Fashion Victims : He was as slick as oil as he oozed charm and a tale of woe in front of the Louvre

It was a quiet Sunday morning and my wife, Joan, and I were taking a few hours respite from the taxing historical research project we had been working on in Paris, periodically, for two years.

We left our hotel on the Left Bank for a leisurely stroll across the Seine, across the Place de la Concorde and up the Rue Royal to the imposing La Madeleine, built like a massive Greek temple and surrounded by a majestic colonnade of Corinthian columns.

Like many foreigners, we had always thought of the Madeleine as an inspired architectural creation. But it looks more like a stock exchange than a place of worship, and thus we were surprised to find a Mass in progress and the church crowded with Parisian worshipers.

We were similarly ill-prepared for the profound emotion we experienced, inspired by the fusion of sight and sound, as the choir’s spiritual message flowed over the high altar dominated by Marochetti’s imposing sculpture of Mary Magdalene ascending skyward toward the lavish domed ceiling and on, seemingly, to heaven itself. We agreed that we had neither seen nor heard anything more impressive in all of Paris, a city in which we had grown comfortable and confident during our many stays.

We were caught off-guard, and thus unprepared, for our next encounter with a person of less virtue than that surrounding us at the Madeleine.

We had taken a leisurely walk from the Madeleine to the Louvre, where we debated whether to enter the museum or first stroll out onto the Pont du Carrousel (one of the bridges that cross the Seine) that faces it. We chose the latter, turning to gaze west from the bridge and absorb the vast historical expanse of the ancient city divided almost equally by the blue-green river as it continues its journey to Le Havre and the sea. Suddenly, someone behind us called out, “Allo. Allo.”

*

We turned to see a smiling, impeccably dressed man in an expensive black automobile--which might have been a large Mercedes-Benz--parked in the right lane of the bridge, motor still running. He beckoned us toward him.

Speaking in pristine but Italian-accented English, he asked directions to the Place de la Concorde. We pointed out that his desired destination was plainly visible from where he sat. He laughed and asked where we lived. We answered, Pasadena, Calif.

“What a small world!” he exclaimed. “My brother owns an Italian restaurant in Pasadena, and I was there only last week!”

He had returned to Paris, he said, to prepare for the Valentino/Armani fashion exhibition, which was scheduled to open in a few weeks in Pasadena. He represented these designers both in France and America, he told us. In fact, his Paris exhibition would open soon.

He asked when we would be leaving town. When we told him, he expressed sorrow that we were departing so quickly, saying that he would have loved to have sponsored us as his guests at the Paris opening.

In lieu of that, he invited us to meet him in Pasadena and offered us the gift of two suede Valentino jackets, “costing over $1,000.” When we declined his gracious offer, he talked of his great wealth and how two jackets meant nothing to him. His chief worry was the fact that he had lost 1,000,000 francs the previous night at the local casino and that his wife was going to kill him when he got home.

He then leaned over to the passenger’s side and placed these jackets in our hands. They were neatly arranged in clear plastic sleeves bearing an elaborate “V”--for Valentino--label. Once more he commented on the high quality of Valentino products and then added, “These are yours, a present from me and Valentino,” and started to drive away. But he drove only a few feet, stopped suddenly and backed up to where we were still standing.

“My God,” he said, laughing heartily, “look at that gas gauge! My wife will kill me. I gambled away all my cash and now, a rich man from Milano can’t buy gasoline to get home. If you could lend me just a few francs or dollars I’ll pay you back when I see you in Pasadena. I want you to meet my brother. You will be my guests at his restaurant.”

After I gave this “rich man from Milano” a few dollars, he said, “Since I’ll see you in three weeks in Pasadena, maybe you could give me a little more so I don’t have to explain to my wife.”

Even after I gave him $300, he still asked for more saying again that the jackets were worth more than $1,000. We gave him no more, though we still suspected nothing. He asked us, however, not to sell these gifts because they were company samples and not for sale.

As he sped away I tried to determine the make of his car, noticing then that the car was devoid of any license plates or other identification. The Italian businessman had hardly crossed Pont du Carrousel when we discovered that the beautiful Valentino jackets were actually cotton suede. A fake Valentino logo had been placed in a conspicuous place above the left breast pocket of one of them.

Following a period of nervous laughter at having been so easily deceived, there was much serious reflection and considerable embarrassment over the realization that two educated people could have been so quickly and thoroughly duped.

*

We offered the jackets as evidence at a nearby police station, but they refused to pursue what they considered a low-priority crime.

We called the Valentino headquarters in Paris, explaining that a crook was posing as a Valentino and Armani representative. A woman answered, “We know. Maybe we will catch him sometime.”

I offered her the jackets as evidence if they thought it would help, but she also declined. We finally gave the jackets to the young girl who cleaned our hotel room, as a present for her father. She was delighted.

Now we are waiting for the jovial man from Milano to bring his Valentino/Armani exhibition to Pasadena. There’s a matter of $300 we would like to discuss with him.