High life
Taking to the hills
Taki
Siena oror those of you not familiar with what Wallace Arnold refers to as unEnglish languages, a vendita diretta means that anyone armed with negotiable securities can bypass the middleman and purchase the goods directly from the source. In my case it also means that Donata, the pretty 16-year-old Sienese girl that helps the mother of my children make life tolerable for me, can cross the street each morning and buy the red wine which assists me to get through the cool Tuscan nights. My ancestral Tuscan seat overlooks the large vineyard of Trecciano, seven miles southwest of Siena, near the village of Sovicille. Its name is Treccianino, or small Trecciano, perhaps something of an insult among New Yorkers, but certainly nothing of the kind in the land of the Palio. Treccianino is a red-stone farmhouse with a beautifully kept garden, high on a hill surrounded by thick woods. It has a wonderful view over a landscape that hasn't changed in 500 years, and the property is dotted with cypress, fig and chestnut trees. An elderly Italian couple live here and take care of the grounds. An Irish girl takes care of my children, and Donata and Alexandra take care of the poor little Greek boy. It is not a bad life, although as a firm believer in free enter- prise and full employment I could use a cook. The one we had was an English girl by the name of Lulu who quit almost `The sky is falling! The sky is falling!' immediately upon being told she actually had to cook. We learned later that she had been spoiled by a rich American social climber who mistook her Welsh accent for that of our beloved prime minister, and ended up cooking for Lulu instead.
Choosing an ancestral country summer seat was no problem. My good friend Tony Lambton found it — it's half a mile from his palazzo — his friend Claire Ward turned the interiors from a Milanese middle-class nightmare into the refined simplicity Fergie's favourite decorators are not known for, and the mother of my children organised its running. I arrived this week and settled right in. It's the only way, as they say, although there are a few drawbacks. Power cuts and as much water as in the Mid-west of America, but they are minor inconveniences when I think I could be taking a shower in a well-lit country club and in the company of a vulgarian like John Gutfreund. (Mind you, it would be impossible because we wouldn't belong to the same club.) And speaking of vulgarians, the other blot on an otherwise perfect existence is the daily appearance of the International Herald Tribune, which in reality is the Scylla of the New York Times, and the Charybdis of the Washington Post. Read- ing the ravings of left-wing jerks while lolling in my swimming pool in Tuscany must surely mean I suffer from a masochis- tic streak. This week the Scylla was full of anti-Christian articles in general, and an attack on the best Pope for centuries in particular. The Charybdis was just as bad, defending the Stalinists of the Sandinista junta. It was enough to have me send Donata across the road to the vendita diretta four times in one day.
This is the bad news. The good is that there is no television in the house, thus my sensitive children will be spared the grue- some sight of the egregious midget Duka- kis arse-licking the ghastly Jesse Jackson in full view of hundreds of millions, and in living colour to boot. In fact, thank God for the power cuts, which mean that even those vulgar enough to have a television in their farmhouses will be spared the freak show of Atlanta.
Needless to say, even Dukakis, Jackson and the Big Bagel Times cannot spoil my fun. The house and my friends make it impossible. This week my guru, Professor Van Den Haag, has been staying and lecturing the household on the advantages of the death penalty and the disadvantages of socialism. The contadini lay down their scythes and gather around the house to listen to him. He gets a standing ovation each time. The temperature is perfect, the food delicious, the wine excellent, and the company riveting. When I think I could be in Monte Carlo, in Marbella, or even in Mykonos, my mood improves. I guess the only thing that could make me happier than I am now is for Noam Chomsky to come down with a real bad case of herpes.
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