Everyone was in the Christmas spirit but then fate intervened. Mamma received word that burglars had tried to break into her apartment in her absence, so she rushed to Rome to make sure it was secure, promising to be back in a few days. Even though the intruders never got in, they’d done a lot of damage to the door and she felt uncomfortable about leaving the place unattended. Papà couldn’t bear to be separated from her so he, too, decided to fly back and we ended up spending Christmas on our own.
Mamma always said that everything happens for a reason, and when my father’s health suddenly deteriorated a couple of days after he flew into Rome, she believed something was written in the stars. He was admitted to the Villa Flaminia clinic, where further tests revealed that the cancer had now spread to his liver and pancreas. The hourglass had been turned once more.
Unable to make any sense from her weeping down the phone, I called the doctors myself to ask the question she was afraid to ask—“How long?”
“One to two months. Three if he is lucky.”
The response drew my hand protectively to my belly. I was just seven weeks from my due date and already booked into London’s Portland Hospital to give birth to my daughter in mid-February. The airlines typically refused to let heavily pregnant women fly, and never did beyond thirty-six weeks, so I had to act quickly. Canceling my plans to give birth in England, I flew to Rome on January 14 with Santino, Alexandra, and her nanny to be near my father and spend whatever time we had left together.
I arrived to find Mamma in her own little world, as though she had some preordained knowledge of the situation that she hadn’t shared with me. I waited as she made some last-minute preparations to her hair and makeup before we left to visit Papà that first morning. As always, her appearance was paramount but neither lipstick nor blusher could disguise how drained she looked.
On my way to the hospital that first morning I expected the worst but was relieved to see him livelier than ever, sitting up in bed reading the newspaper through his horn-rimmed spectacles. A telephone was on a table at his side. He looked as if he could have gotten up and walked out any minute. Making light of his predicament and commenting on how advanced I was in my pregnancy, his first words to me were, “Patricia! Shouldn’t you be the one resting?” My mother didn’t see the funny side, shaking her head as she pulled up his bedcovers and adjusted his pillows.
It may have been cold and miserable outside but he appeared to be back to his sunny old self. That first day, the only one where—deceptively—he appeared to be well, he was very animated. He still refused to have us let anyone know he was sick, so no visitors came, just the way he wanted it. The only people to have any knowledge of his condition were right there in his room.
“How much longer?” he’d ask me, alluding to the impending arrival of his new granddaughter.
“I’m having her here in this very clinic,” I told him, happy with the sense of continuity. “I’m seeing the gynecologist in an hour to make the necessary arrangements.”
“Brava,” he said. “I’m glad you were able to sort everything out at such short notice.” I forced a smile as we spoke about the next generation and the joy she would bring to all our lives. Mamma tried not to talk about anything too sentimental, masking her feelings by continually fussing over Papà, making sure he’d taken all his pills, her hands in constant motion. Then she’d take her seat on a sofa by his bed while I settled into the chair on the other side.
“I’ll be out of here in no time,” Papà told us, sounding overly optimistic in his striped pajamas. “There are still so many places I haven’t taken you,” he said, looking affectionately in Mamma’s direction. “Places you always wanted to go to. We can still make that trip to Greece—”
“Smettila [Stop it], Aldo! Don’t say such silly things,” Mamma would interrupt. “You have to concentrate on your health now.”
Then he’d start again. “I should have spent more time with you, I…,” then he’d nod off, just like he had when we watched westerns together on Sunday afternoons in Berkshire. It felt strange to be close to him as he slept, so accustomed was I to his frenetic activity. I simply couldn’t imagine him any other way.
My mother and I worked out a rota in order to keep vigil. As he seemed so well and we weren’t expecting the situation to degenerate any time soon, I told her she needn’t worry about being at his bedside all the time and that she could take care of whatever she had to do during the day.
If I wasn’t with him, I’d invariably be at my prenatal appointments or with Alexandra, who was being looked after by the nanny back in the apartment. The carefree, golden-skinned child who bound us together always blew her babbo a kiss that I had to catch in my hand for him each time I left for the hospital. “He’ll be home soon,” I told her. And so we lived, going through the motions, still refusing to believe that his days were numbered.
On the second afternoon I arrived at the clinic with a bunch of flowers to cheer him up. He hated being confined to his room, deprived as it was of color and light, so when I found him out of bed and sitting in a wheelchair I wasn’t so surprised.
“Ah, Patricia!” he cried. “One of the nurses tells me the sun is shining. I want to get out and see it for myself.” We both knew his doctors wouldn’t approve but he assured me with a wink that they’d never know. So I wheeled him down the corridor toward a long stained-glass window and positioned him so that he could sit in the shafts of light and feel the heat of the sun on his face. I found a chair and settled quietly next to him, not wishing to disrupt this treasured moment.
“Could you fetch my briefcase?” he asked me after a short while without opening his eyes. I did as he requested and watched as he flicked the catches, reached inside, and handed me a manila envelope containing a single sheet of paper. “Read this,” he instructed softly.
My eyes scanned the opening lines and then I stopped. Drawing in a breath, I stared down at his last will and testament and started to protest. “Papà…I can’t!”
“Carry on,” he insisted, his eyes closed once more. Gesturing to it with a sense of urgency, he was suddenly the consummate businessman sorting out his affairs. He had something that needed to be done and I was the only one who could attend to it.
I did as I was told and read the document in silence before sliding it back into the envelope. We then sat together for several minutes, neither of us saying a word as I struggled not to cry and reflected on the seismic consequences of what I had just read. Not that I cared about that in the slightest. All I cared about was him. Up until that moment, my entire focus had been on his surviving—beating the odds and walking out to fight another day. That was the only way I’d managed to get through so many dreadful recent events. Any other outcome was unthinkable and when I pulled myself together, I told him as much, adding, “This is too painful for me right now….”
“I know, I know,” he said soothingly, “but you do understand what this means?”
“Yes, Papà,” I replied. “I understand.”
In truth, I wasn’t sure I did.
There are times in our lives when we’re expected to face difficult moments or confront those we’d prefer to avoid. Of all the things anyone ever asked me to do, my father’s next request to me was by far the most unpleasant. It only came about because my mother also decided to take the more difficult path and force us to address something we’d all been avoiding until then.
“Aldo, I’ve been thinking,” she told my father the same day he showed me his will. “It’s time to tell your sons.” Seeing his fierce expression, she added, “You have to.”
To our surprise, he nodded. “Va bene, Bruna. Okay.”
Turning to me then, he said quietly, “Will you arrange it? I’ll give you the numbers to call. Tell them to come.”
“Tomorrow,” my mother said, pressing him.
My relationship with my brothers had never been close and after everything they had done to Papà, I had no desire to see them again. Nevertheless, I
did as I was told and made arrangements to meet them at the Cavalieri Hilton first thing the following morning. Arriving ahead of time, I settled myself down at a table and ordered some tea. They showed up moments later, clearly curious as to why they’d been summoned.
After a courteous but stiff greeting, I blurted out the news. “I’m afraid your father—our father—doesn’t have long to live. It’s cancer,” I said, steeling myself to retain my composure as I uttered the words I still couldn’t contemplate. “He was diagnosed last year….He says you may see him if you wish.”
None of them expected that. Even though Papà was in his eighties, he’d hardly had a day’s illness in his life and I think we all thought of him as immortal. There was a moment of shocked silence as they all stared at me and then Roberto spoke out. “Why have you and your mother kept this from us for so long? We’re his sons! Why didn’t you say anything?” Further accusations followed as I—eight months pregnant and equally as upset—faced open hostility from them all.
“It was your father’s decision not to tell you. It was nothing to do with me,” I told them flatly once they’d finished venting. “Now he is ready for you to know. You can see him tomorrow afternoon. He’s at the Villa Flaminia. Three o’clock.”
I rose to my feet as steadily as I could and rushed out of the hotel lobby. I never even touched my tea.
If I hadn’t looked forward to meeting them, then my father’s dread of his final encounter with those he regarded as traitors must have been tenfold. And yet he seemed strangely focused. There was a new sense of purpose about him that had been building up to this conclusive day. As Mamma and I helped him get ready we sensed his determination to let his sons see the price he had paid for what they had done. For many years he’d used tonic to smooth down his silver hair, which also made it appear darker. The day before the meeting, in what felt like a hugely significant move, he asked my mother to rinse out the lotion in the sink. The effect was extraordinary—his hair turned white in an instant.
After changing out of his pajamas into a navy blue pinstripe suit that hung loosely on his frame, he lowered himself into the leatherette armchair and settled into position. Brushing an imaginary speck from his trousers, he straightened his posture, signaling he was ready to receive his three sons. Sitting bolt upright yet strangely shrunken, he looked every one of his eighty-four years.
As the bells of a nearby church tolled three o’clock, we heard footsteps approaching along the long stone corridor. Taking a few deep breaths, I perched on the edge of my father’s bed while my mother took her seat in the farthest corner and donned her sunglasses, wishing she were anywhere but there. She’d only stayed in the room because my father had begged her to.
The door opened and like self-conscious schoolchildren appearing before the headmaster, my brothers shuffled in one by one. On seeing Papà, they couldn’t disguise how appalled they were by his appearance. After cordially greeting Mamma and me with the customary kiss, they stepped up for what they knew was their last embrace. To their surprise, their father remained utterly impassive.
“How are you feeling?” Giorgio asked in a conciliatory tone, trying his best to reduce the palpable tension in the air. “Had we only known sooner, Daddy…I can’t believe this is happening.” Still, my father acknowledged his comments with nothing more than a nod.
Paolo was noticeably taken aback at the sight of his father, muttering something about how sorry he was, while Roberto—the most vocal of them all—complained once more that they should have been informed earlier. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I hope you are not suffering.”
Papà’s few responses were curt, aside from one telling comment: “My time in hospital—like in prison—has given me plenty of time to think things over.” Then he said nothing more. His indifference toward them was chilling as Giorgio nervously asked if there was anything they could do. Still my father refused to engage. I thought at first that he was waiting for an apology from them or an explanation—anything that might have gone some way to justifying their behavior and how it had led to the sale of the company. Instead, they offered him nothing but platitudes.
After watching in silence from her corner, Mamma couldn’t bear to be in the room a moment longer and hurried out after excusing herself. My three brothers glanced nervously at one another and then at me before turning back to Papà, still sitting like stone. One by one, they gradually began to appreciate why they had been summoned. This was Judgment Day.
Papà had no intention of saying any poignant last words. There was to be no forgiveness or absolution whatsoever for their souls. His near-silence said it all. He was dying and he had invited them so they could see that the only people who truly mattered to him were those who’d remained at his side all along.
There was nothing else for them to do but go, his contempt seared into their eyes.
They kissed him good-bye and filed out of the room, quietly closing the door behind them. It was only then that his posture caved in, and he slumped forward. There was nothing else left for him to do.
Still upset by the encounter, my mother went home to rest, so I stayed with Papà for the remainder of that day. He was pensive, bordering on melancholic. It felt to me as if a door had closed and he no longer wanted to engage with the outside world. I asked if he needed anything. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. Glancing back one last time as I was about to leave, I had a sudden premonition.
“Are you going to be okay, Papà?” I asked anxiously.
He looked up, as if he’d only just realized I was still in the room. “I’ll be fine,” he replied, attempting a smile. “Go home, Patricia. Rest. It’s been a long day.”
At some point during the night, the nuns discovered him collapsed on the floor next to his bed. He had suffered a brain hemorrhage and was barely conscious. At around five a.m., they called my mother and we hurried to the clinic. Bursting in, we found him motionless and staring at the ceiling as if he were waiting to see Mamma for one last time.
“Aldo!” she gasped, and the blue eyes he’d fought to keep open for so long held her gaze for a fraction to say addio. Then they closed. She was so glad she’d gotten there in time. He had once told her he wasn’t afraid of dying but leaving her behind was a far more daunting prospect. She knew he’d held on for her.
For the next few hours he lay in a semi-coma as my mother and I gripped his hands from our sentinel positions on either side. It was clear from his ragged breathing that his body had finally surrendered to the disease that had returned to claim him. Dutifully, and at my mother’s behest, I called Giorgio and asked him to inform everyone of this latest turn of events, thinking that they should know.
What Mamma and I never expected was that they would return so soon—this time descending on the clinic en masse with their families and congregating in the reception area just outside my father’s room. My brothers eventually filed back in sheepishly to gather around the foot of the bed. All that could be heard were Papà’s rasping breaths. Praying for a miracle, I squeezed his fingers tight—just as he had with me on my wedding day—knowing now how it felt to have to let go of somebody you loved.
By lunchtime on January 19, his wheezing became labored, and as we leaned in closer, my mother felt the tiniest pressure of his fingers around hers. His heart was still strong and she could tell he was fighting to remain with his beloved Brunicchi. She knew it was time to do something she had been avoiding doing for so long. Brushing away her tears, she stood up, leaned over, and pressed her mouth against his ear.
“Aldo, amore mio, can you hear me?” she said, her voice suddenly surprisingly forceful. “Go, Aldo. Let go, Aldo. God is with you. Go in peace.”
There was an almost immediate change in his breathing and though still painful to listen to, it seemed to take on a deeper, more measured quality.
Desperately trying to stay strong for them both but sensing he could slip away at any moment, my whole body began to shake. A nun who’d been caring fo
r Papà placed her hand on my shoulder to inform me that the last phase of my father’s life was about to get ugly. “You have a life to protect, my dear,” she added softly. “I think it’s time for you to say good-bye.”
Stricken, I looked across at my mother, who nodded. It was clear that she would remain until the end. My limbs heavy, I rose to my feet, and placing a protective hand over his unborn grandchild, I bent down, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “I love you, Papà.”
I don’t recall leaving the room or hurrying past the rest of the family I barely knew, but I do remember some of them looking at me in the corridor with open resentment. Seeking oxygen, I hurried downstairs and out of the building as quickly as was safe. Sucking in a welcome blast of air, I burst out crying, knowing that I would never see my father alive again.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’d been perfectly content in the knowledge that even if he couldn’t physically be with me, Papà loved me and would always be back. That was enough. All that was about to change and I didn’t feel grown-up enough to handle it.
Feeling my baby shift inside me, I closed my eyes, took some more deep breaths, and tried to regain control of myself to save her from my grief. She was the blameless next generation and I prayed that something of my father would live on through her.
Just as he had, I took some comfort from the synchronicity of what was about to happen. As his life ebbed away, so a new one was about to begin. I couldn’t help but think that the man who’d planned everything so meticulously his whole life had somehow orchestrated this too. From the cradle to the grave and back again.
His mother, Aida, had once been as pregnant with him as I was now, and her hopes for her baby’s future must have been as bright as any young mother’s. She had loved her son Aldo in her own way, just as my father had loved me. The family line was continuing, and I was carrying the next generation and, with it, their dreams.
In the Name of Gucci Page 27