High life
Temps perdu
Taki
My life suddenly seems to have turned into a morbid rondo. A rondo is a musical form in which the theme constantly recurs. That's the way it is with a psychosis or an obsession. Subtle revolts of the subconscious manifest themselves when I am drunk, especially when drunk in a fancy place or among fancy people. Worse, in trying to recollect temps perdu, incidents fade into one another and perspective vanishes. But the theme recurs. Doubt about talent, the futility of life, the betrayal of the body by that arch shit and villain, Father Time. Last Saturday it reached crisis point. I suffered from total amnesia for about three days, and only began recalling things when I asked the people I had spent the weekend with what had transpired.
The last thing I remember was wearing a paper bag over my head while my friend and soon to be oil tycoon Sebastian Taylor drove me through the streets of London on the way down to Sussex. I wore a bag because I didn't want anyone to see me in London over the weekend, although Taylor at the time attributed it to yet another psychosis. The reason for going to Sussex was to attend the Rothermere ball, a party that despite my amnesia I remember as being more fun to be at than anything within living memory. As my licence has been revoked and my car stolen, I figured Sebastian would be a good bet. It turns out that now we are partners in an oil deal that might make me rich enough by next year to be able to make the present owner of the Spectator an offer he will not be able to refuse. On the other hand, of course, I might just have to ask for a raise. That's what transpired in the car, me dreaming about failed opportunities and Sebastian telling me that if I had more money I could be like the Yellow Earl of Lonsdale and cut a prominent figure. I agreed to invest in his business just as we arrived at the house.
Despite the amnesia I remember Sebastian telling the police that I was the King of Greece and that I was to be dropped off at the front gate. And I also remember telling the parking attendants that Sebastian had to come in with me because of security, thus getting them to leave the car right in front while others rode in buses to the ball. The bride, Geraldine Harmsworth, in whose honour the ball was given, is very beautiful and, unlike most beautiful girls, nice. She had a warm hello, despite the fact that I am not the favourite person of the groom. David Ogilvy once asked me when I was going to start writing something of value. It was too close to the bone so I said nothing. When I walked in, the only thing I could think of was that he was one to talk. The two great accomplishments of his life until now have been to come down from Oxford and cut a wide swathe among the debs. You see what I mean about being psychotic.
That was about eleven in the evening. Everything is a blur after that except for around six hours later when we were all having breakfast and I heard an American trying to compliment Lady Rothermere by telling his wife that if she could learn to cook like her, they wouldn't have to spend so much money on an expensive chef, and his bored wife answering him, 'and if you could make love a bit more often we wouldn't need the chauffeur.' That got us all off into telling jokes which cannot be told in a family publication except for this one: 'What is the similarity between virginity and a haemophiliac? One prick and it's all over.' Or the man who asked his wife on their wedding night, 'Am I the first man who's ever slept with you?' And she answered sweetly: 'If you go to sleep you will be.' There is some vague recollection about being unable to sleep in a Sussex hotel and driving back with a male friend completely comatose, desperately trying to find an open pub at seven in the morning.
And then I finally got back to my urban country seat at Cathcart Road and sat at my kitchen table talking about lack of talent and lack of discipline. My friend is a conductor and has no doubts about his ability. His doubts are about the ability of an upper class Englishman to be histrionic, as most good conductors tend to be. Or shits, as all great conductors have to be. The only thing that I remember saying is how I would love our positions to be reversed. Now, four days later, I suddenly remember a story about Fritz Reiner, the great Pittsburgh Symphony leader of 30 years ago. Reiner had been admonished by the musicians' union for insulting members of the orchestra. Reiner was the quintessence of the megalomaniac conductor, and was intolerant of inefficient or mediocre playing. He used all his talent to coax something extra from the players. After having been warned that the musicians would strike if he again insulted them, he immediately began the rehearsal, motioned toward a player who had aroused his disapproval and said: 'This morning I found two holes in my shoe. I didn't know where to take them to be repaired. Now I know, I'll bring them to you.' Reiner was Hungarian, a normally • charming people. If he had been born an upper class Englishman, he probably would have been even greater. I am afraid it's talent, not passion that hits the jackpot. If it was the other way around, all those yobbos would be fighting each other in Covent Garden instead of Basle.
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