Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir (31 page)

After walking around the large site, we headed back to the coast, where the crewman was waiting for us with the rowboat.

There had been a few paparazzi following us around as we toured the ancient city, and they of course followed us as we made our way back to the shore. The sea was a little bit rougher than when we had arrived and in order to get into the boat, we had to take our shoes off, roll up our trousers, and wade into the water.

The oarsman was seated in the middle of the boat and I tried to hold the boat steady so Mrs. Kennedy and the two other women could get in gracefully.

“Do you need me to give you a hand, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked. I was worried she might slip and the photographers would have a field day.

“No, thank you, Mr. Hill. I can do it just fine,” she said as she hoisted herself into a seated position on the edge of the boat and then swung her legs around. She was laughing, completely ignoring the photographers, just having a great time. By the time we all got into the boat, it was sitting quite low in the water, and as the oarsman struggled to get the boat in motion against the surf, it felt like we were going to flip over. A few of the photographers had waded into the water, and were snapping away.

“For Christsake!” I yelled. “Put down your goddamn cameras and somebody give us a push before we swamp!”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Kennedy was laughing just as hard as she could. I don’t know if she was laughing at me or whether she thought it would be hilarious if we actually did flip over.

Finally someone gave us a push and we got out beyond where the waves were breaking so we could get some momentum.

“Oh, Mr. Hill,” she said. She was laughing so hard she could barely speak. “If you could have seen the look on your face when you thought we were going to tip over! I hope one of the photographers caught it. I would pay to have that shot!”

As it turned out, one of the photographers did get a shot of that look on my face and he gave both Mrs. Kennedy and me a copy of the picture. It was such a great snapshot of a moment in time, a photo that captures the mischievous, adventure-loving woman I had come to know so well, to care for so very much. It was a moment when she was carefree, enjoying life to its fullest.

W
E USED THE
Agneta
more and more as a mode of transportation to get to the places Mrs. Kennedy wanted to see because it was a respite from the prying eyes of the press and the gawking public. On the yacht, her privacy could be
maintained. Mrs. Kennedy would read, or write, or sketch at her leisure, and simply enjoy the company of her sister and friends. Most of the time Gianni Agnelli was not on the yacht, but on one of the first evenings that he was, he introduced everyone to a new drink.

“What is that?” I asked Mr. Agnelli the first time he served the cherry-colored drink to Mrs. Kennedy.

“It’s an
aperitivo.
We call it Negroni,” he said.

“Here, try it,” he said as he handed me a glass.

I took a sip and handed the glass back to him.

“Not bad,” I said. It had a bitter, sort of sweet taste to it. “What’s in it?”

“Campari—that’s what makes it red—then it’s mixed with sweet vermouth, and garnished with a slice of orange.” He took a sip from his glass and then added, “Oh yes, and just a dash of gin for a bit of an extra kick.”

I laughed. There was definitely more than “just a dash” of gin in that drink.

“It’s very refreshing,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “I rather like it. I’ll have to remember to have Campari on hand at the White House for our Italian guests.” She laughed.

Aperitivo
time was a way to wind down after a day out on the water, and as the sun went down, when the bottle of Campari came out, it signaled the evening’s activities were about to begin.

O
NE EVENING, WE
took the
Agneta
to Capri, a stunning island that rises dramatically out of the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was a beautiful sail, and after anchoring at the port, we transferred to the Riva motorboat, the
Pretexte
, because Mrs. Kennedy wanted to cruise along the shoreline. She had been invited to dinner at the villa of Silvio Medici De’ Menezes and his fashion designer wife, Princess Irene Galitzine, who were friends of the Agnellis. They had a lively al fresco dinner served at midnight, and it wasn’t until after two o’clock in the morning that we returned to the
Agneta
and sailed back to Ravello.

A couple of days later, Mrs. Kennedy came to me and said, “Mr. Hill, I need you to do something for me like you did in Palm Beach. You know the problems we had with people when I wanted to go shopping on Worth Avenue? Well, I would really like to go shopping at the boutiques in Capri, but I’m sure the same thing would happen.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, Mrs. Kennedy. I have no doubt you would be
hounded by not only tourists, but also those damn paparazzi. I’m afraid it would be much worse than what we experienced in Palm Beach.”

She sighed. “I agree. So, I came up with an idea.”

As she said that, she looked at me and I could see the mischief in her eyes, like a little girl asking her daddy for something she knew Mummy wouldn’t approve of.

“Would you go to Capri for me, Mr. Hill?”

“What exactly is it you want me to do?” I asked.

“Well, Irene Galitzine offered to go shopping for me. I’d like you to take the motorboat there and accompany her—you know the kinds of things I like—and then you can bring back the clothes to me here.”

This is way outside my job description, and you know that,
I thought to myself. But just like in Palm Beach, I would be keeping her out of exposure to large numbers of people. It seemed like a good protective move.

“Oh, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, shaking my head. I tried to look serious but I couldn’t keep from smiling. “Yes, I will go to Capri for you. But don’t you dare tell anyone that I’ve done this.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, I won’t tell anyone, Mr. Hill. It will be our secret.”

I explained to Agent Paul Rundle, the advance agent, what I was about to do, and he assured me he would take care of everything until I returned. The bigger problem was trying to explain to the driver of the
Pretexte
what I needed, but somehow he seemed to understand, and the next day we took off for Capri.

We hugged the coastline until reaching a point where we had to cross a considerable distance of open water in the Tyrrhenian Sea to get to the island. It was a windy day, and the water was filled with whitecaps and very choppy, and every time we went up over a wave and crashed down hard, it felt like we were being punched over and over again. I had never felt seasick before, but this time I was very close. It seemed to take forever but finally we reached the marina, and fortunately I managed to avoid being sick. I disembarked and proceeded to the villa to meet Princess Irene Galatzine—I was a bit windblown and sunburned, but no worse for the wear.

The princess was a strikingly beautiful woman, very tall and elegant, and I felt somewhat like the hired help, literally just off the boat, but she was extremely gracious, and eager to go shopping for Mrs. Kennedy. I had never heard of her before the previous night’s dinner, but Mrs. Kennedy had informed me that she was famous for designing trousers for evening wear, known as “palazzo
pants.” Apparently she was quite well known in the fashion world. So, there we were, Princess Irene Galatzine and me, shopping together in the upscale boutiques on the Isle of Capri.

We selected an assortment of dresses, trousers, gauzy blouses, jewelry, shoes—you name it. We had a whole damn wardrobe for Mrs. Kennedy. By the time we finished and returned to the villa, it was getting dark, so going back to Amalfi across that rough body of water was out of the question.

“You’ll have to stay here at the villa,” the princess said. “I’ll make sure the boat driver is informed and have him available for you first thing in the morning.”

“Well, thank you very much,” I said.

She showed me to a guest bedroom and told me to make myself at home. “And you must have dinner with me, Mr. Hill.”

“Oh, no,” I protested. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“I insist,” she said. “Truly, it will be a pleasure.”

I hadn’t intended on staying overnight and I had no clothes to change into for dinner, so I just went into the bathroom and washed up as best as I could.

When it came time for dinner, I was surprised to find that it would just be the princess and me dining alone. It was a simple meal of seafood and pasta with a salad and excellent Italian bread. Princess Irene made me feel comfortable, but being a participant—rather than an observer waiting in the wings—was something I wasn’t used to.

So, that’s how I ended up spending the night at the home of Princess Irene Galitzine. My life had been one adventure after another. It sure was a long way from the North Dakota Children’s Home to the residence of a princess on the Isle of Capri. I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

In the morning, after some juice, extremely dark coffee, and a biscotti I was ready to leave. I now had in my possession a large trunk filled with purchases the princess had made on Mrs. Kennedy’s behalf. We loaded it on the boat and off to Amalfi I went. The trip back was smoother than the one to Capri, no whitecaps, and we made good time. Arriving at the beach house, we were met by the caretaker, who carried the trunk up to the house. Mrs. Kennedy and Lee were there and very glad to see me, and especially the trunk full of goodies. It was as if Christmas had arrived in August.

Mrs. Kennedy insisted I stay as she and Lee went through the various items of clothing. When I began to tell them about the wild boat ride across the choppy waters, they started laughing hysterically.

“I want you to tell me everything, Mr. Hill,” Mrs. Kennedy said with childlike
delight in her voice. “From the moment you left here. Every detail. What Irene said, where you shopped, what you ate for dinner. Don’t leave anything out.”

So, as Mrs. Kennedy and her sister gave me an impromptu fashion show, I regaled them with details of my adventure on the high seas, and the night with the princess on the Isle of Capri.

Clint Hill and Mrs. Kennedy in Italy

T
HUS FAR
, I had managed to protect Mrs. Kennedy while also keeping things in line with the president’s instructions. Then one evening Mrs. Kennedy informed me that she, along with Lee, Stash, and their guests, was going to go to Positano—to a nightclub.

The president’s words immediately popped into my head.
And above all, no nightclub pictures.

“Okay, Mrs. Kennedy, whatever you want. I’ll handle it,” I said.

We left Ravello and traveled down the coast to Positano, yet another picturesque town on the Amalfi coast. We had alerted the police and advised them to provide a contingent of officers dressed in plainclothes, to make our large group, which included Mrs. Kennedy, several friends, and several Secret Service agents, as inconspicuous as possible. The nightclub was crowded, and while Mrs. Kennedy did not go unnoticed, we managed to keep the paparazzi outside. Everyone
was dancing and laughing, having a great time, into the wee hours of the morning. I remember watching Mrs. Kennedy enjoying herself so much with her friends. Oh how I wished I could be out there on the dance floor with them, a participant rather than a bystander.