In the Name of Gucci Read online

  The dread of having to break the news to Papà almost gave her a nervous breakdown, however. Debating in her mind all the reasons why she should end their affair, she played a game of devil’s advocate I was to become all too familiar with, toying endlessly with the pros and cons. After all, if Dr. Gucci was the kind of man to betray his wife, then surely he’d cheat on her too eventually. And if they did choose to be together and were discovered, they might both end up in jail, forever shamed.

  With so many conflicting thoughts racing around inside her head, she could hardly sleep once more. In a pattern of disturbed nights I so often witnessed, her dreams were only further tormented by her fears and she would wake, shivering and afraid, unable to share the cause of her nighttime terrors with anyone.

  Papà sensed something new was troubling her and tried to reach out once more. He wrote to her in the early hours of the morning after one disastrous dinner during which she’d hardly said a word. His letter was lying on her desk the following morning as he headed back across the Atlantic.

  It’s only been a few hours since I wished you good night….[Y]ou turned and were on your way like a stranger in the night, as if our hearts had never touched. My precious treasure, how agonizing this is, what a torture! I know you love me. I know it because you told me so and it made me so indescribably happy, filling my soul with joy, that’s why I understand your trepidation and I feel the distress in the mute language of a loving heart…

  She had to wait an agonizing month for my father’s return and then she plucked up the courage to tell him that his feelings for her were “preposterous” and that they had to stop seeing each other. Distraught, he asked her what had changed and so she told him of her fiancé’s fury. After reiterating that their relationship was immoral, illegal, and ultimately impossible, she announced, “I’m marrying Pietro in October,” before hurrying from the room.

  Unable to reach her by any other means, my father flooded her with another wave of letters to try to keep her close—in spirit at least. In them he implored her “not to let the curtain fall on [them] so soon.” He warned her that she was settling for a future that would deprive her “of the fundamental ingredient of happiness” and that she had to carefully consider the drawbacks. He was, he told her, miserable and “alone in a storm,” determined to “fight for a life worth living.” He assured her that their future together was not as impossible as she imagined, especially with “the means at [his] disposal.” Without her company he would return to his villa—“a cold, empty castle, deprived of the oxygen and the atmosphere to enable [him] to breathe.”

  He concluded, dramatically, “I solemnly swear before God that if my soul is denied the opportunity of spiritual growth then I shall become cynical, mean and ruthless…I never will be able to erase you from my heart.”

  Secretly, she loved his romantic overtures and relished each amorous note she pored over on her bus ride home. Once she read it, she’d fold it carefully and place it inside her blouse, close to her heart. Whichever path she chose, she knew she would always have his beautiful, if unanswered, letters.

  Each time she spurned his advances and reminded him of her ongoing wedding preparations, he’d write her another note, the tone of which became increasingly desperate. He even tried to shock her into being with him by not communicating with her at all but this truce lasted precisely ten days. His desperation was such that my mother feared he might even turn up at her wedding to create a scene. Before either of them faced that day, though, he made a final attempt to convince her to be with him, while there was still time.

  Forgive me if, despite my promise not to revisit this argument, I express once more just how important it is for me to put pen to paper…I love you Bruna, I love you in a way you may not yet understand….What we have is a gift from God….You must reflect very carefully…this is an important decision, think it over, do not commit, put everything on hold, this is critical, Bruna, critical.

  This time, something he said hit home. As October loomed and doubts continued to crowd her head, she knew that her marriage to Pietro could lead to a lifetime of regret. Hadn’t her mother already warned her that she’d be back home in three days? Was choosing to be with the man she loved any worse than marrying a man she did not? My father cited his own experience, having spent the best part of his life in a marriage that had only come about because of what he called “an error of judgment” made in his youth.

  He wrote to her somewhat bitterly, “Happiness is a spiritual blessing that one does not necessarily find in marriage. It is up to us to recognize and interpret this divine gift. Everything else is nothing more than compromised, often bitter coexistence, which can be depressing to the point of eradicating love altogether. I know this from personal experience….I gave in to social pressure without first consulting my heart. That vital source which feeds our hearts is all dried up in me now. How difficult it is to live this way, how sad! Sometimes, material wealth can compensate…but not always, indeed, hardly ever.”

  That summer Papà threw a party for his staff at home while his wife was away visiting her family. “You must come,” he urged my mother. “It will be a fun evening. Everyone else will be there. It will look strange if you don’t.”

  She’d never been anywhere like Villa Camilluccia. Accompanied by Nicola, Lucia, and other colleagues, all in cocktail dresses or suits, she wandered openmouthed around the gardens, marveling at the grandeur of it all. “It was one of the best nights of my life,” she told me. “There was a live band and white-coated waiters serving champagne, canapés, and cocktails by the pool.” Guests danced under colored lights to popular songs such as “Nel blu dipinto di blu” and “ ’A tazza ’e café.” Huge platters of hors d’oeuvres were laid out on tables spread with white linen and decorated with flowers.

  Toward the end of the evening, my father went up onto the dance floor, stopped the music, took the microphone, and delivered a fine speech about how far Gucci had come since its early days. “With your help, we can take this company still further and ensure a great future for us all.” It was a rousing, rallying call and everyone applauded as my mother stood in the center of the crowd proudly watching the man she wasn’t sure she could give up.

  The next morning there was a small package waiting on her desk. Inside was a cassette with an accompanying note explaining that it was a selection of the music from the party as well as a recording of my father’s speech. She couldn’t wait to get home and listen to it again on her brother’s tape recorder. Once she’d established that the cassette didn’t contain any compromising messages, she played it excitedly to my grandmother as my uncle Franco sat idly by.

  A few days later, my father telephoned my mother at home from his hotel in New York. He was eager to tell her how much he longed to see her again. My mother listened in silence and then told him, “I have to go now, dottore. It’s getting late.”

  “Ah, you’re going to bed,” he sighed. “I’m jealous. Soon you will be in the arms of Morpheus.”

  Neither of them was aware that there was a crossed line and that Franco—who’d telephoned the house to bid my grandmother good night—had accidentally dropped into their conversation and was listening in. He immediately recognized the voice with the Tuscan accent as the man on Mamma’s tape and knew then that there was something going on between his little sister and her boss.

  If it wasn’t for the presence of my grandmother in the apartment the following morning, I am convinced from the account of what happened next that my uncle Franco might well have beaten my mother senseless. I only ever met Franco once (and all I remember is that he was fat), but from what I have heard I imagine him to have been much like my grandfather Alfredo—moody and unpredictable. The concept of family honor has been a tenet in Italian families since long before Romeo and Juliet, but it is still hard to imagine that it could lead to physical punishment.

  Having arrived home from his shift, the young man who regarded himself as head of the family and prot
ector of his sister’s virtue bolted the front door and then made a beeline for her room. “Puttana!” he cried, calling her a whore, and slapped her repeatedly. She fell to the floor under the rain of blows but still he continued until my grandmother burst in and pushed her way between them, screaming at her son to stop.

  “Franco! No! You’ll kill her!”

  Sensing that he may have gone too far, my uncle reined himself in as my grandmother knelt on the floor next to Mamma, who had protectively curled up into a ball. Standing over her shaking with fury, Franco accused her of bringing shame on the family. “She’s engaged!” he yelled. “Yet she’s messing around behind Pietro’s back!” Seeing that my grandmother wasn’t listening, he warned Mamma, “Now, I will teach that Dr. Gucci of yours a lesson he’ll remember. I’ll kill him!” before storming out.

  My mother was in bad shape, with a bruised face and a split lip. Her left eye was already starting to swell. Sobbing, she tried to explain herself, but my grandmother urged her not to speak. Helping her to her feet, she supported her weight as she hobbled to the kitchen, where she could tend to her wounds.

  In spite of her injuries, my mother’s only concern was for Papà. She had visions of my uncle Franco bursting into the store or attacking him on the street and insisted that she be allowed to call the shop and warn him. Only then did she take to her bed, where she remained covered in bruises for a week.

  When Franco eventually returned to the apartment a few hours later with no indication of where he’d been, my grandmother was assured that he hadn’t visited Gucci after all. A few hours later the telephone rang and Delia was surprised to hear the voice on the end of the line.

  “This is Aldo Gucci,” my father announced coolly. “I would like to speak to Franco Palombo, please.”

  As my mother lay in bed holding her breath she heard her brother take the call and agree to meet Papà outside the Mediterraneo Hotel on Via Cavour. A few minutes later he left the apartment, slamming the door behind him. My father told her later that when they met, Franco’s bravura dropped away the moment he came face-to-face with the distinguished gentleman in his fedora sitting in a Jaguar. Instead of “teaching him a lesson” as he’d threatened, Franco meekly accepted his invitation to sit in the passenger seat.

  Turning on his legendary charm, my father assured my uncle that he’d got it all wrong. He added, “I am very fond of your sister and highly appreciative of her skills but I have the utmost respect for her and would never take advantage.” Outwitted, Franco had no choice but to believe him. He even apologized to my mother when he got home.

  She told her brother she forgave him, but she never did. Nor could she risk seeing my father again in secret. After Pietro’s attack and Franco’s assault, it was clear that if she and Papà were ever exposed the consequences would no longer just be morally and legally disastrous but—potentially—a matter of life and death.

  By the time he tried to broach the subject of their love “one last time” she’d had enough. “You’ve created nothing but turmoil in my life!” she cried. “You are the cause of all my unhappiness. Basta! [Enough!]”

  No, her love affair with Aldo Gucci was over, and the sooner he accepted that, the better it would be for everyone.

  My mother says that I can talk for England. She claims I’ve inherited my father’s gift of communication and clever use of words in a way she never quite mastered.

  “You’re so eloquent, just like Aldo,” she tells me. “You express yourself so well with a vocabulary that is impressive. If you’d been a lawyer, I honestly believe you could have convinced a jury of anyone’s innocence!”

  Like most daughters, I love it whenever she tells me that there’s something about me that reminds her of my father, that I walk and talk like him and even look a little like him. It is a comfort to me now that he has gone. His command of language was certainly remarkable. With me he only ever spoke in English but with my mother it was always Italian. In whichever tongue, he was erudite, articulate, and quick-witted. Like me, he could turn a phrase to strike a chord or twist a heart.

  His letters were undoubtedly what most impressed my mother at first. And in those pivotal days after Pietro insisted they set a date for their wedding, it was my father’s words that would come to make all the difference.

  From the Savoy Hotel in London, where the spark of Gucci was first ignited, he sat at his desk utterly dejected the day after their latest argument and wrote her perhaps his most serious letter of all.

  Dear Bruna,

  Sadly I have come to the realization that yesterday was probably the last time we would discuss your predicament. While I do not want to make things worse than they already are, I must point out some serious flaws in your character that will hamper your development as a human being. It is plain to see that over the last twenty years, you have not truly understood the importance of self-respect and…the value of freedom of thought and freedom to make your own choices….You have clearly been denied such principles and have allowed others to intimidate you and submit you to their will.

  He went on to remind her that her imminent twenty-first birthday would herald a “bright new phase” of womanhood and yet she was destined for a “gray outlook” as a servant to an egotistical man who needed to “possess a woman without the kind of equality that makes relationships and life worth living.” It would be, he said, a “humiliating course” and “tantamount to suicide.”

  Perhaps it was that last dramatic expression that won her over—tantamount to suicide. A living death with a man she didn’t love, someone who shared many of the same controlling personality traits as her late father. Or perhaps after Pietro’s latest outburst it was the realization that Papà was indeed telling the truth. By contrast, my father was her “anchor,” the one who adored her and who could give her a life beyond her wildest dreams. His letters had undoubtedly stirred something in her. They made her feel as if she was worth something for the first time in her life.

  With these thoughts in mind, my mother came to an epiphany. She saw that Papà was right and that she needed to make a courageous decision. “I knew then what I had to do,” she told me. “Even though I was still so afraid.”

  She decided to telephone Pietro rather than risk facing him in person, telling him coolly that their engagement was off. “I am not the wife for you,” she told him. “Our characters will never get along. There is too much fighting and I’m tired of it.” He’d heard it all before and didn’t believe her for one minute—until she returned his savings, right down to the last lira, and the pearl ring that she’d never much liked. To her surprise, the young man she’d been tied to since she was fourteen years old mutely accepted her decision, spent their savings on a sports car, and moved to the Netherlands to start anew.

  Mamma was on her own.

  As if to mirror the turbulent events in her personal life, a few days after her birthday, Pius XII—the only Pope she’d ever known and the first to be born in Rome in over two hundred years—died at the age of eighty-two. After his near-twenty-year rule, the passing of the much-loved supreme pontiff shocked the nation. Following the announcement of his death from the papal summer residence of Castel Gandolfo, the capital was effectively closed. Nine days of official mourning were declared, with altars and buildings draped in purple. Hundreds of thousands of people lined the route of the papal cortege as Pius’s funeral heralded the largest procession the city had ever seen.

  Italians up and down the country gathered around their radios and television sets as they followed the latest developments from the Vatican, where a new pontiff had yet to be elected. With stores and offices closed and the city mourning for the Pope who’d stood by them during the war, there was little to do but sit at home and ponder. In normal circumstances my father would probably have flown to America, but having learned of my mother’s momentous decision to leave Pietro, he chose to stay put.

  It was during that extended period of public grief in an unusually warm October in 1958
when Papà invited her to meet him at his apartment. The lies she told my grandmother about where she was going only added to Mamma’s growing sense of guilt as she jumped in a taxi and asked the driver to take her to the Parioli Quarter. She knew exactly what would happen when she got there. However nervous she may have been, she went anyway.

  Papà was attentive and welcoming as he opened a bottle of wine while church bells echoed through the empty streets. The atmosphere between them was electric and her hand shook as she took the glass. To break the ice, he showed her around the apartment. “It lacked character, as if it was used for one purpose only,” she told me later. Then he led her into the bedroom.

  On that portentous day, my father took my mother’s virginity, or as he euphemistically put it, “picked a rose without thorns.” In four years with Pietro, she had preserved her chastity against all odds. Determined to remain pure until marriage, she had successfully fended off her fiancé each time he pounced. After such a tempestuous courtship and having finally chosen to be with my father, she appreciated that this time was different and she felt the weight of expectation on her shoulders.

  “He was my first,” she told me coyly. In her mind and in her heart, from that day forward she and my father were inextricably bound together—husband and wife in their hearts, if not by law.

  For my mother, the experience proved both painful and distressing. Afterward she felt dirty and sinful, especially on such a sacred day. The moment surely felt sacred for my father—albeit for different reasons—as he held her in his arms. Although he’d always admired her demure manner, he had been astonished to discover that she was a virgin, and the responsibility affected him deeply. He appreciated then that he’d taken something precious and, in turn, felt that she was “his forever.” It was as if a switch had flicked in his head and his feelings for her had moved to a higher plane.