High life
Funny clans
Taki
0 n a Saturday night last March, as is my custom, I was standing in the Green- Go bar of the Gstaad Palace Hotel re- covering from a hard day's skiiing, when a slight altercation took place between an elderly Italian gentleman and a Rosey student. As the man was a friend of mine, Prince Ruspoli, and of extremely fragile health, I tried to intervene, but the boy simply swore at me and stalked out after throwing some money towards the waiter.
Standing next to met at the time was yet another Rosey student, Alexander Franck, a captain of his class, a champion skier and a delightful young man. When I asked him who the money-thrower was, Alex looked embarrassed. 'Oh, that's just Vardinoyan- nis,' he said, 'one of the most spoiled boys in school.' If memory serves, I think I uttered something to the effect that I should have known.
The Vardinoyannis clan is the nouveau- est, richest and most powerful family in Greece today. They own ships and oil refineries and are the main suppliers of America's Sixth Fleet, which is based in their native island of Crete. Their enemies, which among the have-nots must be many, insist that they even supply the Yankee fleet with rubber Johnnies, but I have my doubts about it. What I have no doubts whatsoever about is their vulgarity. They are our number one vulgarians; so vulgar, in fact, that they make that other parvenu, John Latsis, seem to possess plenipotential dignity by comparison.
The name Vardinoyannis first surfaced — no pun intended — when a ship of theirs ran the Rhodesian blockade during the late Sixties. Although that fact alone should have endeared them to me for life, it has 'I have just to dot the t's and cross the i's.' not been the case. Mind you, I've never met many of them, not in the conventional manner, as they say. The first time I ran into Pavlo, now deceased, was while dining with my wife and a publisher friend at an Athenian restaurant. We heard the door bang open and a very large and obese man barged in, accompanied by two heavies, who, incidentally, were less heavy than their master. It seems that someone had blocked his driveway, and Pavlo Furioso wanted to know who. After bullying a couple of tables without success, he came up to mine and barked his question. I pretended not to hear him, but pointed at the chips on my plate and asked him to bring me some more. Needless to say, this infuriated him quite a lot, and he swore at me rather as his nephew was to do some years later. He then stormed out.
The next time I saw him was the last. It was in Gstaad, on a brilliant day, on top of the Wassengrat. I remember it being so hot some of us were skiing bare-chested, but Pavlo, I noticed, was wearing a fur hat, a couple of pullovers, an anorak and a large fur coat. The outfit made him look even bigger than he was, so I yelled at a photographer standing nearby that immor- tality beckoned, as the Yeti, or Abomin- able Snowman, had finally been spotted in the Swiss Alps. Pavlo's reaction is not printable. Soon after, he died from over- eating, leaving three brothers out of five still around. Pavlo they tell me, was not a bad man, and I believe them. He was spoiled by sudden wealth, and extremely bad tempered.
The head of the family is now Vardis, a man I've never met, conventionally or otherwise, but one whose voice I've heard. I was once on a boat anchored next to his when I heard him yelling at his cook. When I asked who was shooting a film next to us, I was informed that it was only Vardis Vardinoyannis showing displeasure to his staff. I am also told that he learned English by watching cowboy videos and says things like, "You may be a big man, but we're bigger."
But, as I say, I've only been told these things, as 1 have yet to have the pleasure of meeting him or the rest of the family.
The wife of Vardis is called Maryanna, and is into _charity. She is a nice woman, I am told, who gets her inspiration from watching Alexis and Krystle Carrington. Last week her daughter married into the Goulandris family, and there was a great bash in Athens. Their number one prize guest was Ronnie Ferguson, who the Greek press referred to as the Duke of York senior. Some uninvited mauvaises langues, and some invited ones, too, made light of all the fuss, but I was not among them. The reason was that on the same day I became a relative of the Marx brothers. My sister-in-law, Victoria Schoenburg, married Harpo Marx's grandson, which, like it or not, makes me a member of that other funny clan.
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