High life
Party politics
Taki
am starting to get cold feet as the day of my dinner-dance is approaching, The prob- lem is the seating plan, and how to go about seating 255 people without offending some of them. A friend suggested I hire those professional party planners who more often than not organise these things, but I turned down that suggestion rather fast. The idea that some fat stranger will decide where everyone sits is unaccept- able, almost as unacceptable as hiring a stand-in for one's wedding night. Mind you, all those invited are friends of mine, therefore hardly pompous types, but there have been a few bombarding me with calls about which girl they want to sit next 'I know it's irrational, but I can't bear hav- ing one in the room.' to. The young Leonida Goulandris has been the most persistent. He even flew to Athens to press his case about a sweet young thing I was saving for myself, one alas I had to give up on as the mother of my children is in London and with a menacing look to boot.
Then there is Chuck Pfeiffer, flying in from the Big Bagel and demanding to sit among 'the most beautiful women you've got and who know all about me and what a cultural hero I am in New York'. That, dear readers, is a tall order to say the least, so I'm afraid the brave Vietnam hero will be eating by himself in the kitchen of the Savoy.
That very talented Yankee writer, Jay McInerney, on the other hand, did not pull a Pfeiffer. All Jay asked for was a table full of girls with no other men present. My favourite request, however, was from a man who asked that his girl be plunked next to a duke. He got his wish after promising to grant mine in the future.
Needless to say, Jeff Bernard did not follow the trend. In fact he did the opposite and didn't even bother to answer the invitation. When the secretary traced him in a pub he said he will either come or not. Gianni Agnelli was far more polite and less Delphic. `Will you have any good-looking tarts, or just your usual semi-ladies?' was the way he put it. Unfortunately he has to be in the Big Bagel that day, but he told me not to be surprised if he shows up. Which means yet one more worry, as I cannot exactly consign the great Gianni to the kitchen with Chuck and Jeff.
Why am I giving this party? Well, the answer can only be why not? The collapse of communism is such a happy event, there should have been parties galore starting last November. This is what Tom Wolfe pointed out to me last week in the Bagel, when he told me I was the first to gloat, and he congratulated me for it. And yes, I'm gloating. But while I'm at it, back in the good old USA a monument to those who brought so much misery to the human race has just been erected. It is in the form of a mural on the side of a building that houses a publisher of left-wing books, it's six storeys high and measures 6,000 square feet. It is Socialist Realism at its most egregious, a garish specimen celebrating the bad Marx and his murderous followers. Trotsky, Lenin, Castro, Guevara, they're all there. Ironically, the greatest mass murderer of all time, Joe Stalin, the role model for Castro and the rest of the motley crew, is not present. I guess the penny dropped while this great work of art was being painted.
But Uncle Joe will definitely feature at my dinner. The tables are named after the bad guys, and I will be sitting at the Stalin one. Late or unexpected arrivals will be seated at the Castro and Kim II Sung tables. This is because the two swine are still clinging on. At least until Friday, I hope.
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