High life
A proud father writes
Taki
Twenty-one years ago last Saturday, 30 November, I found myself in Palm Beach lolling sybaritically on a beach — actually in a tennis club by the sea — when I was urgently paged to the telephone. It was the future mother of my children calling from the Bagel announcing that the future was now. She was going into labour and leaving the Carlyle Hotel for the New York hospi- tal presto. 'If it's not too much trouble I think you should try to make it up here,' said Alexandra, in the understated manner she assumed when extremely annoyed with yours truly.
The trouble was that it was Thanksgiving weekend and thousands of baked Bagelites were heading north with reservations. For my part, I had not reserved but was confi- dent that some airline would take pity on a first-time expectant dad. So likely. 'It's the oldest trick in the book, try another one', was the reaction of the hard-hearted ones. That is when the classic soft-hearted good- time blonde came to my rescue. Her name was Vera Swift. ‘Ya, I know the Schoen- burg is in the family way,' she announced a bit too loudly for my taste in her exquisitely guttural Anglo-Dutch. 'You take my seat, I stay in the sun a little while longer.' Who- ever said brassy blondes have no heart?
I arrived in the hospital at ten minutes to nine in the evening, just in time for my future father-in-law to announce I was the proud father of a little girl. However corny it may sound, I have remained awfully proud of that little pink baby ever since. Last Saturday night, Lolly celebrated her 21st birthday with a rip-roaring dance at Mortimer's for 142 of her nearest and dearest. The Gipsy Kings played their gipsy hearts out, and, although I say so myself, I have yet to see better-looking young people having a better time. It was typical of her. She has always been perfect, studying hard, working in a newspaper during her summer holidays, never once giving her parents anything to worry about. She does not drink and she does not take drugs and nor does she hang out with people who do. Most important of all she's not spoilt at all, and very pretty to boot.
Which brings me to the point I wish to make, however toe-curling it may sound. Ezra Pound in 'Canto LXXXI' wrote: 'What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross. What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee. What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage ...' Good old Ezra. He knew how to express emotion without sounding hackneyed. What my children bring out in me is an infinite tolerance that borders on extreme selfishness. Nothing in this life could ever make me dislike them, so much so that I am totally in the dark when I see parents who reject their children.
Needless to say, the curse of having chil- dren is the constant fear that at any moment one could lose them. The fear became real a couple of years ago when my little girl went through a life-threatening illness. She is fine now. Nowadays it's her little brother who keeps me awake at night. He is wild and reckless and girl-crazy and skis much too fast and thinks he's inde- structible. I sometimes wish he had been born a girl. Women, after all, are far purer than men. And sanctity is a woman's ideal.
Still, morality changes, philosophy ditto, but only the heart's natural cry for the child abideth forever. Unlike my English hosts, I do not practise self-restraint when showing affection to my children. Last week some dysfunctional type wrote that I lack self- restraint. I sure do. And am proud as hell of it. Self-restraint is bad in politics, in the sack a la Anglaise, especially when dealing with one's kids. Mind you, I practised self- restraint last Saturday. The mother of my children warned me that there is nothing more humiliating for a daughter than to see her father drooling over her friends. So I drooled in private and even made it out of the place quite shober.
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