In the Name of Gucci Page 9

  My father had taken care of all the arrangements and, in my mother’s absence, made sure the day went smoothly. Franco flew home from Sardinia and Gabriella was there with her family. They took one look at the sharply dressed gentleman who’d paid for the service and immediately understood why he’d gone to such lengths, and why their sister and mother had been living in Balduina. Curious glances were exchanged but nothing was said and after the short service, they all went their separate ways.

  The sudden awareness of her total isolation in the world was enough to unhinge my mother. Within a relatively short space of time she’d lost both parents, become estranged from her family, given up her fiancé, been pregnant, relinquished the job she loved, and begun living in constant fear of exposure. The previous twelve months with my grandmother may have been her happiest, but now the woman to whom she’d been morbidly attached since childhood was gone and she couldn’t envisage a world without her.

  All she had left was my father, who she now feared would almost certainly predecease her. “From that day on, I lived in mortal dread that he too would die suddenly, leaving me homeless and bereft. He kept assuring me that he was in excellent health, but I knew that he’d never be as dependent on me as I was on him and the thought terrified me.”

  Rendered almost insensible with grief, my mother remained in bed under the care of a doctor and a discreet governante (a companion-cum-housekeeper), a young Spanish woman named Maria whom my father had previously hired as a domestic at Villa Camilluccia. No matter what he did for my mother, though, she couldn’t seem to shake off her depression.

  Toward the end of the year he became so concerned—especially as her first Christmas without my grandmother approached—that he booked her a passage to New York on the SS Leonardo da Vinci. Maria was sent as her chaperone and he promised to join them soon after Christmas.

  Incredibly, my mother was transformed within days of stepping aboard that luxury liner. The sudden shift in perspective completely altered her mood. Relaxing in her sumptuous cabin, the youngest girl in first class escaped into a fantasy world in which she completely reinvented herself. As a child, she’d watched her mother sewing pretty dresses and imagined a different, more glamorous life. On the high seas and free from expectations, she was able to put on those kinds of outfits and act out her daydream at last.

  I find it hard to believe when I think of her now, but the story she told her fellow passengers was that she was the fiancée of a successful lawyer who’d marry her once she arrived in Manhattan. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t was surprisingly liberating and allowed her stifled imagination to run free. All her young life she had simply been Bruna Palombo—the obedient daughter of a dominant father and somebody whose life revolved around tradition and duty. Now she was cast adrift from all that paranoia and risk of scandal. She not only made new friends, she was given a prize for being the prettiest young woman on board.

  Whenever my father telephoned to speak to her via the radio room he was bemused at first to hear that she wasn’t in her cabin. Where could she be? he wondered, trying not to have jealous thoughts. When it happened once too often, he became irritated and eventually told the radio operator, “It can’t be that difficult to find one of your passengers, are you suggesting she’s gone overboard for a swim?” While he protested long-distance, the woman he continued to describe in his letters as “a whirlwind that unsettled [his] entire being” was winning new hearts without him, sitting at the captain’s table, where she’d been all along.

  On a chilly mid-November morning, my mother’s fantasy abruptly came to an end as her vessel sounded its foghorn and entered the deep waters of the Hudson River on its approach to Manhattan Island. Just as my father had instructed, she pulled on a warm woolen coat and went up on deck to see the Statue of Liberty loom through the winter mist. Like many Italians, she’d dreamed of going to the United States one day. She’d heard my father talk enthusiastically about how special New York was and how much he thought she’d love it. Now here she was—she’d made it.

  Seeing the iconic statue on Liberty Island, however, only made her mood plummet. There would be no handsome young lawyer to meet her quayside and no wedding to prepare for. In fact, she doubted she would ever be a bride at all. Papà would not be there to greet her. She wouldn’t see him for another month. She was alone but for a taciturn companion, in a far and foreign land.

  “I never loved America the way your father did,” she admitted later. “That was his dream, not mine.” In spite of the brief hiatus from her cares on the journey across the ocean, her first glimpse of “the land of the free and the home of the brave” did nothing to inspire courage. Nor did it release her from the ghosts of her past or the dark shadows over what often felt like an impossible future.

  Her new, temporary “home,” which he had rented from an acquaintance, was distinctly old-fashioned and oddly kitsch, with frescoed ceilings and a lavatory that resembled a throne. Grotesque ornaments were taped to the surfaces to prevent anyone from moving them and the furniture was covered in clear plastic. Even though the location was relatively central, she knew no one and had no idea where to go. The weather deteriorated into a typical East Coast winter with snow and ice, leaving them even more disinclined to go out. Trapped and friendless, the two women spent Christmas indoors eating take-out orders of fast food—pizzas, hamburgers, French fries, and Coca-Cola.

  By the time my father arrived in late December, he found my mother weighed down physically and emotionally and realized that his plan had ultimately backfired. As New Year’s Eve approached, he whisked her off to the one place he hoped might provide the tonic she needed—Las Vegas, in the middle of the Mojave Desert. The place known as “Sin City” was like nothing she had ever seen before, with palm trees, streamlined American cars, and big bright neon signs everywhere. Luxury hotels and casinos such as the Sands and the Desert Inn were buzzing with excitement. It was the era of the Rat Pack and Ocean’s Eleven, with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and Dean Martin playing nightly. Elvis Presley’s Viva Las Vegas had just been released and the Beatles would soon be performing on the Strip. I only wish I was old enough to have seen Vegas in its heyday.

  Gazing at the bustling gaming tables and martini-drinking high rollers playing blackjack, roulette, and craps just like in the movies, my mother’s eyes lit up. My father knew then that he’d done the right thing taking her there, even if he was a little anxious about letting her loose on the casino floor.

  Excited by all that she saw, her spirited side came out as she teasingly urged him to play roulette with her before dinner. Papà may have taken a few well-calculated business risks in his life but he was never a gambler, so he bought her a hundred dollars’ worth of chips and adjourned to the bar for a cocktail. If he thought she’d soon be back at his side, he was mistaken. When she didn’t appear, he finished his drink and went to find her. He was staggered to spot her at the head of a roulette table, surrounded by cheering admirers, her stack of chips increased sixfold.

  “Bruna! Come hai fatto?” (How did you do that?) he asked incredulously, pulling her away before she lost the lot.

  Laughing with glee, Mamma agreed to stop gambling on one condition—“Tonight, I’m going to buy you dinner!” she cried. It was a small but important victory. Ever since she’d given up work she’d been entirely dependent on my father. She wanted to treat him for a change, and her gesture touched him deeply.

  She tells me that the expression on his face as she grabbed the bill from the waiter at the end of their meal was “worth every throw of the dice!” My father was astonished at this new side to Bruna, who was high-spirited, having fun, and taking control. He had never loved her more.

  My father loved to haggle. A trader at heart, he liked nothing better than to beat someone down on price and cut himself a deal. I can remember him doing this when I was a child time and again.

  There was one episode in a British liquor store where a hapless sales assistant was left utt
erly bamboozled. “If you were to offer me a ten percent discount for ten bottles of wine,” my father told him, “I would buy ten rather than five, and you’d make more money.” His logic was inescapable but the man still needed some persuading. When he eventually conceded, Papà put two more bottles on the counter and said, “So for twelve bottles, I get a twelve percent discount, right?” The man eventually agreed, although his eyes popped out when he saw my father’s wallet, fat with bills. Papà laughed all the way home.

  For him, it was not just about saving money but playing a game—a war of wits with a fellow merchant—something that drove my mother spare. She’d sooner walk out of a store than be embarrassed by what she called his “souk practices.” Nevertheless she couldn’t help but laugh whenever he emerged triumphant after making some clever transaction.

  In their later years I found her embarrassment a little ironic considering how she ended up negotiating with him about everything from the time he spent with her to major lifestyle choices. It was a characteristic he always admired and that she first began to develop on her return from her trip to the United States. By her own admission, her experiences there altered her. No longer an inexperienced teenager, she was a worldly-wise young woman determined to make some major changes in her life and take better care of her affairs.

  First she decided to leave the apartment in Balduina. It was too big for her on her own and being in those empty rooms without my grandmother was unbearable. She rented it out and Papà found her another, more suitable property close to his old bachelor flat in the Parioli Quarter, near the park of Villa Borghese. Another big change in her life was that she resolved to go out more. She’d so enjoyed her time on the ship and in Vegas that when she returned to Rome she made plans to meet up with Nicola or Lucia after the store closed, and other friends she hadn’t spoken to in a while.

  For the next six months or so, my mother was as carefree as she had ever been as my father continued to fly around the world, checking on his stores and planning new ones. He continued with his routine of spending a week in one city followed by a week in the next, a cycle that meant she usually saw him every four weeks. He’d long since set his sights on opening a branch in London and every time he went there to view a potential location, he’d check into the Savoy, where my grandfather had worked as a young man. From his room, he reviewed details of various stores for rent, eventually settling on premises in Bond Street.

  At Mamma’s urging, he’d appointed Nicola as one of the managers. She knew that he was eager to return to London and this would be a stepping-stone for him to branch out and see more of the world. Nicola was delighted and my mother was only too happy to help.

  My father’s expansion schemes for America continued unabated when he opened a store in Palm Beach, Florida. Known simply as “150 Worth,” the new shop on Worth Avenue became an instant landmark. Its opening coincided with the launch of a shoulder bag named after Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, the electrifying young wife of the new American president John F. Kennedy, who’d come to office in January 1961. In addition to the “Jackie” (which became an instant hit after she was photographed with it), my father also had matching shoes made expressly for her.

  In May 1962, my parents went to Palma de Mallorca in the Balearic Islands off the coast of Spain. They spent a few idyllic days searching for a villa by the sea where my mother would spend the summer with the few friends who knew of her affair. Papà would visit whenever possible. He was in great spirits and at long last she had him all to herself, away from the frenetic pace of the business. On their way home they stopped off in Madrid for the weekend and went for a romantic dinner to celebrate his fifty-seventh birthday. It was a magical night, with a flamenco guitarist and Sevillana dancers, and they were swept up in the moment, far away from prying eyes.

  “I don’t think we’d ever been so happy,” my mother said wistfully.

  Soon afterward, that joy was shattered when she discovered she was pregnant again—this time, with me. In spite of all their precautions, I’d been conceived in one sublime moment in Madrid. It was a time in their lives when they were devoted to each other, but sadly, my arrival threatened to ruin all of that.

  Remembering the ordeal she had endured with the loss of her previous baby, my mother went into an emotional tailspin. They’d never discussed the possibility of another pregnancy and had no idea what they would do this time around. Imagine her fear. How could she contemplate having a baby under the circumstances? The risk was far too great and it could potentially destabilize everything she and my father had been working toward.

  Close to hysterics, my mother had to be quite literally shaken to her senses. “It’s going to be all right, Bruna,” my father said, taking her firmly by the shoulders. “You are going to have this baby. You’ll have the best possible care and when the child is born safe and sound, I will look after you—both of you. I promise.”

  “But how, Aldo?” she wailed tearfully. “Where? This is not possible!”

  “We will have this child,” my father said emphatically, adding with a smile, “And it will carry my name. Tutto è possibile, Nina.” And so it would prove to be.

  So calm and reassuring was my father that my mother instinctively knew she could trust him, but still she was frightened. How would they be able to keep it secret? What about his other family? Olwen and their sons had always remained on the periphery and rarely came into their conversations. Mamma wouldn’t have dreamed of interfering with my father’s decisions but still she fretted about how he planned to handle the situation.

  In spite of the dramatic change in their circumstances, the two of them went ahead with their summer plans. Instead of looking forward to becoming a mother, though, she agonized over the very real possibility that someone might expose her for what she really was—the pregnant mistress of a married man. Having been pregnant three times, I know the feeling of expectation only too well. There is the excitement of creating a new life with the man you love and, after the third month, being able to announce it to the world. Then there are the first signs of movement, and a kick now and again. But my mother had none of that. For her, there were only problems, and the more I grew inside her, the more anxious she became.

  By the time she returned to Rome she was covering herself up with loose-fitting jackets and multiple layers, but when five months had passed it was clear that she could no longer conceal me. This called for drastic measures.

  “You must move to London,” my father suddenly announced. Never a man to panic, he seemed quite relaxed as he imparted this momentous news.

  Mamma was horrified. “London? But why? I don’t know anyone there!”

  “Nicola is in Bond Street and Maria can accompany you, as she did in New York.”

  It was soon apparent that he’d been planning this for a while. He’d certainly worked everything out with his customary meticulousness and had arranged for her to be cared for by a leading gynecologist at the London Clinic in Harley Street. With the new West End store and the frequent need to travel to Walsall to purchase hides, he assured her he had a legitimate reason to be in England more frequently. “I will come often and I shall be with you when our son is born,” he promised, kissing her forehead and reiterating his conviction from the get-go that I would be a boy.

  Not really able to take it all in, Mamma was at least relieved that Maria would be with her throughout. Although she had never regarded her as a friend, she knew she’d be grateful for her company. Nicola, however, would be a godsend, and she could hardly believe her luck that he was in London—thanks to her.

  The timing of her departure for British shores was dictated by how far along she was in her pregnancy, so as the end of the year approached she made her nervous preparations to leave Italy. My father had just left on his foreign circuit so she’d be moving without him but meeting him in London in a few weeks. On an afternoon in November 1962, when my mother was packing up her apartment as she waited for Maria to return from an errand, th
e telephone rang. She hoped it would be Papà, wishing her a safe journey.

  “Pronto?” she said, giving the customary Italian greeting.

  It was Maria. “Io non parto” (I’m not leaving), she said. Then she hung up.

  After Mamma replaced the receiver in shock, she went straight to Maria’s bedroom, only to discover that her closet was empty and her belongings gone. Whether it was the time they’d spent together in New York that had changed her mind or perhaps the idea of yet another winter in a foreign land, no one knows. She gave neither an explanation nor the chance for my mother to talk her into it.

  She had no choice but to board the plane to London alone to give birth to me in a strange land. For someone who had lived her entire life in comfortingly familiar surroundings, that must have been a terrifying prospect. “Can you imagine what it was like for me? Having to hide like that?” she told me years later, shuddering at the memory. “It would have been such a big scandal in the sixties. A single woman—pregnant! I left Rome like a thief in the night!”

  Papà had once written to his Brunina, imploring her with “hands clasped—not to succumb to formalities, to social conventions or to external influences that [would] interfere with [their] desire to love one another” and saying, “Believe in me my darling, you will not regret it!” In that moment, looking out of the window as the wheels left the tarmac, she most certainly regretted it and she had never felt more abandoned in her life.

  It was raining when the taxi dropped her off in front of the six-story red mansion block she would now call home. Situated in Cadogan Gardens, Knightsbridge, overlooking a gated square, her apartment had a big bay window and a long corridor linking the various rooms. The village feel of the neighborhood with its trees and cobblestoned mews was a pleasant surprise in the heart of such a big city. The knowledge that Papà had enlisted the help of a local couple for any emergencies—under a strict code of secrecy—put her further at ease.