I kept promising myself that I’d find a nice little apartment and settle in and make a real home, but I was too busy working and too happy at the Grand. The staff were so wonderful. They all knew me: It was Signorina this, Signorina that, Signorina the other. I felt important. I felt I mattered. I felt loved.
I became close friends with Daniela Moreira, who wrote about fashion for several Italian publications and was married to a fabulously wealthy textile manufacturer. I often dined at her house, or joined her and her friends at the best local restaurants. I didn’t have a moment to myself. It was wonderful. I was too busy to think, too busy for introspection.
I stayed away from cocaine, but I still drank. I fell in love with Italian wine. I became a bit of a connoisseur. I could tell what side of the hill the grapes were from. (Well, not really, but that sounded pretty impressive, didn’t it?) Daniela took me and a group of friends to Tuscany for the weekend, and we drank our way through several vineyards. One of her friends was an Italian film director. He kept accosting me—in dark hallways, in corridors, by the ruins of a once-magnificent castle—to tell me he wanted me, that he couldn’t get me out of his mind. He did it with such passion I felt like I was in the middle of an Italian movie—a bad one, maybe even one of his.
“But you’re married,” I said with theatrical aplomb.
“Not always,” he said.
It was a funny answer. But I turned him down. I turned down Alberto Grimaldi, too. And he was a fucking prince! Alberto said he thought he was falling in love with me. I told him to get in line. But I was only joking. I told his sister, Princess Caroline, that she should find a nice girl for Alberto before he got himself in trouble.
“He’s attracted to trouble,” she said.
“So am I,” I said.
He kept calling. It was like a comedy routine. “Janice, why don’t you like me?”
“I like you, I like you,” I said. “But not now.”
“When, then?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll wait.”
How absolutely regal.
One night I went back to my hotel to find messages from that Italian director, Prince Albert (again!), and Peter Beard, Cheryl Tiegs’s old beau. I called Peter, who was in Rome.
“Janice, you bitch,” he said. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Hiding,” I said.
“Nobody can find you.”
“That’s sort of the point, isn’t it?” I said.
“I tracked you down through Italian Bazaar. Are you living in Milan?”
“I guess so,” I said. “I’m not sure. It just sort of happened.”
“You look fantastic. You’re everywhere—all over Europe. You look delectable. You look like a little boy.”
“Tell me something,” I said. “Do all heterosexual men hunger for little boys?”
Peter laughed so hard he almost choked.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Tell me you’ll go to Kenya with me and I’ll be all right,” he said.
“What’s in Kenya?”
“An assignment for American Playboy. It’s perfect for you. And the money’s very good indeed.”
“Is it slutty?” I ask him.
“Janice, darling—you couldn’t be slutty if you tried!”
That was the right thing to say. The following week I was on my way to Kenya.
Peter met me at the airport, took me back to the hotel, and introduced me to the two dowdy women from Playboy’s Chicago office. They’d brought duffel bags full of accessories. Fuck-me pants. Undies with zippers. Cowboy hats. See-through bras—as if I needed a bra. And I said, “Ladies, this cheap shit doesn’t work for me.”
And one of them said, “I’m sorry. This is what you’re going to wear, sweetheart.”
“Yeah? We’ll see about that, sweetheart.”
So I went to see Peter, to whine about the outfits, and he agreed that the outfits were tacky in the extreme. And the two of us spent the rest of the morning in the local markets, buying incredibly beautiful African wraps. They have the most amazing fabrics in Kenya. Maasai, shuka, kikoy. And that’s what he shot me in. Then he asked me if I minded extending the shoot. He had a ranch at the base of Mount Kenya, right next to the place where Karen Blixen wrote Out of Africa, and he wanted me to see it. So we flew out in one of those lumbering prop planes and landed on this dirt strip, where a Jeep was waiting for us on the tarmac. Peter hopped behind the wheel—very macho—and we drove on the rutted dirt roads to his ranch. It was pure, unspoiled wilderness. The place consisted of nothing but three huge tents in the middle of nowhere. The trees were so graceful they made me feel like weeping.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Peter asked me.
“Nice? Nice? Are you out of your fucking mind? It’s paradise.”
There were servants everywhere, and they cooked us dinner out in this big open pit. Venison, I think it was. We ate and drank champagne and watched the sun set, and I felt like Meryl Streep. But I couldn’t remember any lines from Out of Africa. The only Meryl Streep line I could remember was, “A dingo ate my baby!”
We finished our champagne and turned in: me in one tent, Peter in another. And in the middle of the night I woke to hear the most frightful growling and I screamed at the top of my voice: “Peter! Peter, goddamn it! Get in here!”
A few moments later, I heard him coming. And I heard that sound again and I leapt into his arms, terrified. And he began to laugh. “What are you afraid of? It’s just a couple of big cats, fucking,” he said. And I said I didn’t care. I wanted him to stay with me, in my tent. And he slipped into my cot and held me. And it felt nice.
In the morning, Peter grabbed his equipment and we drove to a nearby village that was popular with the tourists. They had a collection of crocodiles there that were goddamn prehistoric. Some of them were up to sixteen feet long. Real monsters. Peter had the croc-wranglers anesthesize six of the biggest ones and tie their snouts together with transparent fishing line, then asked the men to pile the beasts on top of each other.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“I want you on top of that pile,” he said.
“Oh no,” I said. “No fucking way. You’re crazy.”
“Here, Janice. Have a beer.” Seemed like a good idea.
And of course by this time the tourists were out in full force, snapping away with their Instamatics. And, while the natives got busy building a pile of crocodiles, I fortified myself with beer.
Finally, it was the moment of truth. Peter helped me out of my wrap, and the men in the crowd ooohhed and aaahhed with delight. I was wearing the skimpiest little thong, and a tiny little top that barely covered my tiny little non-tits. And I was a little drunk, to be honest. I don’t see how I could have done it sober.
Two of the wranglers helped me across this stagnant little pond, toward the pile of crocs. I was terrified. For good reason. I put my hand on one of them and I could feel its skin move and flutter and recoil against my palm.
“Come on,” Peter bellowed. “Hurry, before they wake.”
I began to climb. I could hear them purring like cats, asleep but not asleep enough for me. I could feel their low, guttural grunting; I could hear their wheezy breath.
But I was on top now. I’d made it. My bare feet hurt against their hard, leathery skin, but I didn’t care. The crowd was cheering; Peter was snapping away. And there I was, vamping and posing and kicking my legs like a crazy, drunken ballerina. And suddenly it occurred to me: Janice. You are fucking nuts. You are a crazy person. You should be locked up.
I got back to Milan and picked up where I left off. Work is great, the ultimate escape. I flew to Rome, Berlin, Prague. Then back to Milan, with barely time to catch my breath before it was off to Santo Domingo. This was a biggie. The legendary Horst P. Horst would be taking my picture. He’d been working for Vogue since the early 1930s. Horst P. Horst, Dear Reader, had shot Marlene Dietrich.
“Tell me about Marlene,” I said during a break.
“She was very sensitive about her wrinkles,” he said. “She made me put the light below her face, here, like this, and, presto!—the wrinkles disappeared.”
I asked him about Maria Callas. “Horrible,” he said, his face darkening. “Absolutely horrible. I was lucky to escape with my life!”
Next assignment was Normandie, with another great: George Hurrell. I met him on the infamous beach, surrounded by assistants. He was wearing a silly little safari hat, a vest with hundreds of pockets, and khakis with white knee socks. He looked like a caricature of himself.
“This is where our boys kicked their asses,” he said by way of introduction. He was referring to World War II, of course. The sand below our feet had once run thick with blood. Then he smiled at me and patted his camera. “You see this camera? I shot Marilyn Monroe with this camera.”
I don’t even remember the shoot. I vaguely remember the wind and the crashing surf, and the hair and makeup people fluttering about like nervous birds. Mostly I remember this strange feeling of dread, a feeling I couldn’t for the life of me understand. That was George Hurrell on the far side of the lens. It didn’t get much better than this. So why did I feel like I was standing on a precipice, looking down into the abyss?
Back in Milan, I couldn’t shake the feeling. It was as if some dark, evil demon was following me around. I could sense its lurking presence everywhere.
I tried taking long walks through the city, but that didn’t help, either. I would notice couples arm in arm or kissing at cafés, clearly very much in love. I had no one to kiss, and I wanted to be in love. Most of all I began noticing children. I suddenly found myself aching for a family of my own. I wanted the whole Norman Rockwell nine yards. Twenty happy people around a Thanksgiving table. Laughing, eating, loving, being a family; a real family. The kind of family I’d never had. The kind that was held together by love, not fear.
One afternoon I got back from one of my walks to find a note from a friend in Manhattan telling me that Way Bandy had died of AIDS. Then I heard that Ara Gallant had blown his brains out in car. Then Gia died; AIDS again. I was frozen, stymied, stunned. I loved my friends. I didn’t know what to do.
Debbie called from New York and started listing the names of people who were dead or dying. I went numb. I couldn’t listen. I didn’t want to hear more. Bill King. Rubell. Perry Ellis. There was even a rumor that Capote had died of AIDS.
“Janice? Janice, are you there?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I’m not here.” And I hung up.
But the calls kept coming, and I’d get off the phone, numb, and open my address book and X out another name. It was devastating. And impossible to escape: One afternoon in Florence, wrapping up a shoot, the photographer asked if I’d be willing to come back the following week for another session. He wanted to pair me up with Joe McDonald, one of the original Zoli models, a wonderful human being. “You’re too late,” I said. Joe had died the previous week.
I was afraid to be with people, and afraid to be alone. Peppo called me, worried. Daniela called me. Alberto called me. My director friend called and sent flowers and told me how much he wanted me.
Sex. Christ. Who knew it could be fatal? I thought about the men I’d been with. Yeah, there’d been a few, maybe more than a few, maybe too many, but I was nowhere near as promiscuous as people imagined. Then I heard that sex wasn’t just about your partner anymore, but about every partner your partner had ever had. I thought about Warren Beatty. I thought about Mick Jagger. Jesus. Was I in trouble?
I felt like running away, but I didn’t know what I was running from or where I’d go. I filled every minute of every hour. I went to visit the Vatican, and found it frightening. All that ostentatious display of wealth and power—was that what Catholicism was about? I went again and again to the Duomo, the most magnificent gothic cathedral in the world. One afternoon I found myself on the Duomo’s rooftop, looking out over Milan, crying. I went to see Da Vinci’s Last Supper at Sante Maria delle Grazie. I went to the art gallery at the Brera Palace. I visited the Sforza Castle, on the outskirts of the city, and felt the demon’s presence more intensely than ever.
I remember that particular afternoon as if it were only yesterday. I was frightened and tired and it was late, so I left the castle and took a cab back to the city. I was supposed to be at Daniela’s place at seven. She was having a few friends over for drinks and then we were all going out to dinner. She had begged me to come. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.
The traffic was horrendous. The cab’s air conditioner was broken. I was sweating, trapped. I couldn’t stop thinking about Way and Ara and Gia and all the others; people I knew and loved, dying before their time. I was sad and frightened and felt like screaming. I took a few deep breaths and reminded myself that my life was good. I was alive, for God’s sake. I was at the top of my game. I had more offers than I could handle. I had just done back-to-back shoots with Horst and Hurrell. So why was I feeling such dread? I should have been on my knees, thanking God in total gratitude.
By the time the cab reached Milan, it was too late to go to the hotel and change and return to Daniela’s. Her place was closer than the hotel, so I went directly there.
“Janice! Darling! How are you? Thank you for coming!” Daniela was very theatrical. Her hands flew this way and that and her voice rose and fell with operatic fervor.
“I need to borrow your shower and some clean clothes,” I said.
“But of course!”
“Is everybody here already?”
“Almost, but take your time. The champagne’s on ice.”
She took me back to the master bedroom. I got out of my sweaty clothes and into the shower, and I stood there under the hot water, leaning against the tiled wall for support. Suddenly I began to cry. Huge, wracking sobs, as if I were opening the door to some bottomless void inside me. Maybe that was the abyss I’d been looking at, me—Janice. I was a beautiful, empty shell. There was nothing inside.
What did it all mean? What the fuck did it mean? Good wine and friends and laughter and fancy dinners and hard work are all well and good, but suddenly they aren’t enough. It occurred to me that I was like a drug addict. These amusing diversions no longer had the kick they used to have, didn’t numb me the way they used to numb me, didn’t provide the escape I longed for…. You always needa bigger hit, a little more and a little more and more and more and more.
Interesting, I thought. That’s what Lewis Carroll must have meant in Alice in Wonderland. What was it the Queen told Alice? “It takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that.”
So there I was in the shower, at Daniela’s place, the hot water beating against me, and I couldn’t stop sobbing. I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing with my life or whether I was ever going to get it right. And then I heard a man say, “Scusi, is everything okay?”
And I stopped sobbing long enough to say, “I’ll live.” Which of course sounded ridiculous.
And he said in his broken English, “I am sorry. I do not mean for to pry. I am hearing crying, and I just see if for maybe I can help.”
I drew the curtain back a bit. A big teddy bear of a man was standing there, peering at me through Clark Kent glasses. He had thin, gray hair and smooth skin and round, soft-edged shoulders.
“I am Alberto,” he said. “I can help maybe, yes?”
“I’m depressed and lonely and more lost than I’ve ever been in my life,” I said.
And he said, “You are so gorgeous! You must not be depressed! And I will not let you be lonely.”
“Come here,” I said. I threw my naked arms around him and pulled him into the shower and got him sopping wet. But he didn’t seem to mind. He held me close and tight and patted me on the back and made me feel like I was the best little girl in the whole wide world.
So of course I moved in
with the poor guy. My new daddy, a very rich new daddy. An international soda magnate. A very wealthy man indeed.
For a while, it was a real honeymoon. We went sailing. We went to Tuscany for long weekends. We stayed at his family’s villa in Elba. We summered in Sardinia. We went to Saint Moritz in the winter and skied with Princess Caroline and her family.
And everywhere we went there were children. From rosy-cheeked babies to mischievous adolescents.
“Alberto,” I said. “I want a child.”
“No,” he said. No bambini for him. Absolutely no interest in bambini.
So the honeymoon started to wind down. We fought. The Ultimate Daddy was denying me the one thing I really wanted. So what did I do? I got pregnant, of course. And Alberto went ballistic.
“You are not having this child,” he said. “I don’t even know if it’s mine.”
I couldn’t believe he could say that to me. “You bastard!” I shouted. “How dare you!?”
“I will arrange for an abortion,” he said.
“If you don’t want to have a child with me, if you don’t think I’m good enough to have your baby, then say so. But goddamn you—don’t tell me I’m cheating on you, because I’ve never cheated on you!”
He took a beat. “I don’t want this child.”
I fell apart. I couldn’t get out of bed for days. Alberto carried on as if nothing was wrong. He went to dinner, visited friends, traveled. I stayed in his big opulent place, alone and frightened. I didn’t want to lose him. I felt the evil demon’s lurking presence. I agreed to the abortion.
Afterward, I was crippled by depression. Alberto tried to cheer me up, but as the days turned into weeks he got tired of trying. He began to ignore me. He behaved as if I’d outlived my usefulness. We had reached that stage where we both knew it was over, but neither of us had the energy—or, in my case, the courage—to do anything about it.
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