High life
Artistic antics
Taki
uring the late-Fifties, I was a regular at El Morocco, the trendiest and chicest nightspot of the Bagel. Elmo's was zebra- striped, had a strict hierarchy of good tables and, of course, on the western side of the room, a so-called Siberia section, where rubes and vulgarians were assigned.
Angelo, the aloof maitre d' — extremely strict where the dress code was concerned, but kind with children of regulars — always tried his best to accommodate the then truly poor little Greek boy. In fact, when Reinaldo Herrera Sr or Aristotle Onassis were absent, I sometimes got their table, the first banquette as one came in on the right. All that meant was that I was the most important person in the room. At `No, David, I don't think James Cameron will be interested.' times the false impression even paid off. Girls, after all, prefer winners to nobodies.
One night I was seated at the second- best table next to a dusky lady whose com- panion kept going to the telephone. I asked Angelo who the man was and he told me it was an art dealer by the name of Daniel Wildenstein. Art dealers back then were not as important as they are now. For one thing they were poorer. So I chatted up the lady who quickly informed me that she was an Afghan princess. Afghanis back then were not as important as they are now. Most of us had no idea where their country was exactly located.
Daniel Wildenstein, however, turned out to be an exception. He was filthy rich, a third generation art dealer, but one who took a great dislike to the poor little Greek boy. Perhaps it was something I said about French performance during May 1940 (he was a patriotic Frenchman, of course); it could also have been because I asked the Afghani princess how many goats she owned. He asked Angelo to move me, and when Angelo refused, he left the club in an Orlando Furioso mood.
A sort of guerrilla war ensued, Wilden- stein making faces whenever I appeared, poor little me talking non-stop about the traffic jam which the fleeing French troops created in their hurry to get to the Riviera rather than making the acquaintance of Panzers. Then both Daniel and I moved to Paris and never saw each other again. Dur- ing the late-Sixties I played quite a lot of polo against his younger son, Guy, and my buddy John Aspinall had me to dinner a couple of times with Alec and the bride of Wildenstein.
Both boys, well, middle-aged men by now, could not have been more polite. Guy was a good polo player, rising to about a four handicap, I believe, and Alec appar- ently is the best pistol shot around. The Wildensteins have been hit by a wave of bad publicity lately, starting with Alec being caught in bed with a young Russian woman by his 'bride of Wildenstein', Jose- lyne. This triggered charges that the family misappropriated manuscripts belonging to another Jewish collector and that during the German occupation of Paris the Wildenstein gallery collaborated with the occupiers and enriched itself.
I will not go into the various charges and countercharges because — frankly — they bore me. The battle will be fought among the various PR flacks the combatants have chosen. Back in the very good old days, things would have been settled on a lawn at dawn. The dispute will most likely be set- tled in a Big Bagel courtroom, as the dis- puted manuscripts are held by the Wildensteins at 19 East 64 Street.
My instinct tells me that Daniel Wilden- stein, although perhaps an unpleasant man to deal with socially, was far too smart to try to steal other people's property. The boys, needless to say, are wholly innocent. It is an art dynasty whose wealth and secre- tiveness have aroused great suspicion in the past. Now it has decided to fight back and clear its name. And herein lies a tale, how- ever ludicrous.
Throughout the polo season in the Bagatelle Club, in the Bois de Boulogne, Guy Wildenstein had a habit of disappear- ing behind the shower curtain always wear- ing his underwear. Two of my Argie team mates were extremely suspicious. After a match one fine Sunday afternoon, drunk and disorderly, we decided to depant him. I grabbed him from behind, and Carlos Miguens, wearing polo gloves, took off his shorts. He turned out to be, as right as rain, as they say in horse circles, so the joke was on us. I think the same thing will 'happen where the rumours are concerned. The Wildensteins will be vindicated. Although it will be revealed that the Afghani princess was a fraud, a woman with a past but with- out a single goat.
Previous page
