Gstaad
They have busy eyes and the set of their mouths is that of a hungry carnivore. Their hands are always working, stroking, exaggerating. They’re salesmen to the rich and famous and flog them trinkets, pictures and dresses — and at times even people. They gush like no Hollywood agent ever did, and once upon a time I used to feel very sorry for them. That was in the days when they tried to sell antiques to the Saudis, who called the priceless classic stuff second-hand furniture, early Eisenhower Hilton Hotel-style being the gold standard for camel drivers back then. It still is. Yep, this alpine village gets them all — salespeople that is, and at times I still pity them. A Christie’s man brought a Chinese individual up to the club. The Chinese man was dressed in pink and looked awfully silly. I told the Christie’s man that no money was worth the humiliation of being an escort to such a ridiculous sight, and the Christie’s man said that it was easy for me to pass judgment: ‘You don’t have to work for a living.’
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