Funerals and friends
Taki
IGstaad
finally did not go to Gianni Agnelli's funeral. When I say finally, I mean I was on my way, but then I began to think. Gianni died early Friday morning, the funeral was on Sunday. There was no time for people to be invited. But Gianni was a public person — to use an overused cliché, he was the uncrowned king of Italy. Which means every politician, civil servant, important person — you know the type — would naturally be expected to attend. I was just a close friend of 45 years, nothing more. What convinced me was Paul Johnson's column in these here pages about Roy Jenkins: 'I shall miss him, especially his presence at memorial services, which he attended assiduously, whether or not he knew the dear departed, provided that he was eminent enough.'
Well, there was no one more eminent than l'avvocato, but I'm no Roy Jenkins. I have no honorary degrees, no literary awards, no glittering prizes. (Just a lot of rusting trophies to remind me of my arthritis.) Mind you, the Agnellis knew that, so they had it organised in a jiffy. A whole hotel had been booked for family and friends, but I still got cold feet. Another life-long friend of Gianni's, Gunter Sachs, rang me early on Friday, 'Let's take a plane on Sunday morning and fly right back ... ' I know that Gianni adored Gunter, whom he had known even longer than yours truly. The trouble is both Gunter and I had a funny feeling about attending. I suspect in both our cases — we are both past the point of no return at 65 — we felt intrusive. Reflected glory and all that. You're either a very close friend, or you're not. Gunter always was, and I like to think ditto, where I'm concerned. But this was a state occasion, and we were, after all, just friends.
And another thing. In view of my age, I don't handle funerals as well a I used to. When the trumpeteer plays la ultima saluta, I lose it. What clinched it was that Turin airport was shut down early, as were all the streets leading to the cathedral, so our dilemma was solved. Anyway, I said what I had to say when Dominic Lawson — as always, an early bird — rang me and asked me to write about ravvocato for the Sunday Telegraph one week before the great man died. I did not like my piece. Gianni was too much a man of parts for someone of my literary abilities to zero in on at one sitting. I wanted to be lyrical, but only managed it towards the end, when I asked myself whether riches, physical beauty, great style and cultural taste, happiness brings.
All I know is — like in Graham Greene's novel — Agnelli made me. He taught me to be unfailingly polite to those who couldn't answer back, just as my father taught me to take crap from no one, however grand. He showed me what style is all about, not fashionable things, but that elusive quality no one is capable of buying, the opposite of pretence. The ability to command attention without soliciting it. Being authentic without making a conscious effort at being so. Agnelli had it all, and I got the message early on, when I was 21. and he was 37.
Hemingway used to say, 'II faut d'abord survivre.' I agree. Survival is somehow important. the trouble being one loses all one's friends. In the last five years I've lost Yanni Zographos, Jimmy Goldsmith, John Aspinall, Charles Benson, now Gianni Agnelli. One for each year, and in that order. I wonder who's next? Perhaps I should befriend that incompetent buffoon Jack Straw, or that prancing phony, Tony Baloney. But I digress. What am I doing mentioning such malevolent clowns in the same breath as ravvocato?
I'm off to the Big Bagel and Washington DC where — speaking of phonies and buffoons — the William Kristols of this world have convinced George W. Bush to play the role of Alexander the Great. Heaven help us.
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