High life
Night owls
Taki
New York This is my last week in the Big Bagel. By the time you read this I hope to be skiing with the Buckleys in Gstaad, and doing some social work among the rich. My plan is to fly to Zurich first, where I will attend a conference and hear a speech by my old buddy Arnaud de Borchgrave, the editor of the Washington Times, and then Arnaud and I will go up to the Palace for some badly needed rest and recreation.
Arnaud and I have been travelling together for some 20 years now. It was he who told me that the best way to find girls was to be a member of the press, and I have been thanking him ever since. In fact I've just published a profile of Arnaud in the American Spectator, in which I detail exactly how much I owe the man as far as the fair sex is concerned.
Travelling with Arnaud, and about to go skiing with William and Christopher Buck- ley is the good news, but I got the bad news yesterday when I rang the Palace Hotel and asked to speak to my oldest friend, John Zographos. He has cancelled his reservation, I was told, and somehow Gstaad will not be Gstaad without him. In fact, it will be the first time since 1952 that Zographos will not be taking up space and lots of it — in the Palace bar, in the Greengo, or the first table on the right of the terrace in the Eagle Club.
Now although some of you may find this a bit distasteful, I feel I ought to tell loyal Spectator readers how Zographos and I first met. It was in 1953, the year President and Field Marshal Papagos decreed that all brothels in Greece should be shut down. Needless to say, not any of them did, although the girls did stop soliciting from their windows and balconies, especially when the fuzz was around.
The best whorehouse in town was Zoit- sa's near Omonia Square, where the soi- disant Athenian aristocracy spent their afternoons. I already had a taste of this life the summer before on the French Riviera, but was eager as hell to find out if the Greeks were as good as the Frogs. I had never met Zographos — as he is much, much older than I am — but I had heard stories about his expert knowledge of the world's oldest profession.
On a hot afternoon, after lunch and before a tennis match, I went down to Zoitsa's and rang the bell. Greek brothels were required by law to have green doors, and once they became illegal, they all painted their doors a different colour. I remember it well because some of the paint stuck on my eager hand. After a while a blonde lady appeared from a window on the second floor and asked me to state my business. Having had a proper education, I wasn't about to tell her what I really, wanted, so I said I was a friend of Zographos and was expecting him at this address. 'Oh, he's here already,' said the madame, and buzzed me in.
Well, you can guess the rest. Zographos was busy, but as soon as I asked for a girl, the madame got frightened because I was under age, and worse, looked it. So she went in and got Zog out of bed and told him that what he was doing was dangerous, and he lost his temper because he was slightly drunk and hadn't the foggiest what she was talking about.
The comedy of errors had a happy ending, however. Zog knew my name, and when I shyly told him why I had used his in vain, he opened a bottle of warm cham- pagne, toasted me, and then proceeded to pay for my pleasant afternoon. He thought it was my first time, and wanted to make sure there was no trauma. We were later in the navy together, and have remained best friends ever since.
Four years ago Zographos did the dirty on me and got married, and he's been blissfully happy ever since. He is now a father, a good husband, and a country squire, although he does tend to scare the horses when he goes stalking around the English countryside in a double-breasted pin-striped suit.
I forgave Zog for getting married, and even forgave him when he settled down, but I don't think I shall forgive, nor forget, his not coming to Gstaad this year. I love skiing with the Buckleys, and listening to them talk — whenever they can get a word in — but they do suffer from the most bourgeois habit of all: they go to sleep at night. Zog never used to, and I still don't. I wonder what kind of company the snow makes at night?
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