Taki
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Maya Schoenburg, Mick’s ex-wife and mother of his three children, had the brilliant idea to have tables for only two or three or four people, like nightclubs tend to do, and the trick worked. Two great bands played their hearts out, can-can girls danced and ooh-aahd throughout, and 290 of us quick-stepped Gatsby to shame.
The main ingredient for a successful party is and always has been one’s guests. In this case, half of them were Mick’s children’s age, in their twenties. Alexander Flick is a talented documentary-maker while his younger brother Moritz works for the best and only reliable and responsible newspaper in Israel — by far — Haaretz. No hedgies they. I sat with old friend Peter Livanos, Donatella Flick and Kirsty Bertarelli, the young and beautiful English wife of Switzerland’s richest man and past America’s Cup winner.
The partying had begun in a tiny Alpine hut the day before during lunch. I had a full chalet, something like 14 people staying, all of them young, except for my close buddies Leopold and Debbie Bismarck. I went skiing with them and the mother of my children early Friday but spent most of the afternoon in the sun, downing pure Swiss wine. By the time we got down I was thoroughly crocked and stayed that way during dinner with more German friends, Heinrich and Milana Furstenberg. Then up to the Palace, which was straight out of Vicki Baum’s Grand Hotel, listening to refined German accents with lots of blonde young women running around pursued by the ridiculous likes of me.
After a few hours of troubled sleep, fewer than four, the whole house was up and raring to hit the slopes. A big mistake as far as I was concerned. After a three-hour liquid lunch at the Eagle club, I went out and put on some other person’s skis, and went down like a fool, unable to turn as my boots were too small for the bindings. The man whose skis I took was apparently furious because he not only had his initials marked clearly on the skis, but they were also the most expensive ever made. I told the sweet secretary of the club he should be grateful that I put on his skis having once upon a time been a member of the Greek national ski team, Greece being known as an Alpine superpower. I guess that shut him up.
Then it was time for the big night and all my guests assembled in the large drawing-room upstairs, girls with names like Sophie Russell, Hum Fleming and Millie Allsopp, all giggling in their flapper outfits because in the confused state I was in I dressed myself as a waiter instead of a swell. Debbie Bismarck took charge and soon I joined the rest looking like a true Greek gentleman with German blood, whatever that is. Dreamlike, downing terrific wine, I danced away the night, mostly with Kirsty under the watchful eye of her hubby. But as always the fun had to end just as the sun began to hint of its rise.
Finally, it was the next day brunch on top of yet another mountain that ended the festivities. ‘Who is going to pay for dinner?’ I yelled at Mick; ‘you’ve spoilt us.’ Oh, yes, I almost forgot, the sun never shone more brightly, the snow was fast and perfect, the pistes uncrowded, the partygoers civilised and well-mannered and good-humoured. The way things should be but never are because of today’s culture of cheap publicity and even cheaper celebrities.
Just as we sat down to the main dinner, Mick Flick said a few words. He was in a good mood and it showed, and by good mood I don’t mean a Taki good mood, Mick does not drink. He told us that the reason for the party was the economic gloom that has descended upon many of us here in Europe, and the similarities with the great depression of the Twenties. ‘So I decided to give a party and have my friends enjoy themselves.’ I can’t think of a better reason to throw a bash than that. To dare fortune by tripping the light fantastic, arthritis or no arthritis. Danke-schoen, Mick, you look like a noble German Panzer commander, the greatest compliment I can pay, and your party made for a very happy 290 souls.
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