Marrying money
Taki
IGstaad n 1903 the following resolution was introduced in Texas on 20 February:
Whereas there are many dukes, lords, and counts touring the US, seeking matrimonial alliance with our most accomplished and richest marriageable young women, and being desirous of protecting them from being deceived and duped; therefore, be it resolved to bring in a bill providing for the taxation and licensing of foreign dukes, Lords and counts (both real and genuine, bogus and fraudulent) found in the State of Texas.
I got this item from the Herald Tribune, followed it up by ringing some buddies I have in Texas, and apparently the bill — after a riotous session — failed by two or three votes. Thank God. Among the first to benefit from the failure of the bill was a young Italian waiter who arrived in Texas penniless, pronounced himself the Baron Portanova, and then proceeded to charm, seduce and marry one of the greatest oil heiresses of the time. His son, Ricky Portanova, was a good friend of mine, a wonderfully generous man who sadly died of the big C a couple of years ago. (Followed almost immediately by his Texan wife Sandra.) When Ricky disembarked on the Riviera around 1960, someone brought the matter of the title up. 'My father got it from the Vatican later on, once he had married his fortune,' was Ricky's answer. And rightly so. If Blair can go around ennobling all sorts of low-lifers, why shouldn't the Vatican reward the real McCoy, those brave souls who went out to the Wild West and Europeanised rich native squaws?
Robert Hesketh once told me how his grandfather (I believe) sailed out to San Francisco hunting for a rich American wife, and signed on the bottom line just as his yacht sank in the harbour from lack of maintenance. Again, thank God for Lady Hesketh's moolah — the Heskeths have been sitting pretty ever since. Not to mention the Marlboroughs. If the then Duke had not married Consuelo Vanderbilt, Bleinheim now would probably be a home for retired transsexuals, or governmentowned with the likes of John Prescott parking his fat arse among its splendours.
No, those Texans who voted against the bill should be recognised and posthumously honoured by all European countries, starting with England and France, and Italy. Fortune hunters used to be a special breed. They had to be tough hombres, good sportsmen, graceful dancers and specially skilled in the art of love.
I remember Aris Nyadd, whom I met in Palm Beach in 1952. He was staying in the same hotel as my parents, and befriended me, aged 15. Aris was Egyptian, extremely good-looking, an all-round toughie but with impeccable manners. He was down on his luck and my father had him to dinner every night. Aris had pulled a fast one just after the war, landing in Greece with a large shipment of watches, hut immediately taking off once he saw a reception committee waiting. His tvvo Greek contacts were arrested, but Aris got away. He was doing his own flying. Soon after that winter break in Palm Beach, Aris met a publishing heiress, married her and lived out his days in Floridian splendour. Years later I ran into him. He was as charming as ever, happy but I could tell slightly bored, and he died sometime during the late-Eighties. His first wife, Nellie, is married to a good friend of mine, Nano da Silva-Ramos, a Brazilian ex-racing driver and great all-round sportsman, and they are happily living out their days in Paris and the French Alps.
Now for the had news. Sometime during the Sixties things changed. Effete, patchouli-scented young men began to squire rich women around, making the gigolos of old redundant. My best man, the great Porfirio Rubirosa, was among the first victims of this grotesque phenomenon. Rubi died on 6 July 1965, and it was just as well. lie had run out of moolah and his prospects were not good. Rumour had it that he was preparing a big coup, a Kennedy woman, but I knew better. The Kennedy's do not spend money on men, or women, for that matter, They are tight-fisted Irish, and it took a Greek to keep a presidential widow in a style she was not accustomed to. Alas, looking back, I wish Jackie had taken the whole kit and caboodle. The fact that Onassis's daughter Christina got most of it, and it has all ended up in the greedy hands of one of the most disgusting gigolos ever, makes my Greek blood boil. When Athina Roussel turned 18 last month, the news media had my telephone ringing off the hook. I refused to say a word. Perhaps I know too much. Speak the truth nowadays and go straight to Pentonville. Instead, I'm off to Paris for Lee Radziwill's birthday. Adios!
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