Memories of things past
Taki
What was it that Papa said about Paris? That it was a fine place to be quite young in and that it's a necessary part of a man's education, I believe. Also the bit about being like a mistress who does not grow old but has other lovers now. Well, all too true, yet Paris was sunbaked and beautiful as ever last week, the dome of Les Invalides glistening in gold, the chestnut leaves holding on for dear life, the cobbled streets empty of traffic and the people in a festive mood that matched my own.
I was in the City of Light to celebrate my friend Jean-Claude Sauer's book of his 40 years at Paris-Match. It's a beautiful coffee-table tome of his photographs of Vietnam, Algeria, Biafra, Yemen and of every conflict since 1963, as well as intimate pics of de Gaulle and every French president since Le Grand Charles. There's fashion and the arts, with some hauntingly intimate pictures of the tragic Papa, the equally tragic Romy Schneider, Catherine Deneuve, La Callas and a naked Brigitte Bardot that would make Peter Mandelson switch in a jiffy. And then there's the bullfights.
Sauer was close to Papa, Ordonez and Dominguin. Their dangerous summer of nano a nano comes alive in brilliant colour, as do the divine Charlotte Rampling and Fanny Ardant. It's the contrast in Sauer's pies that makes the book a real gem. He has dedicated it to Jean Prouvost, the founder of Match, with acknowledgments to his three wives and — yours truly.
We met 45 years ago, in a nightclub, of course. He had just returned from Algeria where he was a paratrooper under the great Massu. I was on the tennis circuit. We were Hemingway groupies, loved nightclubs, fast women and faster cars. He went on to become bobsleigh champion of France and to drive in Le Mans. I sort of trailed behind. Then he joined Match as a photographer and I joined National Review as a reporter. Our paths crossed in Vietnam and in the Middle East. He's the one who having dragged a famous French playboy to Kuneitra with him during the Yom Kippur war screamed at me to go and get him when the playboy froze in the car during a bombardment. 'If he's killed we'll never be allowed back to New Jimmy's again.'
In 45 years of friendship we've never had a cross word. His ex-wife Brigitte de Ganay threw a great bash for him after the opening of the exhibition at the La Bdraudiere gallery featuring his photos, and it was like a class reunion. All the naughty boys of my youth were there, starting with Freddy Cushing, who had flown over from Newport, Rhode Island. Needless to say, we stayed late and bent the elbow quite a lot.
Next night was my turn, as it was the mother of my children's birthday. This time it was even later, ending up at dawn somewhere on the Left Bank. What a city! After the bistro celebrations, I went to a friend's place in Boulevard St Germain for a last drink and looked out over miles of Parisian rooftops. Bonjour Mstesse. The place is so beautiful it makes one a little tnSte, especially when under the influence. But I ain't complaining. This has been a hell of a week.
London was as wonderful as Paris, and on my last night there I went to the Speccie's 175th anniversary party at the Four Seasons. As luck would have it, I chatted with Alistair Home about French mistresses and the great influence they have on their politician menfolk. The historian wished to know why other nationalities do not. That is when I spotted Daisy Prince, someone I would like to make my mistress but am not likely to. (She is far richer than I am.) I met Daisy's mother, Diana, 30 years ago. I asked her to dinner but she said she was on her honeymoon and could not possibly. If memory serves, I told her that hers was a middle-class reaction. She told her bridegroom, Freddy Prince, who laughed out loud and insisted on meeting me. Then it transpired that I was the man going out with Diana's aunt, then in her forties. (I was in my twenties.) The point of the story is that in the brilliant 175th anniversary issue of the Speccie (on sale for six weeks and make sure you buy a copy) Daisy's great-aunt is pictured next to the Duke of Windsor, page 129. Does that date me or what, as they say. But at least Daisy came to dinner, which is more than her mother did, but far less than her great-aunt.
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