I can’t watch the video footage of those wonderful few days without a feeling of great sadness.
Back in Rome, he continued his treatment and insisted that Mamma look after him rather than the nurse at his disposal. He had such complete faith in her that she’d joke, “If I told him to eat dirt mixed with olive oil, I think he would!” His Brunicchi took care of everything—from his diet to how many hours of sleep he had each day. For a while, her pr
ogram paid off and he bore his treatment remarkably well.
As the year drew to a close and while he was still well enough to travel, we decided to have a traditional Christmas at home in Berkshire, a place he’d always loved. I was also eager for them to see the life I’d breathed into our house. With music playing in the background and Alexandra sitting in front of the TV watching cartoons, the house no longer felt like the mausoleum it once was.
By the time her babbo and nonna arrived the week before Christmas, Alexandra was beside herself with excitement. She ran to my father’s arms the minute he walked through the door, as he bent down and patted her on the head just as he used to with me. Then he began the game they always played together. “C’ho una cosina!” (I’ve got a little something!) he teased, before flamboyantly taking some candy or a toy from his pocket and dangling it just out of reach, laughing all the while. Their little ritual is one of Alexandra’s fondest memories of him.
Papà seemed very happy. As my mother always said, “Your father has three passions—food, gardens, and women. I would say that out of all of them, he loved his gardening the most.” In Berkshire he had all three, so while she prepared dinner he would wander around the grounds like in the old days, admiring the roses and the maritime pines he’d planted years earlier. My former playground was now dotted with strategically positioned life-size bronze sculptures by Emilio Greco, one of his favorite artists. He used to say the sinuous forms reminded him of my mother and he always took great pride in polishing every curve, much to everyone’s amusement.
Mealtimes in that house were hilarious as my father enlisted me, Santino, and Alexandra as his accomplices so that he might eat some of the things Mamma wouldn’t allow him to indulge in anymore. She knew exactly what he was doing, of course, and played to the gallery—shaking her head or wagging her finger whenever she caught him pinching some cheese or the fatty skin from a roast chicken. We’d giggle as he pretended to look chastised and the minute my mother turned her back, Alexandra would call for a repeat performance. “Again, Babbo!” she would cry over and over.
In the Name of Gucci Page 26
