"I asked Dr. Busi to see me for a few minutes. Do you think we can make it this morning?"
This is my phone call to Silvana, the powerful head of the secretariat of the CEO of the company where I had been working for several years.
"Perhaps there is a gap between one meeting and the next ..." the colleague replied.
And in fact after ten minutes I was summoned to the presidency offices located in the sixteenth-century Palazzo della Gherardesca in Borgo Pinti in Florence.
Dr. Busi, managing director, was a well-rounded character, totally dedicated to his work, he arrived in the office at seven in the morning and left no earlier than 22 in the evening.
"What is it, Bartoli?" he asked without looking up from the papers he was signing.
"Doctor, my son is about to be born. I ask you to be exempted this year from my trip to Moscow for the international fair. I have already prepared everything, the pavilion has been completed, I have received the photos and there are no problems ..."
Doctor Busi gave me a dirty look.
"Listen Bartoli, you know or should know how I think: first work, then family. Also because it is work that guarantees the life of the family ... This year in Moscow we will have important visits from Russian ministers and a government Italian delegation and I want everything to work perfectly. Therefore: congratulations on the upcoming birth of your child but you must guarantee your presence in Moscow. "
Moscow Sokolniki Park International Fair
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My wife was in Udine with her mother. Every evening, taking into account the differences in time zones, I would hang up on the phone, call the international switchboard, wait half an hour without any result.
I was very worried as almost all fathers can be while waiting for the arrival of the first child.
Franca's pregnancy had been regular, to the point that she had continued to work in the atelier of the Marquis Emilio Pucci almost to the end. She couldn't stay home and had to somehow continue to be useful.
Daughter of art, her mother had created the most important high fashion atelier in Friuli Venezia Giulia, Franca had made her bones managing the three boutiques owned by the family.
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My wife was in Udine with her mother. Every evening, taking into account the differences in time zones, I would hang up on the phone, call the international switchboard, wait half an hour without any result.
I was very worried as almost all fathers can be while waiting for the arrival of the first child.
Franca's pregnancy had been regular, to the point that she had continued to work in the atelier of the Marquis Emilio Pucci almost to the end. She couldn't stay home and had to somehow continue to be useful.
Daughter of art, her mother had created the most important high fashion atelier in Friuli Venezia Giulia, Franca had made her bones managing the three boutiques owned by the family.
Emilio Pucci 1973.jpgThe Marquis Emilio Pucci had been my best man at the wedding and had asked Franca if she wanted to work in the Palazzo Pucci, in via dei Pucci.
Franca had downsized the "placing" sector of the splendid fabrics designed by this great designer who had been so successful in the United States.
And how important the placement of the fabrics was seen immediately because it allowed to reduce waste and stem the leakage of material unfortunately favored by the inability and perhaps corruption of some manager of the marquis's company who was too busy in his work and in politics to be able to follow the details of the production.
So every evening I was busy on that damned phone and waited for hours in the hope of being able to know how my wife was, cursing the Soviet disorganization that found its maximum expression in the impossibility of making a phone call with an Italian city.
This story had been going on for five days now when I decided to let the international service manager pass me by.
I finally managed to speak to a woman who spoke in good French; I made the report of all my failed attempts in the last five days to be able to have a communication with Udine.
The girl told me she would call me back in 15 minutes. And so it was.
So every evening I was busy on that damned phone and waited for hours in the hope of being able to know how my wife was, cursing the Soviet disorganization that found its maximum expression in the impossibility of making a phone call with an Italian city.
This story had been going on for five days now when I decided to let the international service manager pass me by.
I finally managed to speak to a woman who spoke in good French; I made the report of all my failed attempts in the last five days to be able to have a communication with Udine.
The girl told me she would call me back in 15 minutes. And so it was.
"Vous ne pouvez pas parler à l'Italie, M. Bartoli, car ils sont constamment en grève"
"You can't talk to Italy, Mr. Bartoli, because they are constantly on strike," she told me, leaving me stunned because hearing it in the capital of the Soviet Union had a certain effect.
"You can't talk to Italy, Mr. Bartoli, because they are constantly on strike," she told me, leaving me stunned because hearing it in the capital of the Soviet Union had a certain effect.
In those days when one arrived in Moscow they requisitioned his passport and return ticket which must have been purchased earlier.
Therefore, I asked other exhibitors what the Soviet authorities' procedure has been in recent months.
"You have to queue down in one hotel office and when it's your turn to ask the police officers, find out what the hell they are, if your ticket has been stamped and therefore your departure is confirmed on the scheduled date."
So I began another ordeal made of long waits in long lines before reaching a table behind which sat two "ladies" who, every time it was my turn, interrupted their conversations for a few seconds of hell, one glanced in a wooden box in front of her containing many airline tickets, she unwrapped and regularly replied "nyet!" every time, nothing.
[Militia day in ussr]
I was due to leave two days later and I still didn't have my plane ticket and passport.
Finding myself for the umpteenth time in front of the two policewomen, I began to scream like a madman, decorating my protests with the clips of English and French I knew.
I felt on me the weight of the looks of all the other people in line behind me or sitting on the edge of the room who were surely betting on my safe arrest in Soviet prisons.
The two b....s looked at me with their boiled fish eyes without saying a word. Behind them a policeman, clearly superior in rank, appeared and said something to them, grabbed the damned wooden box with the airline tickets and passports inside, looked carefully and pulled out my ticket and related document. He added, in handing it over, even a smile, which was extremely rare in ordinary Moscow police behavior.
Therefore, I asked other exhibitors what the Soviet authorities' procedure has been in recent months.
"You have to queue down in one hotel office and when it's your turn to ask the police officers, find out what the hell they are, if your ticket has been stamped and therefore your departure is confirmed on the scheduled date."
So I began another ordeal made of long waits in long lines before reaching a table behind which sat two "ladies" who, every time it was my turn, interrupted their conversations for a few seconds of hell, one glanced in a wooden box in front of her containing many airline tickets, she unwrapped and regularly replied "nyet!" every time, nothing.
[Militia day in ussr]I was due to leave two days later and I still didn't have my plane ticket and passport.
Finding myself for the umpteenth time in front of the two policewomen, I began to scream like a madman, decorating my protests with the clips of English and French I knew.
I felt on me the weight of the looks of all the other people in line behind me or sitting on the edge of the room who were surely betting on my safe arrest in Soviet prisons.
The two b....s looked at me with their boiled fish eyes without saying a word. Behind them a policeman, clearly superior in rank, appeared and said something to them, grabbed the damned wooden box with the airline tickets and passports inside, looked carefully and pulled out my ticket and related document. He added, in handing it over, even a smile, which was extremely rare in ordinary Moscow police behavior.
It was October 18 and we finally left with an Aeroflot Tupolev 154 that would have stopped in Budapest anyway to refuel at Soviet controlled prices.
From Budapest we left with an hour late on the schedule, destination Linate Milan.
Arriving almost above the Lombard metropolis, the intercom of the cabin announced in Russian and then in English that we would probably not be able to land at Linate due to persistent fog on the runway.
My window seat neighbor was sniffing with perfect Lombard vernacular and then explained to me that (clearly he had to be an expert) Soviet pilots from military aviation could land in fog only if they had 800m visibility, unlike Westerners pilots who had the professionalism of landing with much reduced visibility.
As god wanted, we finally landed at Linate where I took a taxi that took me to the central station. Here I got on the first train to Venice Mestre where I got off taking the train to Udine, where one of my sisters-in-law was waiting for me.
We finally went to the hospital where Franca was suffering the wrath of God and they were even practicing dilation by hand. Fifth world stuff ...
At 6:15 am on October 19th, Maximiliano entered this agitated world ...
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What an experience but what a lovely end at least! Many many wishes to Max, although two days later… H&K to you all,
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