In the Name of Gucci Page 4

  One particular store caught his eye. It was situated on the ground floor of his hotel, the prestigious Savoy-Plaza (from which he would write my mother letters, but more on that later). On the corner of East Fifty-Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue, the iconic luxury hotel with the auspicious name towered over Central Park. The stores in its ground-floor premises may not have opened directly onto Fifth Avenue, as my father would have preferred, but they were within view of the luxury department store Bergdorf Goodman, a nine-story Beaux Arts monument to shopping that described itself as “the pinnacle of style.” By comparison, the place Papà liked at number 7 East Fifty-Eighth Street was relatively modest, and at $1,500 a year it was too good to pass up. He was sold.

  Keen to keep my uncle Rodolfo on his side, he urged him to sail to New York to view the property for himself before the two of them entered into negotiations with bankers about setting up Gucci Shops Incorporated in America. In what must have seemed like a brazen act of defiance to my grandfather, the two brothers sent a telegram informing him of the move only once the lease was signed and the deal was done. Helpless four thousand miles away, Guccio—who’d thought they’d only gone to the States to get a general feel for retail trade there—accused Papà of foolhardiness that could ruin them all. He demanded via cable that they cancel the lease and return home immediately. They didn’t.

  Few were privy to the conversations that ensued when they walked back into the offices of Gucci & Co., but they must have been tumultuous. For my grandfather, who’d lived through near financial ruin and two world wars, the pace at which his eldest son was pushing the business must have seemed terrifying. On January 2, 1953, he dropped dead of a heart attack with my stalwart grandmother Aida by his side. He was seventy-one years old. The indomitable woman who’d defied convention by having an illegitimate baby before persuading Guccio to set up in a business she’d help him run would follow him to the grave in less than two years.

  It was to my grandfather’s credit, I think, that the man who’d started the company and seen all his dreams come true did accede to his sons’ wishes a few weeks before he died. Having listened to my father’s persuasive arguments, he gave him his blessing for their ambitious new American venture. The baton had been handed on.

  Ten months after Guccio was laid to rest in the marble family tomb at the Soffiano cemetery on the outskirts of Florence, which I would come to know so well, my father masterminded the grand opening of his first store on American soil in November 1953. A pioneer of Italian design, his was the first shop to sell high-quality Italian products in the United States.

  Although officially a joint shareholder with his brothers, none doubted that Papà was now the de facto head of G. Gucci & Co. To mark the occasion, the company launched a new range, which included the first Gucci loafer—a personal favorite of mine as a young girl. The elegant slip-on shoe made of crocodile hide, leather, or suede with a metal snaffle-bit detail was an item that would help transform the future of the business.

  With the opening of the Manhattan store, my father’s passion was unleashed. He took great pride in the fact that all three of his sons were by then working for the family firm. Giorgio and Roberto plodded away diligently behind the scenes while the more colorful Paolo—a chip off the old block—was encouraged to draw on his creative impulses and set to creating new designs. As he watched each of them bring his own unique talents to the company, Papà knew he had created not only a myth but also a legacy.

  The New York premises were the most elegant and aspirational yet, exuding sophistication, luxury, and glamour in a trend that would be echoed worldwide. As the camera shutters clicked, he stood beside his favored son, Roberto, and was flanked by my uncles Rodolfo and Vasco in a touching display of Gucci unity. They were sending a clear signal that this company would be run by the men of the family.

  My aunt Grimalda, born of the wrong gender, had worked in the Florence store all her life. A loan from her fiancé had saved it from folding early on. Nevertheless, she received nothing from my grandfather’s three-way split of the business as set out in his will. Instead she was gifted some land and twelve million lire (approximately $20,000). It was a decision that sparked the first legal action within the family when she challenged the unfair division of spoils. Attorneys acting for her brothers crushed her move ruthlessly in court, a result that would embitter her and her family for years.

  This critical lawsuit in the history of Gucci happened ten years before my birth, but the internecine battles had begun.

  Life for our family would never be the same.

  There are pivotal moments in all our lives when choosing a particular path leads us to a future we might otherwise not have had. I can think of several such instances in mine and often wonder how things might have panned out had I gone the other way.

  In the story of my family, I suppose the moment Guccio decided to leave Florence and seek his fortune in London was a critical juncture, and for Papà it must have been the day he boarded the ship to New York. For my mother, Bruna, it was surely the moment she stepped over the threshold of the Gucci store at 21 Via Condotti, Rome, on a balmy Friday morning in April 1956.

  It was, she said, “like entering another world.” Eighteen years old and the daughter of a widowed seamstress, Mamma tried to conceal the trembling of her hands by tightly clutching what she suddenly realized was a very inferior purse. In her best dress, a shift of powder blue she paired with black court shoes, she had left her mother’s apartment in Viale Manzoni in the west of Rome that morning excited but anxious. Her boyfriend Pietro had arranged an interview with his brother-in-law, who was the floor manager at the flagship store, and for days she’d been deciding what to wear and rehearsing what to say.

  “I knew that if I could get this job I’d have my own money to buy whatever I wanted,” she told me. “It was a good opportunity, otherwise who knows what might have become of me.”

  The youngest of three children, Mamma was conceived amid New Year’s Eve fireworks in 1936 and born exactly nine months later on October 1, 1937, two years before the start of the Second World War. My grandfather Alfredo Palombo was a middle-ranking civil servant and devoted Fascist. Grandmother Delia was a liberal and, according to my mother, an “angel.” The baby of the family, Bruna was adored unconditionally by her mother, who breast-fed her until she was two. With the dark hair that had inspired her name plaited into pigtails, as a child my mother was happy yet clingy—a personality trait that would dog her for much of her life and affect her relationships with my father and me. Afraid to be alone, she slept in her parents’ bed until she was six and was permanently glued to my grandmother’s side.

  The advent of World War II changed everything for her family. Once Italy swapped sides and its government was dissolved, my grandfather Alfredo was divested of the job he’d expected to keep for life. Mussolini was arrested and imprisoned in a mountain resort until Nazi commandos swept in and audaciously rescued him in a glider before reestablishing him as a puppet leader. His new regime was set up in Gargnano on the banks of Lake Garda in the northern district of Lombardy. Eight hundred former government employees, including my grandfather, were summoned to work there. Virtually unemployable in Rome, they had little choice but to accept, and Alfredo was especially happy to serve his Duce once more.

  Aged five, my mother was bundled onto a train with her older brother, Franco, and sister, Gabriella, as the family left Rome and relocated to a small house in the resort town of Maderno, near Gargnano. Aside from her delight at seeing snow for the first time, she found the transition difficult in a place where much of the town had been requisitioned for the sudden influx. The locals, who looked down on people from the south, resented the newcomers and my mother was teased at school for her Roman accent, making her feel inadequate and self-conscious.

  Guarded by soldiers and surrounded by bomb shelters, this hitherto peaceful region also endured frequent Allied air raids. When several of Mussolini’s soldiers were killed, th
e people of the town, including my mother, were ordered to line the streets as the corpses were paraded in open caskets. Missing their home and never settling into their new surroundings, the Palombo family remained there until the end of the war and the arrival of American troops. After the execution of Mussolini they had no choice but to return to Rome, all of them changed by the experience.

  My grandfather could only find a much lowlier government job on less pay. His rancor affected his health, exacerbating an existing stomach ulcer and kidney condition, the pain of which only worsened his moods. Mamma frequently found herself on the receiving end of his temper, beaten for the smallest indiscretion. My uncle Franco kept out of the way and my aunt Gabriella, who was pretty, smart, and something of a “daddy’s girl,” was the only one to escape his constant carping. Gabriella was also someone to whom my mother was often unfavorably compared, which left her feeling she had little in common with either sibling. Lonely and self-absorbed, she learned to play in a world of her own. I can certainly relate to her childhood isolation.

  At least she had her mother’s unconditional love, or so she thought. At eight years old, she accidentally overheard my grandmother telling a girlfriend, “I didn’t want Bruna to be born. We couldn’t afford another child and I tried everything to get rid of the baby.” Too young to comprehend the reasons, my mother was shattered by the news, which scarred her for life. Soon afterward, she developed a quirky habit of carrying a handbag everywhere as a kind of comforter. She still does it. In her childhood purse she kept her few precious belongings and began to trade them when anyone offered her a gift. Whether it was a piece of candy or something equally trivial, she felt she had to reciprocate, even if it meant plucking a button from her blouse. My grandmother thought the gesture amusing without recognizing the underlying emotional conflict about my mother’s worth that it foretold.

  In spite of the discovery that she wasn’t wanted at first, my mother’s only happy childhood memories revolve around my grandmother. Delia’s sunny disposition illuminated their apartment as she sat at her sewing machine singing while she created the kinds of dresses she could never afford. My mother would watch her create a stunning garment from pattern to completion in a matter of hours and daydream about the lives of the people who might wear such extravagant gowns. “I loved dressing up and wearing makeup. I’d borrow my mother’s eyeliner and apply it carefully until I looked just like Cleopatra. I imagined myself as an exotic woman, wearing those beautiful clothes and living a very different kind of life.”

  My grandmother was something of a psychic who claimed to have frequent premonitions. One day she looked up from her sewing machine to announce, “Your sister, Gabriella, will have to work hard to get what she wants, Bruna, but everything will come to you on a silver platter.” Privately, my mother thought that highly unlikely.

  By the time she was a teenager, Mamma had acquired a mischievous best friend named Maria-Grazia who encouraged her to rebel against her father’s strictures. She began by trying items he had banned, such as chewing gum and cigarettes, and then she started staying out late—risking a beating if he caught her. By the time she was fourteen, however, her chief interest had switched to boys, or to one boy in particular. His name was Pietro and he was three years older than she with thick dark hair, exceptionally long eyelashes, and “a beautiful mouth.”

  As sweethearts, they did all the usual things young couples do, like taking part in the nightly passeggiata on the piazza, spending time with friends, or watching dubbed Hollywood movies such as High Noon and Singin’ in the Rain. Pietro was an only son who worked for his family’s thriving foods business, a job that often took him out of the city. He was better off than most, and with a Fiat 1100 (known as a Magic Millecento) as an eighteenth-birthday present, he became the first in their circle to own a car. Taking my mother for romantic drives, Pietro would park somewhere isolated, turn the radio dial to some ambient music, and then try to caress her while she resisted anything more than a kiss.

  Happy enough with her boyfriend, Mamma was not so happy at home. Although my grandfather’s mood had been lifted by an unexpected lottery win (of around $5,000), under his rule my mother and aunt Gabriella were expected to dress conservatively and adhere to a nightly curfew, both of which they resented. It seemed to her that his life’s ambition was to make everyone around him miserable and she couldn’t see how this would ever change.

  Then on a hot day in June 1953, it did. My mother arrived home from school to be informed by a neighbor that her father had collapsed and been rushed to the hospital. As her father had been dogged by ill health for years and had recently undergone surgery to remove some kidney stones, my mother wasn’t unduly worried.

  She sat at the kitchen table and began flicking through the newspaper, which was full of photographs of the coronation of Queen Elizabeth. As she studied the pictures from London, she helped herself from a bowl of cherries that had been left for her. Eating one after the other in a reverie, she listened to the clock ticking on the wall and waited for her mother to come home. It was less than an hour later when the same neighbor who’d let her in with a key burst back into her apartment and shrieked, “Your papà is dead! Your papà is dead!” An ictus cerebrale, or stroke, had killed him. Mamma just sat there numbly finishing the bowl without saying a word as she stared at the clock. The taste of cherries would always remind her of that moment.

  I never met any of my grandparents but I do know that my mother had few fond memories of my grandfather and didn’t especially mourn his loss. Mercifully, his death left the family better off than they’d been, thanks to both the lottery windfall and his government pension. Then, soon afterward, my aunt Gabriella moved out to marry a dentist and my uncle Franco found a position with BP. My mother wanted a skill of her own and she started a course to learn stenography, where she met other young people and started to go out more. All seemed brighter until Franco assumed the role of head of the household and continued to enforce his father’s codes of conduct, especially where Mamma’s behavior was concerned.

  “I did everything I could to escape Franco and the apartment,” she told me. “He still watched my every move, though, and was on me like a dog if I stayed out beyond his curfew. He was a tyrant!”

  This tyranny was mirrored in Pietro, who also decided that he didn’t want my mother wearing makeup anymore, something that every pretty young signorina did, especially one who took such pride in her appearance. “And I don’t like you wearing high heels unless you’re with me,” he insisted. He also wanted to know her whereabouts at all times. Their constant quibbling led to arguments over the telephone that invariably ended with her slamming down the receiver.

  Then one night as they sat canoodling together in his car, Pietro unexpectedly proposed. Before she could even think what she was saying, she heard herself say, “Sì.” So confident was he of her answer that he immediately produced a small velvet box containing a pearl engagement ring. She slipped it on her finger even though she hated pearls and had private misgivings about swapping a life under Franco’s rule for one under Pietro’s.

  My grandmother was crestfallen. She had her own doubts about Pietro and immediately shared them, informing Mamma that she’d made a mistake in marrying her father. “Think carefully about what you’re doing, Bruna,” she warned. “I don’t think Pietro’s right for you. In fact, if you do go ahead and marry him, I predict you’ll be home within three days.”

  Mamma was torn. She’d promised herself that she’d never end up with an authoritarian like her father, but then it seemed to her that most Italian men behaved like that, so what choice did she have? Pietro was essentially decent and conscientious and he clearly adored her. Her friends repeatedly told her he was a “catch” who’d make a steady husband and a fine father.

  Unaware of her reservations and already making plans for their future together, Pietro began to give Mamma half his weekly wages, which she kept in a shoe box hidden under a chest of drawers in her b
edroom. Their life together seemed preordained. Just as she’d pulled a button from her blouse as a child in exchange for something, so she’d pledged herself to him in return for his protection. There didn’t seem to be any alternative.

  After finishing her stenographer’s course, my mother was told in no uncertain terms by my grandmother that if she wanted her own money then she had to get a job. Pietro agreed only reluctantly but he chose both the job and the venue once his brother-in-law Laurent told him there was a suitable position behind the scenes at Gucci.

  It was a bright Friday morning in the spring of 1956 when my mother found herself at a pivotal moment in her life as she walked into a shop she’d never heard of before. Oblivious to the importance of the day, she gazed about in wonder at the luxurious but understated store with its wooden display cases redolent of new leather. When Laurent beckoned, she followed him to a first-floor office, noticing how the heels of her shoes sank deep into the green carpet. Pietro’s brother-in-law was sophisticated, tall, and slim, and seemed extremely relaxed. He revealed that the job that might suit her was in the storeroom with a starting salary of what felt to her like a staggering sum of twenty-five thousand lire a week.

  “If you do well, you could work your way to the shop floor,” he added. Reeling from the idea of being one of the chic “front of house” girls she’d just passed downstairs, she almost tripped over him as he led her along a corridor to another office with a glass-fronted door. Turning the handle, he smiled and said, “First I have to introduce you to the boss.”

  Just before he opened the door, he whispered, “Don’t speak until spoken to, and then don’t say too much.” She was suddenly so nervous that she felt dizzy.

  They stepped into a surprisingly basic office arranged with artful informality. A secretary sat typing away in a small anteroom. Behind a large wooden desk stood a slim, smartly dressed businessman with thinning hair elegantly slicked back.