Gstaad
I shoulda been a weatherman: no sooner had I announced snow to be a Gstaad rarity than it came down non-stop. But then it rained, so everything’s hunky-dory. Older rich people who don’t ski are relieved that it’s stopped; younger types who do indulge are over the moon that it’s snowed at all. Happy, happy Gstaad… but not really; the coronavirus news has some scared out of their wits. In fact, this alpine village is beginning to feel like Der Tod in Venedig, or Death in Venice for non-German speakers.
The great South African doubles specialist Frew McMillan, now the best tennis commentator on TV, used to call me Dirk, as in Bogarde, because he thought I looked a bit like the thespian. ‘Different sexual proclivities,’ I used to shout back at him. Dirk was great as Aschenbach in Death in Venice.
And then there was my grandson Taki announcing at dinner that I was the likeliest to catch the damn thing because I’m over 80, have smoked for 70 years, and go around shaking hands with all sorts of strangers when I’m drunk.
What is it they say about from the mouths of babes? But death is on everyone’s mind nowadays, especially in this small community inhabited by people who don’t have the chore of the daily nine-to-five. The young who ski know that they will never die. The oldies cling to a fantasy life and think that death will not happen today or tomorrow but sometime in the faraway future. Life should be celebrated for its ephemeral beauty, with death recognised as being ever-present and just around the corner. Only self-centred people fear death. It’s as natural as life and everyone’s bound to experience it.
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