High life
Stylish visitors
Taki
othing makes one feel as well as feeling normal after having been ill. Just as nothing makes one feel more ill than training after having been idle for a week or two. My two one-time students, Elias and Dimitri Kazakeas, both third dan black belts, arrived to stay with me last Sunday, and we've been kicking and punching each other non-stop. Dimitri won the Greek national championship last year, and my sore ribs are proof that his victory was no fluke. But despite the pain it's great to be fighting again, if only in the gym and between friends.
There was yet another sudden arrival, namely that of TAvvocato', who to the world at large is none other than Giovanni Agnelli, chairman of Fiat, the Turin-based automotive giant. I have often written about Gianni, and have always described him as charismatic, very attractive, ex- tremely intelligent and charming — adjec- tives I like to think I don't easily throw around, especially when writing about men as rich and powerful as he is.
But he is all that and much more, and I had as much fun spending three evenings in his company as I have practising karate in the Dojo. Gianni and I have been friends for almost 30 years, without ever having had an argument or a misunderstanding, a record of sorts in view of my volatile character. On the first night I hardly drew a breath while regaling everyone with some of the fun we've had in the past.
Although nostalgia embellishes stories even more than I do, I truly can't think of ever having had a better time than when the present Duke of Beaufort, Gianni and I took a month-long cruise from the Riviera to Greece in the company of a famous striptease artist, Erica Nielsen. Whenever we'd run into bores — and we ran into quite a few — Erica would be presented as a great lady and then she would begin doing her act and the bores would flee. It worked until the crew almost mutinied. They had not, after all, seen a woman for some time, and despite her advanced age, la Nielsen was quite sexy. I haven't seen her for years, but I hope she's still alive and well. The last I heard of her she was in Mexico, keeping company with Loel Guinness.
On Gianni's second night we met in his flat on Park Avenue and watched the last race of the America's Cup. While we waited for the race to start, I confirmed something I had suspected for a long time. He had once, when I had asked him what his definition of style was, told me about an incident he had witnessed. The incident took place in Libya during the second world war. It seems there was an attractive German officer sitting in a Tripoli bar one night in the company of a Levantine lady of the night, of rare beauty. While enjoying their drinks they were approached by a young and good-looking Italian cavalry officer who politely began to flirt with the lady. The German gent was also polite after all, they were allies — until the Italian gently put his arm around the lady's shoulders. That is when the German, without saying a word, took out his pistol and very discreetly winged the Italian's arm, thus removing it from her.
All three were sitting, and there was a lot of noise, and no one realised where the shot had come from. They finished their drinks, and then the Italian excused him- self and smilingly left the room. I remem- ber that at the time Gianni had told me the story, I had thought that both the German and the Italian had shown great style. Gianni had said the German had shown more. Now I know why: TAvvocato' was the Italian officer who got shot.
I was sure life would become dull once again after Gianni left, but the ex-sainted editor of the Spectator blew into town, and it was important for me to show him Nell's and — well, you can guess the rest. I am back in bed with a monumental hangover, while Alexander Chancellor is back in Washington filing copy for the only news- paper that Rupert Murdoch seems not to own.
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