The folly of American imperialism

Mercedes Benz heir Mick Flick and I have been friends for more than half a century. We both married Schoenburgs, both like the odd drink, both adore the fair sex, and we are now both candidates for a visit from the man in the white suit, yours truly first in line. Mick gave a wonderful dinner the other evening for around 30 of us. It was in his upper chalet, the one that’s half art gallery and half live-in space. He also has a lower chalet for his two sons and daughter. The dinner was seated and the wine was Latour. I think I had two bottles before the wife dragged me away using all sorts of excuses. The last thing I remember was Mick laughing as I was being led out.

I had hosted a somewhat similar shindig the previous week, and Mick sat on my wife’s right. Art and Afghanistan were the main topics of conversation. Chalet prices never came up. Later on, Mick mentioned the man in white. ‘Sometimes I think of him,’ he said. ‘Ignore the son of a bitch,’ said I. Or, as they say in Brooklyn: ‘Bust ’im one in da chops.’ Before dinner, while having drinks in the garden, I noticed a beautiful woman, blonde and blue-eyed, with a hint of melancholy and without that Latin come-hither look. I felt a flicker of the long-distant ecstasy of youth, and went up to chat to her. Her name is Anya, she’s German and she lives nearby, in the Black Forest. She had come with Mick and left with him. I stayed with what Italians rather inelegantly call cazzo in mano.

Otherwise ‘tout va très bien, Madame la Marquise’, as they say in French music halls.