High life
Don Gabriele
Taki
abriele D'Annunzio is my favourite Italian. A great poet and patriot, all he thought about was women. Although short, with one eye and a cripple, he nevertheless managed to seduce every beautiful woman of his time, but his Don Giovanni syndrome is not the reason he hasn't been given his due by those who'd rather think than fight. It's because he liked the trains to run on time.
The mauvaises langues have it that he fell in love with his pilot after he paper- bombed Fiume, but I don't buy it. In fact it would have been impossible as it's been mathematically proved that only pinkoes and commies turn queer after school. When my fellow Greek, Dallas Athena, revealed that Picasso was a bit of a poof, I wasn't surprised. Pablo, after all, was a man of the Left.
This week I had planned a pilgrimage to the Vittoriale, the poet's pleasure dome near Lake Garda, in order to introduce my seven-year-old to D'Annunzio, but the heat wave was used as an excuse by his mother to keep John-Taki in communist- run Tuscany. Leave it to a woman to try and shield a seven-year-old boy from D'Annunzio's influence.
I wonder what D'Annunzio would have thought of sexual liberation, singles bars, militant feminism, artificial insemination, and computer dating services? Better yet, what would he have done with Miss Andrea Dworkin if he had read in her book Intercourse that, 'Most men who make love to women make war on women because intercourse remains a means or the means of physiologically making a woman inferior.' I imagine he might have seduced her and made her change her mind, or — because he could be cruel at times — punish her by not laying a hand on her.
Needless to say, seduction has been too much on my mind lately. I guess it's the Tuscan atmosphere that must have some- thing to do with it, or perhaps it is the hospitality of Lord Lambton, my friend and neighbour. For example: this week I went over for lunch and was seated be- tween a beautiful mother and her 17-year- old daughter. To my surprise, as well as that of the mother of my children who was watching me like a hawk, I preferred the mother. It was her voice that seduced me. The lady in question lives in Ireland, has three daughters and a very nice husband who she's happily married to. My task is a hard one, but I really only want to hear her voice. By the end of lunch she had agreed to accept my telephone calls and read out the Irish telephone book if need be.
Incidentally, during that very lunch I sat across from a lovely lady by the name of Isabel Colegate. She is married to a friend of mine, Michael Briggs, and like all talented people she never once mentioned the fact that she, too, does a bit of scribbling. Which meant that all through the lunch I spoke about nothing but yours truly, and felt a bit of a jerk once I realised who the lady was.
Oh, well, nobody's perfect, and it got worse that night. Jasper and Camilla Guin- ness were driving over for dinner, so once again my host requested my company after Jasper had expressed a desire for some light entertainment. Serendipitously, two lovely girls happened to drop by. One of them was a tall blonde English girl I had met once before but much too briefly, the other an American from Los Angeles of all places. My hostess, Claire Ward, kindly put me between them and, even if I say so myself, I didn't do too badly. My plan was a simple one. By playing the clown I thought I had a chance with Los Angeles, Jeffrey Bernard having once told me a blonde secretary from that hellhole had taken him to her bed when he passed out on her shoulder.
Unfortunately, what worked for Jeff did not for Taki. When I made my move she (LA) declared that if I wasn't such a clown I might have had a chance with her, but not tonight thank you. In a panic I turned to the English girl but that Brutus also let me down. It had something to do with being asked second I imagine.
Jeffrey Bernard is abroad and will return to his column next week.
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