by Charles Fox
In February of 1958, Time magazine published a verbal snapshot of a man who lived modestly and worked obsessively:
In Paris’ fashionable George V Hotel, no accommodation is cheaper … than the two shabbily genteel, YMCA-sized rooms of Suite 801. 801 was registered only under the name of “Monsieur Paul.” [P]apers were scattered over the floor … piles of string-tied boxes and suitcases … an unmade day bed, the cold remains of a meager meal, a collection of half-filled rum and Coca-Cola bottles. Amid it all sat a tall, heavy-shouldered man whose massive head, topped by long, reddish-brown hair, gave him the appearance of an aging lion.… Jean Paul Getty, 65, probably the world’s richest private citizen, went calmly about his work.
Getty answered phone calls himself, speaking with importers and shipbuilders. Declining a lunch date, he read and annotated cables and reports, and answered letters, which he’d mail later in the day, not trusting others. “In mid-afternoon Getty received a distinguished visitor: John D. Rockefeller III, 51, scion of an older oil dynasty, who came to ask his financial support for a $75 million art center in Manhattan. Getty expressed interest, made no commitment.” Before nightfall he took his “daily two-mile walk through Paris (he carries a pedometer to make sure he goes just the right distance), pondering along his way the problems of the world—his world.”
Gail followed her husband to Paris with infant Paul. Postwar Paris was yet a little shabby, down at the heel, but still Paris. Upon meeting them together, Old Paul decided to send them not to the deserts of Saudi Arabia as he had planned, but to Rome. He meant the best but, given his son’s taste for hard liquor and distaste for business, and his daughter-in-law’s determination to “kick up her heels,” it was one of the worst decisions he ever made. While they were in Paris, the Algerian War of Independence spilled over into the streets. The Old Man, grown fearful as his years advanced and his treasure increased, went with them on one last Grand Tour of Europe. He had spent much of his life on the Continent and he was eager to show them what he knew.
Gail:
We flew with little Paul to Los Angeles, and then over the Pole, in one of those old-fashioned planes that have sleeping berths. It was fantastic. Paul loved it. He was seventeen months old, so good, incredible little boy, so cute. He just sat and played with his toys, never cried. He had sacks of things to play with and trays of food and he ate everything and then he got up in this funny double berth we had and we slept.
We landed in Copenhagen. Paul was fascinated with all these people on bicycles. He didn’t miss a thing. We went to a hotel for a few hours to give Little Paul breakfast, then we flew on to Paris. Big Paul met us. He was staying in a small hotel two blocks from the George V.
We brought Little Paul over to meet his grandfather. I had never met him before and I didn’t know what in God’s name to expect, but he was very sweet. He had been terribly ill with shingles. As a young man he was very good-looking, but now he looked old. He was thrilled to meet his grandson, it cheered him up.
We dangled a lot on what Old Paul was going to do. It’s the Getty rite. You sit about because you might be going to lunch, but then again you might not.
He really enjoyed being with his son. Paul was interesting and artistic. He didn’t know anything about business, he was interested in the arts. It was pleasant for the old man, a common ground for them. Old Paul said, “There’s no way I’m going to send you, a young wife, and a little baby to Kuwait.” Gordon was in Paris. So he sent brother Gordon to the neutral zone in our place. Poor Gordon got sent out, but he was the bachelor. He didn’t last very long.
I don’t remember how it happened, but Gordon got himself mixed up in some complication with the Kuwaiti government there. They have their law. I don’t remember what it was, but he became indignant about the treatment of someone’s wife—a Westerner’s wife. As I recall, she had done something that offended the Kuwaitis. They wanted to punish her by stoning her in the local square. Gordon tried to stop them. They told him to leave. You’re not supposed to interfere. I don’t think he can go back yet.
In Paris in 1959 we met Jack Forrester, Old Paul’s best friend and business partner. The two of them were so different, an oilman and an ex-hoofer [a vaudeville song-and-dance man] Jack was in his mid- to late forties then—short, handsome, Irish-looking. He always wore a white jacket. He was with Maurice Chevalier. I think they met in New York or Paris when they were young. Jack was a marvelous dancer. He was with Chevalier for a long time. He’s a very gay man, lots of fun. He was horrified that Big Paul wouldn’t dance, but Paul was shy.
Jack really became Big Paul’s father. That’s what really happened. Jack believed tremendously in Big Paul; he felt that with his help, Big Paul could do things. When the Algerian situation flared up in Paris and the streets were filled with soldiers and machine guns, there was panic. Old Paul was terrified. It really upset him. He called and said, “Get ready, it’s getting dangerous, we should get out. We’ll go to the World’s Fair in Brussels.” We took the train.
All the old man carried was a funny little suitcase. He’d put a couple of things in it and get on the train. We were in Brussels a month. Once Old Paul settles into a place, that’s it. The businessmen flew in.
Old Paul took me to dinner and dancing but Big Paul couldn’t come. He didn’t have a dark suit. Old Paul said, “Everyone knows you should always bring a dark suit. If you go away for the weekend, you should always bring a dark suit.”
In business Paul would sit in on his father’s meetings all day long, trying to learn. We’d wheel little Paul about the cobbled streets in his stroller. We spent a lot of time at the fair. Every morning it was “Let’s go to the fair!” But Old Paul is like his son and his grandson, he’s always late. You’d get everything together, the baby would be ready, but then there’d be stalling and carrying on. Finally we’d go to the Russian Pavilion and eat mountains of caviar. It was divine. The most fantastic caviar I’ve ever had.
Old Paul loves American things. We’d go to the American Pavilion and stand around incredibly bored—June Castle [the secretary], Big Paul, Little Paul, myself, and Jack—waiting for Old Paul. He was like a child. At the American Pavilion they had a cafeteria counter, with swinging chairs. He’d get up and swivel on the stool at the soda fountain and order ice cream, a soda, a sundae, pancakes. We’d sit there for hours and all we wanted to do was get out.
Then he took us on a grand tour. Old Paul drove a big white Cadillac so slowly it took hours and hours. I couldn’t bear it. We were Paul, myself, Little Paul, Big Paul, and Penelope [Old Paul’s friend and assistant]. When Old Paul asked us if we wanted to come in the car, I’d say, “Thank you, that’s awfully sweet. I won’t come in the car, I’ll go on the train.” We went all ’round Holland, to Amsterdam to see Rembrandt’s The Night Watch.
In Germany we stayed at Brenners Park-Hotel at the spa in Baden-Baden—beautiful carpets, furniture, and superb food. He hadn’t been there since the war, but the owner remembered him. Old Paul was thrilled, he loved Germany. We drank Ohios: Champagne, brandy, and strawberries in huge crystal glasses. A maid would take care of Little Paul while we were drinking, wishing we were some place kicking up our heels, being silly.
From there we went through Switzerland, to Milano. Old Paul was thinking about buying a villa in Ladispoli outside Rome, but we stopped in Milan because he wanted to buy an oil refinery. I like Milan now, but I didn’t speak Italian then. We stayed for six months.
While we were there, we noticed Little Paul had a problem with one eye. Doctors said it was a muscle thing and eventually it would straighten out and not to worry about it, so I didn’t.
Old Paul had been living in hotels for many years, but we got a big apartment in Milan.
We went to Villa d’Este at Como every weekend with crazy friends. They had a boat. Big Paul would water ski while his father went out of his mind. He was terrified. Little Paul and his grandfather were terribly sweet together. Little Paul is the only grandchild who eve
r spent much time with the old man.
Old Paul bought the oil refinery. It had offices in Milan. Big Paul went to work there, learning to run it. People came from all over the world for big meetings. Old Paul carried his office with him, boxes of paper, his secretary, us, and whoever else.
In Milan we heard that Timothy, Old Paul’s youngest son, had died. He was twelve—sweet and loving. He had brain cancer. I don’t think Old Paul ever got over his death. There were a series of personal tragedies leading up to the kidnapping. At the end of the year he decided to move the offices of Getty Oil Italia to Rome. He gave us his old Cadillac and we drove down there. We didn’t know anyone.
3.
If Paris was the capital of the twenties, Berlin the thirties, Hollywood the forties, Rome was that of the fifties. Italy was emerging from an agricultural to a postindustrial nation. A far cry from California, Rome was an even further cry from provincial San Francisco. Whatever their expectations, Big Paul and Gail could have had no idea of what awaited them. Most Americans thought of this city then as a kind of Audrey Hepburn Roman Holiday. More accurately it was Fellini’s La Dolce Vita—a film that came out the year they arrived. With the advent of the sixties, naïvete was giving way to something more cynical. Refugees from Hollywood’s blacklist had come to the Cinecittà studios to make gladiator films—and spaghetti Westerns.
Big Paul and Gail rode in Old Paul’s big Cadillac to Rome in the autumn of 1959. They were a handsome couple in the bloom of youth with a darling, auburn-haired, two-year-old son; a country estate; a chauffeured limousine; and a name to open any door. In the next four years, three more children were born to them: Mark, Aileen, and Ariadne. Paul did well at first.
Gail:
In Rome we began meeting young people at last: Ann and George d’Almeida. He was a painter. Jack Zajac, a sculptor, and the Di Robinas, an Italian married to an American, and the writers Phil Murray and Bill Styron. We were a close group, having loads of fun. We used to play “murder” at dinner parties, fall around on the floor, people pinching other people.
Little Paul was good, shy, not anxious to run out to the dance. He made nice friends, brought them home.
In summer we took a huge house down on the coast in a little village, Sabaudia, so everyone could come. Aileen had just been born. Big Paul would work during the week, then take a taxi down on weekends.
Old Paul had made Big Paul the amministratore delegato of the Getty Oil Company in Italy—the vice president. The president was a strange man. In the beginning he was very nice, but he seemed to be the kind of person who would do anything, flatter anyone, pretend to be your friend because he wanted to get where he wanted to get. People behave like that with the Gettys. They don’t know who’s a friend and who’s out to get them.
It was a good period for Big Paul. The Getty Oil Company had a contract with the Kuwaitis and the Saudis. The concession is in the neutral zone, controlled by various countries. Big Paul was fantastic at negotiating with the Arabs. He’s bright. King Faisal got on tremendously with him. I remember him saying what an extraordinary man Faisal was.
Little Paul has his clear memories of these days too. Somewhere here, in “childhood’s darkest hour” as Poe put it, things began to go wrong for him.
Paul:
In Rome our house was on the Appian Way, ten kilometers out, past the Catacombs. Three big houses, one hundred acres of land, pine trees, a long driveway leading to a farmhouse. Built at the time of the Fascists. An outdoor pool and a house for the secretary, Fraser McKno. They grew wheat in the back and grapes. I remember watching the farmers make the pasta. A happy place. We ran around all the time.
Mark, my brother, and my sisters were born then in a hospital in Rome. I’m the only one born in America. We had a nurse to look after us. I didn’t see much of my mother until I was ten or so. We had a nursery. “Children are to be seen and not heard.” We ate in the nursery. We were close with our servants. Two Austrian nannies did everything. They taught me German. I spoke Italian and was learning French.
For my birthday my father gave me antelopes and gazelles, caught in Africa. He had an old MG car, which he still has, and one day I was in it with my sisters. Someone else was driving, father was riding his bicycle alongside us. Suddenly we saw people running across a meadow with sacks. I thought they were thieves coming to rob him. So I jumped out of the car and tried to stop my father by putting my fingers in the bicycle spokes. I was about five or six.
There was a television in the house but we could only look at it at certain times. I remember the day that Kennedy died, November ’63. I was in the children’s playroom. They said, “John Kennedy died, so television will be off for the whole day.” There was a big love for Kennedy in Italy. Even now in poor people’s houses there’s still always a little picture of Kennedy and Pope John.
My parents were involved in society, they went to the opera. Very formal. When my father went to the office, all he did was sign letters, sit around looking at models of refineries. When I went, they’d do anything for me. People who work for Getty Oil are completely devoted to the old man. Sad cases, really.
We would spend Christmases with my grandfather. Every year he would have a party for about five hundred kids from an orphanage. He would sit around with this paper hat on and clown with the children. There were magicians and clowns. That’s where they got the idea for The Magic Christian. My best memory of all is being with Ringo Starr at Sutton Place; the BBC was there, shooting a film on the Beatles. It was New Year’s Eve. I went to sleep and they woke me up to see the Beatles on television. I thought the Beatles were little animals.
I slept in Anne Boleyn’s room. I get mad when people say they don’t believe in ghosts. I’ve gone to sleep in that room with the closet on the left and woken up with it on the other side. They have to keep it the same way it’s been. Each time they move it, it moves right back. My grandfather invites people and has them stay in there and laughs and laughs and laughs.
He’s got a big white bedroom, very nice, a bathroom with solid-gold water taps, because he says gold kills bacteria. It’s the only sort of ostentatious thing. There is a Chagall above his bed and, in front, a Monet. Otherwise it’s all white. Big, big bed, all kinds of buttons and telephones and automatic door locks. He doesn’t let anybody in his room. He works till three in the morning. Hard, hard work. He wakes up quite late, eats breakfast in bed. Sometimes I’d go up there at eleven or twelve. I’d just woken up, too. Grandfather played the businessman with me. I know how to play these games, to talk about dividends or selling shares. He would read the Wall Street Journal to me.
We went to London a couple of times to screenings. I went to the premiere of the The Yellow Rolls-Royce with him. I loved it.
Back in Rome they sent me to St. George’s Prep School. It was quite pleasant. Sunley was the headmaster. I got on with him and his wife. They ran an imaginative and free school. I was Mrs. Sunley’s pet. We got into theater. We had fun rehearsing. I played Little Chimney Sweep, Puck in Midsummer’s Night Dream … Romeo and Juliet, and Murder in the Cathedral. I was a police officer in that. We made our own plays, that I really dug.
It was about that time that my parents began breaking up. I didn’t know anything about it. At that time children weren’t told anything, especially in a place like Italy. I’m very young, but even I’ve noticed how children are more respected today.
When I went back to school, a new headmaster came, heavyset, middle-aged, short hair, piggy sort of face, half German and half English. He didn’t get along with me. I was too strong.
In Rome they were fine ambassadors for Getty Oil. On the face of it, Big Paul and Gail—he tall and slim, she radiantly beautiful and charming—were a glorious couple, but the shine soon began to wear off. Between the weight of rearing four children, carrying on a lopsided social life—Gail liked to “kick up her heels” and Big Paul listened to Wagner—and keeping up a façade for the business world (a world Gail had known from the st
art that Big Paul abhorred and yet she insisted he continue), the couple’s marriage slowly suffocated. Somewhere in these days is the seed of Paul’s unhappiness.
Big Paul withdrew and the family broke up. The children were more and more ignored and the more Paul, now a young boy, was ignored the more he clamored for his father’s attention and acted out his unhappiness at not getting it.
Finally, Big Paul acknowledged his dissatisfaction by opening the marriage, ushering him and Gail into the wild world of the all-you-can-eat sixties. A world that would amplify their individual appetites until the family and they themselves were torn apart. Gail was remarkably candid about these days.
Gail:
Big Paul was more and more worried about responsibility, even though he never made an important decision before checking with his father. In the end, the only thing he enjoyed about the oil business was negotiating with the Arabs.
When he came home from the office, he wanted to talk about opera or theater or movies or the children or me or him but not what he had done all day. He had just sat there shuffling papers, sitting in meetings. He wasn’t a businessman, that’s all. Then slowly, slowly, he found that there was no appreciation for what he was doing and for giving up what he wanted to do. He’s a creative person. The office is a stifling atmosphere. One’s brain rots if you don’t do anything. But he became used to the things that went with the secretary. He adapted. He needed money. He didn’t even like to drive a car. The driver picked him up every morning and brought him home. You get used to that kind of thing. He couldn’t do anything for himself anymore except just sit and listen to his opera records. I like opera, but it couldn’t be my only amusement.
