In the background, I can hear “Knockin’ on heaven’s door”. I am getting carried away. My imagination gets the better of me.
“Mama put my guns in the ground - I can’t shoot them anymore.
Knock knock knockin‘ on heaven’s door...”
Guns N’ Roses singing tenderly inside my head. No orchestra in the world can drown this out now. “Knockin’ on heaven’s door” is knocking through my entire body.
WE: FELICIANO & I
We’ve long banned a number of Italian products from our lives and our shopping lists: the multitude of Bright Colours of Veneto - nothing can deter me, not even the fact that my lovely former colleague was the one that maintained those private jets. Formula 1, the factory of creativity in Piedmont with its stream of new ideas for the world of driving and flying, the scent of Emilia Romagna captured in candles, creams and perfumes; comfy shoes with gummi bears stuck to the heels, prestigiously worn by corporate wives - totally banned, and soon my son will exchange his love of the red racing car as well as the world-famous chocolate factory that’s been so successful with all its brand names: crumbs of nuts in little balls of chocolate, a cherry in alcohol, sponsorship on MTV and VH1 from my own times past. It would be so hard to deprive kids of that yummy nut-nougat spread!
And we must not forget Adonis the beautiful! What yacht shall we use today? Not a problem for the president of the “Nouveau Riche Yacht Club” on Ponza. Cigarettes? Alcohol? No question! TobacPac and any box full of weed spewing out of packaging manufactured by your machinery? Unconditionally banned from Ferrara, Italy, after allegations of socialist tendencies for the purpose of subtly simulated possible intellectualism? And here he is, “Lello”, with the little cap, warbling on about Emilia Romagna communism in the house of the “Church Tower”
- still invited to glittering places by the Gransignore in Carozza high up in the hills above the sea on the island of Ponza! Drives well, doesn’t it? Called by the conceited
Gransignore, Germany’s most famous racing driver of all time drove that red car unerringly. Sadly, he wasn’t always on target, and certainly not always first. Wasn’t his fault that the marketing was more brilliant than the engineering! What power he wields, the Gransignore in Carozza... Is it really true that he is the most powerful man in Italy, after Silvio Berlusconi?
I wish I could have placed bets on Silvio Berlusconi’s choice of divorce lawyer. Way off the mark! I’d have lost that bet. That’s no surprise, because my choice of Barbara della Guerra’s stardom and fame gathered bitter-dark clouds above her head. Not that she lost a lot of cash from her bank account when she represented her client’s case against me - no, certainly not that. As Italy’s top divorce lawyer, she was no longer allowed to practise at court... all that’s left now is silly television shows! A circus full of passive clowns. They hide behind those who take the fall for them - in jail, or in death. The second option being much more likely. Safer.
PRIVATE JETS AND OTHER FLIGHTS OF FANCY
Phone call from my Swiss NetJets office. Get in touch with Dr Amos in Ferrara, he may be interested in purchasing a share in a private jet. Fine. I arrange an appointment, confirm it with the secretary and ask, naively:
“What line of business... what industry - is Dottore in?”
“You’ll have to ask him. I’m not authorized to give out any information,” she replies, almost embarrassed for me.
My visit to Ferrara: I remember that I was tired. Dr Amos, boring, early forties, sits opposite me. Thick black hair, dark blue made-to-measure suit, handmade English shoes. A soft smile that emphasizes his personal power as much as that of his office. Located in the most beautiful part of town - across from the cathedral -chrome, glass and marble, a perfect combination of old and new. Just like his white collar to go with the dark blue made-to-measure suit. Fashionable, conservative, simple, elegant.
“I’m not interested in a share of whatever kind of jet, Signorina,” he says, charming and distant. “May I call you Signorina?” A soft smile plays around the corners of his mouth.
“Prego Dottore.” He may.
“I’m a pilot myself and I intend to acquire my own aircraft. What are your conditions of work at NetJets? Can you come and work for me? I am preparing to set up a company to run a jet charter business in Italy. Interested? May I invite you to dinner?”
His smugness knows no bounds within this unending monologue he’s starting to get into. I decline, need to get back.
“How long have you lived in Italy? I’ve always had a thing for German women...”
Unbelievable, I think.
“How can I get in touch with you? When may I see you again?”
He describes his dealings and those of his company -he calls it a “holding company” - as “Mergers & Acquisitions”.
“I’m not interested in “merging” with you right now, and I’m not available for acquisition either,” I turn him down.
“No, ... thank you, ... my train to Milano leaves in forty minutes. But thank you again. Of course we can stay in touch. Arrivederci Dottore!”
The way he looks at me and holds my hand tells me that that’s exactly what will happen.
David would have asked me how it went anyway. NetJets was still in its infancy in Europe, run by David in Zug - for tax reasons. Legally represented by Ernesto Sprungler and backed by his MaxiJetCompany. Ernesto and his sensational know-how of dealing in jets. He was not even remotely like Saint-Exupery’s Little Prince. One plane in - one plane out, preferably in African countries. A huge list of contacts and appointments. Flying Gulfstreams to sales events and Citation 10s to Geneva, London or wherever the client wanted him. Transatlantic ultra-long range jets. Groundings of luxury class new planes - some on their maiden flight -navigated by our pilots out of Lisbon. Clients whose names were never made public, Tiger Woods being the only exception. The year is 1996. And I am drinking a quick, strong espresso at Ferrara station, waiting for my train back to Milano, with not the faintest inkling of what fate has in store for me...
I’m living at Franco Bossi’s stables between Como and Milano. Franco, former international show jumping champion, and Devina and Don Juan - my two darlings. I can cope with appointments like the one in Ferrara only because I come home to animals and nature. My consumption of some thirty cigarettes a day doesn’t quite fit that image - a small vice that I have since given up. David at NetJets is getting more demanding by the day and the winter months are so sad in damp, drizzly Northern Italy near Lake Como. To this day I fail to understand what the Germans and the English like so much about the Northern Italian lakes. For a start, Italians don’t even regard this area as Italy proper, it’s only Italy to northern folk. And once you’ve crossed the border into Switzerland, even the pasta doesn’t taste right anymore! There’s