by Taki Theodoracopulos
Nicola Anouilh is the only son of the great French playwright Jean Anouilh - more than 70 plays, including Antigone, Becket and La Sauvage - and a close friend since Paris in the Sixties. He was of a generation just below mine, one that managed to get into Jimmy’s only during the events of May 1968, when the French bourgeoisie ran off to the south, some of their places on the banquette taken by François de Caraman, my brother-in-law, Peter Bemberg, heir to an old and vast Argentine fortune, Nicola Anouilh, and Vladimir, a Russian boy whom we rechristened Prince Touchepine, a play on words for touching one’s willy. François, with whom I was very close despite his sister having left me for the dumbest reason in the world, my infidelity, died five years ago and we all got together in Paris for the Catholic service. (I wrote about it in this space, and how drunk we all got at Chez Lipp afterwards.) Le Prince Touchepine died two years ago returning from a sexual extravaganza here in Switzerland. No one looked more innocent than Vladimir. And no one was nicer or more polite, especially to ladies. He would leave Gstaad after having seduced a maid, stop in Montreux and sleep with, say, a seamstress, go on to Lausanne where he would have a roll in the hay with a schoolteacher, then have a quickie in Geneva with a diplomat’s wife, and come back to Gstaad that evening. He literally died on the train after one such trip. Nicola and Peter are the last two left of that group of youngsters I used to invite to Jimmy’s in the good old de Gaulle days so they could taste a bit of high life and forget la vie du château. The only bad thing about them was their constant efforts to steal my girls, but even that was done with great style. (Nicola once pretended that he was a virgin and had to go with a woman before doing his military service. My girl did not fall for it, or so she told me.)
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