Gstaad
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.
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