High life
A hairy squeeze
Taki
About six years ago I wrote three love letters to Brooke Shields, who happens to be the daughter of a very old friend of mine. Mind you, I was doing a Cyrano for an Italian buddy, a boxer whose English is poor. The boxer is an extremely good-look- ing man in his thirties, whose father lost his palazzo in Rome through his generosity to the MSI (neo-Fascist) party during the 1970s. Naturally, when the boxer asked me to help his budding romance, I did my best_ After all, anyone whose father had fought in Spain on the good side, with Franco, and contributed to the MSI, was a man after my own heart.
What I did was to borrow rather freely from two guys, Keats and Byron, with a lit- tle bit of Taki in between. When my friend saw the first one he jumped with joy. 'You are one of the greatest poets ever,' he told me. 'If this doesn't work, nothing will.' But we didn't figure with Brooke's mother, Terry. She's a tough old bag and did not approve of my friend_ A title but no moolah, and a scrambled brain. I had to write a second poem_ Again Byron and Keats. My friend by now was going bananas with the ease with which I produced such beautiful verse. 'Close but no cigar,' was the way he announced his failure with Brooke. This all took place in New York Then I went to Tuscany for the summer, near my friend's imposing castle, when the boxer called, in a panic. 'Brooke is coming to Rome for a night, I need a letter desper- ately,' he cried. 'This might be my last chance_ Please make it a good one.' The trouble was that I had no books with me, and what I knew by heart I had already used. And my friend was in a hurry. So I sat down and did my best, but when my illiterate buddy read it, he made a face. 'It is hardly your best,' he remarked rather rudely. I lost my temper and told him to go screw himself. But the next day he rang from Rome with good and bad news. The good was that Brooke hied the last poem the best. The bad was that yet again he had struck out. I told him he should try the mother first When I told the mother of my children what I'd been doing, she laughed and told me to be careful because Brooke had gone to Princeton and read English. Well, so much for an American education. A Princetol,vn graduate preferred Taki to Keats and Byron.
Now I read in the papers that Brooke is the squeeze of Andre Agassi, the man who shaves his chest and legs, and probably elsewhere, too, but does not shave his face. Agassi is a good tennis player but an unbe- lievable barbarian_ He went to Paris and ate only Big Mac hamburgers, and he prob- ably thinks Las Vegas is a more beautiful city than Venice. What Brooke is doing fol- lowing that bum around is a mystery, but I guess the private jet must please Terry_
Brooke's grandfather was a far better player than the ghastly Agassi, and, of course, was a gentleman. Frank Shields was a giant, and among the best looking men ever to play the game. He came from a humble background but married a Roman aristocrat, Marina TorIonia. Their son, Frank junior, has been a good friend since childhood_ Frank senior was a legendary drinker and womaniser. In the early Thir- ties, during the Davis Cup in Paris against the four musketeers, he drove to Le Havre for an assignation with a lady who was sail- ing for America_ When he woke up he was 100 miles out in the Atlantic, and the French were screaming bloody murder that the Yanks had changed the team. (I believe that is when the rule came in naming players in advance.) Shields senior died prematurely about ten years ago, drinking and carousing to the end. Frank junior lives and works in Palm Beach and has a large family. Brooke is with Agassi. Now that is what I call decadence_
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