High life
Days of gin and Renoir
Taki
Inever frequent auction houses nowa- days, not that I was ever the stage-door Johnny type who hangs around and sali- vates while overvalued works of art are bought up by the nouveaux riches. But I would like to have been the proverbial fly on the wall when the Ortiz-Patino collec- tion of eight Impressionist paintings went for a breathtaking 61 million smackers last week in the Big Bagel. This is because I know, and have always disliked, Jaime Ortiz-Patino, or Jimmy Patino, as those of his persuasion call him.
Jimmy Ortiz must have added the Patino label to his name for no other reason than to make sure people knew he was rich. His maternal grandfather was Simon Patin°, whose nickname was the King of Tin. Simon had two children, Antenor and Graziella, the latter being Jimmy's and George's mother. She married a diplomat by the name of Ortiz, and if everyone was to take the name of the most illustrious people (in his case, the richest) in their family, I should call myself Taki Theodor- acopulos Miropulos Poulitsas Mercati von Manteufel Schoenburg-Hartenstein . - • with a Liechtenstein or two thrown in.
But perhaps I'm being too hard on Jimmy Ortiz-Patino Coconut Banana. His grand-daddy was quite a fellow, and was the first Bolivian to make it in tin rather than coke. It was of him they first said he fell off his coconut tree into his Rolls, a joke that has been repeated endlessly since. I liked Jimmy's uncle, Antenor Patino, a small man with a great taste for jewels, houses, women and parties, not necessarily in that order. And I like Ante- nor's grand-daughter, Isabel Goldsmith, a girl who has managed to escape my clutch- es for years. But Jimmy Ortiz, no way.
Jimmy lives in Geneva, is an excellent bridge player, has a vicious tongue and an uppity manner with inferiors, and has never worked a day in his life. My feud with the Ortiz family started when Dolores Guinness and I walked thug-like over his brother George's Maserati while leaving a Gstaad nightclub 32 years ago. The Maser- ati was blocking the tiny exit and I ended up shoving my badly broken plastered leg through the bonnet. I was arrested and my friend Zographos had to pay through the nose to keep me from starting my jailbird life 27 years earlier.
Needless to say, this was all so long ago I really couldn't care less. In fact, I'm happy for Jimmy. With his looks he needs lots of money. But I will stay away from auction houses in future if only for nostalgic reasons. Six months ago a friend showed me a catalogue of up-coming sales. I saw a Renoir which once belonged to a certain Madame Roueff. It hung over her mantel- piece, under which I played gin with her and two others every afternoon. It was Paris, 1960, during the month of May. Mme Roueff had a married son, Pierre Le Blanc, whose mistress was the most beauti- ful girl in Paris. Every day, while playing, I pretended to look at the Renoir, but watched her instead. One sultry afternoon she watched me back. As Captain Renault was once told, it was the start of a beautiful friendship. When I saw the Renoir up for sale it reminded me of that terrific time and I got sad. Come to think of it I haven't Played gin since.
Previous page
