High life
Outcry
Tala
Spetsai During the Turkish, or Ottoman occupation of Greece, the island of Spetsai, a green dot off the north-eastern part of the Peloponnese, remained free. The Turks never even tried to take the island, and rumour has it that a tax was paid every month to a warship which stayed discreetly out of sight. The Greeks get furious when I hint that that was the reason why Spetsai never fell to the Ottomans. They point out that nearby Hydra was attacked and because the Turks were unsuccessful, they thought better than to try and take Spetsai. I say that whereas Hydra was a fortress of an island, the Spetsiotes knew the weakness of human nature and avoided an attack by offering the root of all evil to the vile Turks.
Whether or not the Turks were paid to stay away is purely academic, of course. It is the Greeks who get furious, not the Spetsiotes, most of whom are of Albanian origin, 15th and 16th century shepherds who came down with their flocks after the black plague that decimated Europe. The Plains of Thebes were sparsely populated, and the Albanians felt quite at home. They soon moved toward Athens, and then, in order to get away from the Turks, to Hydra and Spetsai. I have never been to Albania, but whenever I go to Spetsai, which is very Often, I think of that marvellous remark by Tallulah Bankhead (I think it was La Bankhead, or perhaps it was Diana Cooper). When she was introduced to King Zog of Albania she cried, 'How quaint, you're the only Albanian I know.'
Albanian or not, the Spetsiotes are shouters. Modern anthropologists have given many reasons for the constant shouting, but I believe my theory is the only one that makes sense. The Albanians used to be very few in number, so whenever one Albanian saw another he would shout as loud as he could and wave; after all, one gets tired of living alone. Despite the fact that little by little the Albanians multiplied like locusts, they continue to this day to shout like hell, and to gesticulate. During the summer, the din is louder and more insulting to the senses than any punk rock concert.
Unlike rock stars, however, the people from Spetsai are no fools. At the beginning of the 19th century they supplied Greece with a navy, thereby playing an allimportant part in her liberation. Then the shipowners from Spetsai moved to Piraeus and settled down to making money. Neither anarchy, war, crooked politicians, retroactive laws nor a totally corrupt civil service have been able to undermine their success. They have remained prosperous, as have the people who remained on the island. In fact Spetsai is the only green island in the Aegean, the reason being that it has springs and does not need to collect rain. It collects rich tourists instead. One of the richest is a man called Arthur Forbes, Lord Granard. Last Monday I sat near him at a dinner while he went on about how he was General Sikorski's pilot. Not being at all political I didn't bother to take the discussion further by asking him about the rumours concerning the General's death. I asked him instead why his guests were so regimented (they would ask his permission before having a smoke, a drink, or a walk). Granard has a sense of humour, or for the sake of his guests I hope he has. 'Oh, it's very easy, once you've read The Story of 0.' was his answer.
I am staying at a large villa near the lighthouse at the entrance to the harbour. There are women, children and one intellectual with me. The latter is Michel Deon, the French academician, and author of more than 20 novels. His last one is on the best seller list in France, a fact that should not prevent him from being described as cerebral, as the reading habits of the French have nothing to do with the kind of trash that makes the lists across the Atlantic ocean. Every day I walk down to the town and buy the newspapers. The first thing I read is the English weather report and my day is made. Then I read about Ken Livingstone, I have a bowel movement and a good belly-laugh, and then it is time for a swim. When my father's gin palace is not around I charter a caique, but this week my old sailing boat, Bushido, will be joining me. In the afternoon I do some karate, read the English papers again, laugh some more, and then it's time for drinks, dinner and the occasional nightclub. The belle of the island is Giorgianna Russell Boothby. She is half Greek and more royalist than the proverbial Queen. Last week Giorgianna gave a party for her four-year-old daughter. Because she is rude and uninformed, and because she thinks I am a troublemaker, she didn't invite me. She did invite my five-year-old daughter, however. When Lolly came back she had lots of presents, all of them depicting Charles and Diana in various poses. I thought it verytouching and patriotic, until I realised that Giorgianna, too, had once been a girlfriend of the Prince of Wales. If the Prince ever feels like a quick fix of nostalgia, all he needs to do is to sail down to Spetsai, where he will find more pictures of himself and Lady Diana than there were in London on 29 July.
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