“This deal would have helped Maurizio get control, given Investcorp an elegant exit, and would have been one of the crowning achievements of my career,” Morante said.
Maurizio was thrilled. The two of them spent hours analyzing and discussing the opportunity, which would have been one of the first strategic alliances between an Italian company and a French one in the luxury goods business. Up to then, the French luxury industry had viewed the Italian firms primarily as suppliers or second-rate competitors.
In the fall of 1990, while Morante was developing the proposal, Maurizio invited him along with his friend Toto Russo for a sailing weekened on the Creole for the Nioularge, an annual regatta of historic sailboats in Saint-Tropez. The regatta was a high-level, not-to-be-missed sea party for Europe’s rich industrialists. Conveniently located for boat owners who wintered their mega-yachts in Antibes and other warm-water Mediterranean ports, the Nioularge effectively ended the summer regatta season. All the leading French and Italian industrialists participated, including Raul Gardini with Il Moro di Venezia, which had raced in the America’s Cup. Gianni Agnelli, the dashing chairman of Italy’s Fiat SpA automobile group, invariably showed up to follow the race in whatever boat he had at the time, but rarely competed in the regatta itself. Maurizio’s invitation to Morante was significant, symbolic, and meant to impress; only his most intimate and trusted friends received an invitation to sail on the Creole. Morante was deeply pleased that Maurizio had brought him into his inner circle.
“The idea of this weekend was to have a good time and at the same time to reflect together, in a pleasant setting, about all that was going on,” recalled Morante.
Maurizio chartered a small jet to fly them from Milan to Nice on the Friday afternoon, where they boarded a helicopter to Saint-Tropez, even as dark storm clouds mounted on the horizon. The helicopter swayed and hiccuped in the winds and clouds that quickly enveloped the small port town, shaking up its passengers during the trip. Relieved to land in the small heliport in the center of Saint-Tropez, the three men walked over to the dock where the Creole’s mahogany tender awaited them and the three-masted silhouette of the Creole rose in the distance. The Creole, too large at more than two hundred feet long to enter the port, was anchored just outside the small bay of Saint-Tropez.
The three men bantered lightheartedly about the weather, the boat, the weekend ahead. Maurizio recounted his misadventures in rehabilitating the Creole, from the day he fired the architect Patrizia had hired, to the day during the summer of 1986 when the creaking schooner was docked in the La Spezia shipyard for repairs. As Paolo circulated his accusations that the Creole had been illegally acquired, Maurizio had grown nervous that the authorities might try to sequester his dream yacht. One morning he had ordered the captain to weigh anchor, hoist the sails, and flee the harbor with carpenters still aboard on the pretense of a trial run. The Creole stopped in Malta to let off the perplexed workmen, then set sail for the Spanish port Palma de Mallorca, which would become its new home. Maurizio described for Morante his no-cost-barred efforts to restore the ship to its former glory and equip it with all the modern technology available. Toto Russo had helped Maurizio infuse the schooner’s rooms with his luxurious, old-world style—all at spectacular prices. To redo just one of the staterooms he had spent $970,000. The Creole truly had become one of the most beautiful yachts in the world—at a cost that would prove far dearer than Maurizio ever imagined.
The men sped over the water toward the yacht in the tender, falling silent as the imposing dark mass of the magnificent schooner loomed overhead.
They stepped on board, greeted the skipper, a smiling Englishman named John Bardon, and, in a ship’s ritual, saluted the flag. Then Maurizio gave Morante a quick tour. Maurizio had turned Stavros Niarchos’s former deck-top cabin into a sumptuous living room with oil paintings, a marble table, and a state-of-the-art sound system. Just belowdecks in the stern stood four double cabins, each paneled in a different kind of precious wood—teak, mahogany, cedar, and briarwood—and decorated with Oriental paintings; and each with its own bathroom well stocked with fine towels and toiletries, all exclusively prepared for the Creole. Opposite Maurizio’s master suite on the starboard side of the boat was the ship’s dining room, arranged with a comfortable, finely upholstered bench along one side of two folding wooden tables that could be extended to seat twelve, or folded to form two smaller coffee tables. A bar and service station, a laundry, and crew’s quarters were on the same deck in the forward half of the ship, while the kitchen and the motor room nestled deep in the belly of the vessel.
Maurizio issued Morante and Russo each an onboard uniform, which he had specially commissioned for guests, consisting of white sweatshirt and slacks with the Creole’s emblem, a pair of intertwined mythological seahorses with unicorn heads. Then Maurizio darted off to find Bardon and catch up on the sailing gossip. Morante dutifully changed into the uniform Maurizio had provided and went off in search of Toto, whom he found in the living room, where the sound of Maurizio’s voice, chatting and laughing happily downstairs with Bardon, floated up the stairs.
Russo showed Morante around the room, pointing out the seamlessly fitted boiserie, the graceful brass light fixtures shaped like jumping fish that he had had custom-made based on an antique, and a rose-colored marble table with a cast-bronze base in the form of intertwined seahorses—also a well-done copy. Then, drinks in hand, the two men flopped down opposite each other on two leather couches—one cream colored, one gray—two of Maurizio’s most prized pieces, and made from real sharkskin. Russo indicated the soft blue-gray sheen on the walls behind their heads and raised his dark eyebrows. “The skin of stingrays imported from Japan!” he said dramatically. Maurizio’s idea, he explained, had been to create a refined maritime decor without resorting to kitschy shell and boat motifs.
“Impressive, very impressive,” Morante murmured, gazing at the painting on the wall across from him, a sunset scene of the mouth of the Nile, bathed in shimmering light.
Russo could tell that Morante, though admiring, was preoccupied. The two men had clashed recently as Morante began contesting Russo’s astronomical bills for remodeling the Gucci stores. Russo, who had thrived on Maurizio’s money-is-no-object attitude, sized up the executive, whose growing influence over Maurizio concerned him.
“Andrea, tell me, how are things really going at Gucci?” Russo asked him probingly.
“Not too well, Toto,” Morante replied earnestly, setting down his glass.
“Tell me,” Toto said.
“Well, it’s a difficult time, the market is down, Maurizio’s ideas are great, he has the right view for Gucci, but he really needs someone to help him manage it. He needs to delegate that, otherwise things are only going to get worse,” Morante said, pressing his lips together under his bristly salt-and-pepper mustache, his forehead creasing into a deep frown.
“That’s what I was afraid of, Andrea,” Russo said.
“The thing that troubles me is that he doesn’t seem to realize what is happening,” said Morante. “I mean, he sees all the figures, he knows everything, but somehow, he’s oblivious to it all.”
“You know, Andrea, we are his only friends, everyone else is out to get something from him,” said Russo. “We owe it to him to tell him. We should talk to him—you should tell him—he trusts you.”
“I don’t know, Toto,” said Morante, shaking his head. “He might take it the wrong way. You know how he feels about Gucci, it’s as though he has to prove to everyone he can do it himself.”
Despite his misgivings, Morante promised Russo he would talk with Maurizio about his concerns. They agreed to wait until Sunday night, so as not to spoil the weekend. Morante hoped the relaxed and beautiful setting would make Maurizio more open to what he had to say.
At that moment, Maurizio bounded up the stairs and into the room, grinning with pleasure, to call them to dinner downstairs in the ship’s dining room. The cook had prepared his specialty, one of
Maurizio’s favorite dishes, spaghetti al riccio di mare, or spaghetti with sea urchin, followed by a delicately grilled fish. Maurizio had stocked the ship’s coolers with cases of a crisp white Montrachet—wine experts called it the best white burgundy—that he had taken a particular liking to. After dinner they all lounged in the living room, drinking more Montrachet and listening to music. Maurizio played a popular hit of that time, “Mi Manchi” (“Missing You”), over and over again, listening to the sultry voice of Italian pop singer Anna Oxa and thinking about Sheree, with whom he had broken up not long before.
After seeing each other for several years, Sheree had asked Maurizio his intentions—what did he have in mind for her and their relationship? She would have liked to build something more solid with him, perhaps even start a family together. He had to admit to himself—and to Sheree—that he wasn’t the man for her. He already had a family—fragmented as it was—and hoped to reunite with his daughters one day. He was also so completely immersed in Gucci’s relaunch that he had little time left over for his personal life. He let Sheree go—though he missed her warm, loving, easygoing companionship.
By morning the clouds had cleared and the Creole’s passengers awoke to a sunny sky and a brisk breeze that promised an exciting regatta. The men donned Creole windbreakers and climbed to the roof of the instrument room, from where they could observe every maneuver without getting in the sailors’ way. Crew members scurried about preparing the lines and sails for the race and, as they hoisted the heavy anchor, the Creole surged forward smoothly the instant the sails caught wind. Bardon, trilling orders in the old style with a whistle, had the crew test conditions with a few sweeping turns.
Suddenly the men looked up as a sleek blue 97-foot sloop approached. A deeply tanned man with a shock of snow-white hair stood at the wheel. The boat was Extra Beat and the man was none other than Gianni Agnelli, then chairman of the Fiat SpA automobile manufacturer, dubbed Italy’s unofficial king for his power and stature. An elegant, cultivated man, married to the beautiful Principessa Marcella Caracciolo, Agnelli commanded national respect and pride awarded to few—if any—of the nation’s political leaders. The Italian press referred to Agnelli as L’Avvocato, or “The Lawyer.”
Agnelli directed one of his crew to ask permission to come aboard; it wasn’t the first time he had asked. Once, when the boat was in port for repairs, Maurizio had seen Agnelli coming and ducked down into one of the cabins, asking a worker who was on board to say Mr. Gucci was out and decline the request.
Maurizio once again relayed a negative response back to Agnelli through one of his sailors, saying that renovations on the Creole weren’t complete and that the boat wasn’t ready for visitors. At that, Agnelli executed a sharp maneuver and brought Extra Beat antagonistically close to Creole’s side, alarming the schooner’s skipper and crew and attracting a swarm of paparazzi that darted in and out of the churning wakes for shots of the confrontation.
“Agnelli had wanted for some time to pay his respects to this magnificent boat,” said Morante, “but Maurizio was always afraid Agnelli wanted to buy it from him, just as he had been afraid Agnelli wanted to buy his Saint Moritz estate.”
On Sunday, the Creole’s passengers skipped the traditional awards ceremony and that evening motored into town, watching as the clustered medley of yellow, orange, and pink buildings, bathed in twilight, grew closer. Maurizio and his guests had exchanged their Creole uniforms for pressed khakis and button-down oxford shirts with colorful cashmere sweaters thrown loosely around their shoulders. They walked past the ranks of sidewalk artists and their easels and through the picturesque streets of Saint-Tropez to Maurizio’s favorite restaurant, known for its fish dishes, nestled deep in the old town. They took a table and a waitress served them water and a bottle of wine. Maurizio poured three glasses, joking about the Agnelli episode, and ordered fish for all of them. Russo, sitting to Maurizio’s left, glared across the table at Morante and mouthed for him to broach the subject of Gucci, but Morante ignored him and kept on chatting with Maurizio. During the first course, Russo kicked Morante under the table, signaling him to get down to business. Morante finally gave a nod to Russo and cleared his throat.
“Maurizio, there’s something Toto and I want to talk to you about,” Morante said, glancing over at Russo for support.
Maurizio noted the serious tone in Morante’s voice.
“Yes, Andrea, what is it?” replied Maurizio, looking over at Russo as though for clarification, although Russo remained silent.
“You aren’t going to like what I have to say to you, but I feel as a true friend of yours, I have to tell you. Please try to take this in the spirit of our friendship,” Morante said. “You have so many qualities, Maurizio,” Morante started out in his smooth, resonant voice. “You are smart and charming and nobody can get people excited about the changes at Gucci the way you can. You have a whole set of attributes, but…let’s be realistic, not everyone is a natural manager. We have been through a lot together, but I feel I have to tell you, I don’t think you know how to manage this company. I think you should let someone else—”
Maurizio slammed his fist down on the table so hard he knocked over their wineglasses and set the silverware dancing a tinkling tango.
“NO!” said Maurizio loudly as he brought his fist down. “NO! NO! NO!” he repeated in a crescendo, each word accompanied by another pounding of his fist on the table as glasses jumped and the other diners in the restaurant looked over at the three men, all of whom had become red in the face.
“You don’t understand me or what I am trying to do with this company!” Maurizio said forcefully, glaring at Morante. “I don’t agree with you at all.”
Morante, troubled, looked at Russo, who hadn’t backed him up at all. The jovial, fraternal atmosphere they had enjoyed on the ride over had been shattered.
“Look, Maurizio, it is just my opinion,” said Morante, raising his hands as though in self-defense. “You don’t have to agree with me.”
Maurizio had surprised himself, as well as Morante and Russo, with the intensity of his reaction. He loathed confrontation, preferring to smooth things over amicably. Ever the diplomat, he tried to downplay his reaction.
“Dai, Andrea,” said Maurizio, “let’s not ruin a beautiful weekend with such talk.” Russo contributed an off-color Neapolitan joke, and by the end of the meal the atmosphere appeared much as it had when they had arrived—though only on the surface.
“Something had turned off inside him,” said Morante later. “He had decided he couldn’t trust me anymore and so all the rest was window dressing. Maurizio had heard both his father and his uncle say over and over again that he wasn’t capable of managing the company. He carried this fear of his father and uncle around with him and I had thrown it in his face. He wanted to hear people say, ‘You are a genius.’ There were people a lot more agile than me who told him what he wanted to hear, and they survived. With Maurizio, you were either for him or against him.”
As he had with his father and Patrizia, Maurizio closed down his relationship with Morante. Back in Milan, a chill settled between them. Everybody noticed.
“At the beginning, Maurizio and Andrea Morante were inseparable,” recalled Pilar Crespi, who worked with both. “Maurizio loved Morante. And then it fell apart. He felt betrayed. Morante had suggested to him that perhaps he was overextended and he didn’t like that. He liked yes-people.”
To make matters worse, the negotiation with Racamier, which Morante had worked on intensively for six months, collapsed at the last minute. Everything had been ready when Morante left for the Christmas holidays, convinced it was just a matter of signing the papers. The deal fell apart in the plush, hushed offices of Rothschild’s in Paris.
Maurizio Gucci and his lawyers were ushered in, along with a team of Investcorp executives. But when all parties gathered around the table, the price Racamier put forward was far below what Investcorp expected.
“His offer was so low th
at we were insulted and walked out,” recalled Rick Swanson, who was still working with Investcorp at the time. Racamier had underestimated Investcorp’s pride and business standards. Later, Swanson learned from an advisor that Racamier was actually prepared to put another $100 million on the table, but he had so offended the Investcorp executives that they left before he could raise his offer.
“That’s when things really started to fall apart,” Morante recalled.
When Investcorp reviewed the Gucci business at its annual management committee meeting in January 1991, the numbers painted a dismal picture: sales had plummeted nearly 20 percent, profits had disappeared, and the near-term outlook was even worse. The company had lost tens of millions of dollars. “It was like an airplane flying into a downdraft,” said Investcorp executive Bill Flanz, who by then was spending more and more time at Gucci.
“In the span of just a few years, the company went from making about $60 million to losing about $60 million,” said Rick Swanson later. “Maurizio had cut more than $100 million in sales and added another $30 million to the expense base. He was like a kid in the candy shop who had to have everything at once. He had no sense of priority—it was, ‘I’m here and I’m in control and I can do it,’” Swanson said.
Maurizio begged his partners at Investcorp to give him time. “Demand will come!” “Sales will pick up!” “It is only a matter of time!” Maurizio had trouble getting Gucci’s revamped new products into the stores quickly enough. The speed with which Maurizio had cut out the cheap canvas bags hadn’t allowed time for the new products Dawn Mello and her design team turned out to get into the stores.
The House of Gucci Page 26