High life
Tinpot despot
Taki
ike captains, who no longer go down with their ships, dictators nowadays ain't what they used to be. I thought of Rafael Leonidas Trujillo last week, while watch- ing the television pictures of Noriega Meekly giving himself up. Trujillo was 71 years old, had just had a quickie with his mistress in the afternoon, had taken four bullets in his chest from his assassins, but still managed to draw his gun and charge the killers. In fact he got one of them before he died. Whatever his shortcom- ings, at least he died like the macho man he was.
I was in Paris at the time, living with the Dominican diplomat Porfirio Rubirosa and his wife in their beautiful house in St Germain des Pres. As soon as the news came in, Rubi and the two Trujillo sons chartered a Boeing 707 and flew to Ciudad Trujillo, as the capital of the Dominican Republic was then called. Rubi took a 9mm automatic pistol with him, the Trujil- lo boys a couple of submachine-guns. I watched them preparing themselves and begged to go along. Rubi, however, de- creed that I should stay behind with the Women and children.
. Once in the Dominican Republic, Ram- fis Trujillo did not cut the mustard, and was soon persuaded by the gringos to go back to being a playboy in Spain where he lived. Rhadames Trujillo wanted to stay and fight, but he too was eventually persuaded to go. Rubi was so disgusted he never spoke to either of them again. The year was 1961. Rubi died in 1965, Ramfis is still around, but Rhadames disappeared sometime during the Seventies. The greatest man in the Dominican Republic today is Oscar de la Renta, a dress design- er. It's par for the course.
As I say, back in the good old days dictators had more class. Huerta, the Mexican despot, sailed to France and lived in splendour for the rest of his life. Perez Jimenez, the Venezuelan strongman, left on 1 January 1957 and flew to Miami with a large entourage. The only object he left behind was his marvellous gin-palace, which was bought by George Embirikos, a Greek ship-owner, soon after. Fulgencio Batista got out of town in a hurry but with his dignity intact, and flew to Spain, where he spent the rest of his life in comfort. (His son Reuben was my brother's room-mate in boarding school, and a very charming young man he was, too.) Even Somoza managed to get out with his mistress and a few Mercedes cars. And it was around Christmas time, I believe. There is some- thing about the end of the year that does not suit dictators in Latin America.
Mind you, Noriega was not caught like the rat he is, but simply gave himself up. He could not stand being without televi- sion, his whores and cocaine, the last ignominies of a dictator. What I was hoping for was that the Yankees would turn around and hit those other tinpot dictators, the Sandinistas, and then send in every marine available and get the bearded butcher in Havana. The Americans already have the naval base in Guantanamo, so they could flank the butcher and string him up in front of the old Hotel Nacional, where once upon a time the best hookers west of Paris used to hang out.
But it was not to be. George Bush is a nice man, too nice, and also too cautious. While the Romanians, hardly a race of fighters, were overthrowing London Poly's favourite son, the American military could have done something for those poor Cubans. What were they afraid of? Gor- by's legions? They're needed to keep the peace back home. It was the best oppor- tunity since 1968, and we blew it. Oh well. If only I were president.
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