High life
Nostalgia
Taki
Gstaad In Gstaad, the latest crisis of The Times has passed almost unremarked. Nobody here reads the front pages, where the Murdoch-Evans soap opera has been played out each day. In fact, with the ex- ception of myself, the only other man I met who had read up on The Times brouhaha was an elderly Swiss diplomat who could not keep his glee from showing once he read that Evans was on his way out. The Swiss even quoted George Gale to me: 'It plays a thin tune of fashionable consensus . . I couldn't have agreed more, needless to say. I always thought that Evans and Holden belonged in Vogue or the Taller, or even in the back of the Spectator, writing about real high life among the rich and the in- fluential, but not running The Times. (I regret that I cannot write anything against the awful Frank Giles, husband of Lady Kitty, only because it would make me look like a man who bites the hand. After all, I got so many kind letters from Sunday Times readers after my 'Life in the day of . . .' appeared recently, that I'm serious- ly contemplating suing for libel. The writer made me out to be some kind of nice, lonely and lost soul.) But enough of Fleet Street and the depressing thought that there are other things than good or bad snow conditions. Last week I had one of the best ski outings in years. It snowed non-stop for three days and then the sun came, and stayed, out. My English guests who had been keeping me back had departed, so I spent two glorious days racing up and down the Bernese Oberland mountains. I even had a long fang-lauf after ski, and just as the night was making it impossible to find the track, I remembered that I had a friend, William Buckley, in Rougemont. Bill's latest best seller in America was written in 110 hours, and that discovery led me to deliver enough epithets to make McEnroe seem like a mute. I guess envy will not help me write any better or more seriously, but drinking at night at least helps alleviate the pain.
There is a marvellous little inn called the Saanenhous, which is perched on the side of a steep hill above Saanen, a village near Gstaad. The owner is a ski instructor who also serves in the kitchen, at table and in the cash department. Because the owner is not British, the Saanenhous works perfectly. It is cheap, the food is excellent, the service impeccable, and guests are even allowed to send things back when not satisfied. I chose to give a party over there for my departing English guests and, even if I say it myself, it could not have worked out better. As the wine kept flowing I got more and more nostalgic for the old Gstaad, before the Arabs took over the Rosey and sprinkled the mountainside with their Rollses and Mercedeses. And just as I was nostalgising, in walked a couple I hadn't seen in exactly 22 years. Now I never thought that I'd ever write something nice about the dreadful Aga Khan, and don't worry, I won't. But I will about his uncle, the ghastly Ales younger brother, Saddrudin Khan. I met Sadri when very young, and could not help but notice even back then how different he was from his brother and his nephew, the Aga. Ali was arrogant, cruel, selfish and charming. The Aga was arrogant, selfish, stupid, and as charming as a nightclub bouncer. Sadri was quiet, shy, extremely well read, intelligent, and possessed a galt never before or since found among the
Khans, a sense of humour. .
One day Nicki Rommel, the nephew of the Field Marshal, challenged me to ski down the black piste of the Videmanette. It is the steepest piste around, and periodically claims the life of a skier or two. Now the great nephew of the great Hasso von Manteuffel could not exactly lose face in front of the nephew of the great (but in- ferior where tank tactics were concerned to Manteuffel) Rommel. Out on the ledge, however, I lost my nerve. I couldn't move at all. That is when Saddrudin gently car- ried my skis until we found a spot to Put them on. Rommel saw nothing. Honour was saved. Sadri even took us down as we were both in above our heads. The Aga s uncle married a Greek girl soon after, one that I always thought Justine of Alexandria fame was based on. When I saw them together I almost cried. We shook hands and laughed, and I could tell that their lives had much more purpose than mine because they didn't seem to mind as much about lost youth and past good times.
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