Excerpt from "The Cherry Boy Chronicles"
Toni went straight to work modeling for several Italian magazines, and, while she worked, Pucci took me under his proverbial wing. He drove the winding, sometimes stone or cobbled streets, showing me the sites of the ancient city of seven hills in his red Lamborghini. One such day of discovery, Pucci stopped in to see his tailor. They were speaking Italian so I ignored their conversations and bided my time feeling fabric. A moment later Pucci said, “Chris, he’s going to make you a suit. Pick out what you like.”
I chose a slightly off-white lightweight gabardine with a ventless jacket design. Over the next couple of weeks, I went back for first and second fittings. Finally, the day came to pick up my finished handmade Italian suit. I tried it on—semplicemente magnifico—
The first opportunity I had to wear my new threads was to a dinner party hosted by Pucci at one of Rome’s finest old restaurants. Attending the party, surrounded by models, were Ghighi Cassini and Roman Polanski. Ghighi was well known for his long-running gossip column, Cholly Knickerbocker in the New York Journal American newspaper and syndicated in all Hearst papers. Polanski at that time was best known for directing Rosemary’s Baby and being the husband of Sharon Tate.
The party was humming along with the antipasto and wine being served. Pucci was at the head of the table, to his left was a model, Ghighi, Toni, me and, at the end of the table, Fabrizio and Teri Gianni. Fabrizio had started as an assistant director on films like The Good, The Bad and The Ugly and was transitioning into becoming a fashion photographer. On the other side of the table were more models and Polanski.
Throughout my life there have been numerous times when my wiseacre mouth has gotten me in trouble. Occasionally, this same tendency manifests in a different form. That night, my glib remarks were coming quick and the wit was being received at our table with nods and laughter. I was unaware, at first, that some of my witticisms were at the expense of Polanski, but, by the primo course, it became evident that there was a battle for the attention of the table going on. I was riding a wave and this night no one was going to interrupt my flow or beat me to the punch line. It was not the usual part I played in social gatherings, but tonight was my night—I was on. It's possible that my inspiration and confidence could have been attributed to the elegant hand-made Roman suit I was wearing—I didn’t know and I didn’t care. Furthermore, it didn't matter what witty remark Polanski might make, without a second thought, I had an answer.
This carried on periodically through il secondo, and, by the end of the course, Polanski had had enough. Fortunately for me, it was Pucci’s caustic crack that touched Roman’s nerve and thrust him to his feet. Pucci was laughing, with his head thrown back, at Polanski’s overreaction but abruptly stopped laughing when Roman poured a glass of Coca-Cola on his head. Pucci’s mouth flew open, yet words did not come. His face turned crimson, and he shot up sending his chair crashing into the wall. Polanski, seeing the blood in Pucci’s fiery Italian eyes, turned tail and ran like the coward he was later proven to be. Pucci threw a glass of red wine at Polanski’s retreat. Polanski ran around the table, grabbed a meatball off a platter and hurled it at Pucci. Not to be outdone, Pucci picked up a platter of contorno (vegetables) and took off in hot pursuit of Polanski, who was now fleeing toward the front of the restaurant.
In the meantime, I had pulled the tablecloth up to my neck in an effort to protect my new white suit, which was, in fact, the possible cause of the commotion in the first place. Since I’d put the suit on earlier in the evening, I’d become keenly aware of all things around me that might soil it. For instance, when we entered the restaurant, I was offended and revolted by the billowing cigarette smoke. This was ridiculous, since as recently as the day before, I hadn’t been bothered by the fumes. Throughout Europe people smoked everywhere. In Paris, the harsh aroma of Gauloises was synonymous with all things French. The pretty blue packets were seen lying, almost ceremoniously, on tables in restaurants and bars, reminding us of France, the Mediterranean, and Matisse. Here in Rome, MS, the Italian monopoly cigarette, was a source of national pride.
OK, I had quit smoking, that’s true. During Easter week, Toni and I had flown to Rome to meet Pucci, and on Easter Sunday we went to see the pope deliver his famous “Urbi et Orbi” message from the central balcony of the main facade of the Basilica. I was so moved by the spirit of the message, though I didn’t understand a word spoken, that as we drove back to our hotel, I reached into the rear seat, grabbed the carton of Marlboros I’d carelessly tossed there and threw it out the window into the throngs of Easter revelers, who I imagined, would interpret it as a gift from heaven. I’d been thinking of quitting the habit gifted to me by the benevolence of the U.S. Army and the generosity of the Reynolds Tobacco Co., and what more perfect day to accomplish this than Easter Sunday in Rome.
There were screams from ladies and Italian cursing from men in the front of the restaurant where Pucci and Polanski were using the dessert table as a source of ammunition for the continuance of hostilities. After a minute, or perhaps when the cannoli ran out, the battle was over. The two, covered in a sampling from the dessert table, came sheepishly back to join our party followed by two men from the restaurant admonishing them with every step. Things quieted down, towels were brought for the combatants, and everyone at our table had better sense than to ask for dessert with our espressos.
My state of euphoria and glib delight had vanished and over a double-espresso, Polanski and I engaged in an interesting chat while he drew a picture of a little guy with enormous shoes on a napkin and gave it to me. I didn't mention that I had met Manson.
What a wonderful night in the Eternal City—
