High life
Havana, here I come
Taki
0Rougemont f all the wedding invitations I've received throughout the years, I can't think of a more romantic one than the following: 'Viscountess Bury requests the pleasure of your company at the marriage of her son Rufus to Sally Fadayon at La Basilica Menor de San Francisco de Asis. Plaza de San Francisco, La Habana Vieja, Cuba.' For any members of the Fourth Estate familiar only with sleazy celebrities and sleazier 'It' girls, Rufus is the Earl of Albemarle, a tall, bearded, good-looking straight-out-of-Hemingway kind of guy, and Sally is a pretty and very talented artist of the Persian persuasion.
Although I haven't exactly built a reputation for Jennifer's Diary kind of arse-licking, in the case of Rufus and Sally I will make an exception. They're as nice as it gets, and I for one have already ordered a tropical white suit to wear in old Havana come the month of May. In fact, I can't wait. Papa Hemingway's finea, the Floridita, where he hung out and drank with his fishing buddies, La Plaza de Armas, El Castillo de la Real Fuerza, La Plaza Vieja, El Palacio de los Capitartes Generales and on and on. Old Havana is the last place left on earth where nostalgia is superfluous. The ghosts are alive and wearing panama hats, and the senoritas are sultry and ready for action. The music is to die for,
Oh yes, I almost forgot. Old Havana is also the last place on earth which American culture hasn't ruined. The closest McDonald's is 90 miles off shore. Although I've been a sworn enemy of Fidel's since 1959, having witnessed the destruction by mod ernism and commercialism of everything I hold dear where architecture, music, manners, and culture in general are concerned, I am literally jumping out of my skin to get there. The last time I was there was in the winter of 1956, staying at the Nacional, and doing what 19-year-olds from the mainland did in Havana. This time, I'm afraid, my stay will involve more culture than pussy, but then nothing is ever perfect.
Except for the wedding gifts. In lieu of a wedding list. Rufus and Sally welcome donations to a house for children with Down's syndrome in Havana, which will be built in the garden of an existing educational institution and will provide tuition in general skills for children with Down's. It shows what kind of people the bride and groom are, 'Any contribution — no matter how small — will be welcome,' says the invitation. Down's charities happen to be among my favourites. With the exception of Medical Aid for Palestinians, in Gaza, and St John's Ophthalmic Hospital in Jerusalem which treats children whose eyes have been shot out, I cannot think of a worthier cause. Down's syndrome children are wonderful, very affectionate and heartbreakingly tender.
There is a school near here in Gstaad, and a couple of weeks ago while skiing I noticed a young boy looking at my ski jacket. The mother of my children and I asked him to come up on the chair lift with us, and he wanted to know where I had got my jacket. His was almost the same, and when we pointed that out he shrieked with joy. He was a Down's child. When he rejoined his group at the top, he suddenly put his arms around me and kissed me. I almost blubbed. The boy was 19.
And speaking of nice people, since when can a hard-core pornographer posing as a newspaper proprietor, falsely and deliberately label a gentleman like Wafic Said an arms dealer? What is this world coming to when the Express newspaper can freely attack the Wafic Saids of this world, people whose only crime has been to donate millions of pounds to various charities and ask for nothing in return, as I know very well happens to be the case with Wafic. Benevolent proprietors, and mine hasn't been very benevolent lately, should lay off the poor little Greek boy and ask the grinning hyena at 10 Downing Street for a privacy law. Journalists are by nature greedy and dishonest busybodies, and tend to suspect any kind and generous act as a ploy. Especially in Britain. It is a very sad day indeed when charity arouses suspicion. Wafic Said has never sold a penknife, but even if he had, so what? The greatest arms dealer in the world is the United States government, followed by that of Britain, and even the Nobel Prize had its origins in arms dealing. Wafic Said is a very nice man who deserves a peerage as much as Marc Rich deserves to spend the rest of his life in jail, but they tell me the good guys do not always win. See you in old Havana.
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