High Life

Hangover Notwithstanding

February 18, 2017

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Hangover Notwithstanding

GSTAAD—One’s unpopularity for calling it a night diminishes in direct proportion to the severity of the next morning’s hangover. I was literally booed by Geoffrey Moore & Co. for asking the wife of a friend to drive me 200 yards to my chalet. Co., not Geoffrey, had other plans for the lady, and I will let you, the readers, take two guesses what those plans were. It was 5.30 a.m., the friend’s wife did look awfully charming—desirable is closer to the truth—and Co. was beginning to get touchy-feely, so I opened my big mouth and asked her to drive me home. The next day all sorts of people thanked me rather profusely for ending the party. Starting with her hubby, who was home babysitting. (Fool.) All the mother of my children had to say was that even our three dogs thought me ridiculous coming home at such an hour, “and at your age.”

Well, if it weren’t for the hangovers, I’d be out every night and twice on Sunday. The older I get the less time I’ve got, I am rudely reminded by an inner voice just as night falls. But the hangover is not the hang-up I pretend it to be. It’s the women—young women at that. For some strange reason they feel 80 is too old for them, and for another strange reason I refuse to lie about my age. My friend Michael Mailer is always telling me not to say the awful truth—80—but I rather get a kick out of the horror in the eyes of a young woman when I say it. On Saturday night the MOMC and I had dinner at the home of a friend, who opened a magnum of Pomerol Château Certan 1986. Need I go on? Another guest was on the wagon, but his glass was regularly empty and being refilled by the loyal (to me) Portuguese butler. The result was predictable. The MOMC went home after she dropped me off at the Palace hotel. In the middle of the lobby, a Hungarian orchestra was doing its stuff. Waltzes, tangos, light operetta matter. I love everything Hungarian, starting with Viktor Orban, and everything Polish, beginning with Lady Belhaven and Stenton, whose hubby Robin will be 90 this month. (More about that later in the year.) Hungarian music, lotsa vodka, and some pretty young women made me forget the promise to the MOMC that I would be back by 2 a.m. Well, I told you the rest at the beginning of this rather pathetic column. The only trouble was that I had a lunch with my friends Rosemary and Wafic Said the next day, but after what has taken place in his native Syria, my host Wafic was not surprised to see yet one more wreck.

“What’s so good about a woman locked up?”

Then came the big one. Like a fragile consumptive in a Verdi or Puccini opera, I swore to myself I would stay just one hour, wish him happy birthday, drink only water, and then come home in order to watch Homeland, whose heroine Claire Danes I’m in love with and almost had a wet dream about. Well, things don’t always turn out the way we hope they would. The birthday was Prince Victor Emanuel’s 80th, and the heir to the Italian throne, in fact the pretender to the throne, and I have been boozing it up together since the late ’50s. We once ran into each other in Hong Kong and after a drink or two decided to go to a whorehouse. Silly old us. There were no whorehouses in Hong Kong back in 1967, although all the women were available. Then Victor and I were arrested in Greece for a driving offense, but a telephone from the royal palace fixed that. They let him go and kept me.

On Sunday night my old friend John Sutin arrived, and the moment I saw him I knew that Homeland and Claire would have to take a rain check. The cake arrived and Marina of Savoy, Victor’s wife, gave a wonderful speech about their dream marriage of fifty years. Then she pointed at me and announced that fifty-five years ago I had locked her in a room after she had refused my advances. I thought it a joke and asked her why she made that up. “No, no, it’s absolutely true,” she said. “Don’t you remember? I stayed locked up for close to two days.” I tried to tell people that it was a joke, but then the MOMC announced that I had done the same thing to her fifty years ago. This was too much. “What the hell are you trying to do to me?” I asked no one in particular. “I’ve never mistreated a woman in my life…” “Well, you did lock me up once,” said the MOMC, and Marina doesn’t lie.

So, as I write this I am suffering not only from a howling hangover but also from the doubt inserted by these two ladies that a long time ago I went around locking women up. But for what purpose? What’s so good about a woman locked up? Actually, I don’t believe a word. I think Marina of Savoy and the MOMC got together, decided that I was a bit of a shit, and made this story up. Still, I’m never going near a keyhole again.

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