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The reason for my visit was the wedding of Michael Mailer, son of Norman, and Sasha Lazard, of Lazard banking fame. He is a film producer, she an opera singer. Both bride and groom are very good-looking and talented. The real star, of course, was mother nature. First, the coral sea, the lagoons, inlets and underground rivers, the multicoloured fish, dolphins and manatees, and the imposing jungle. Around 150 guests flew down for three days of non-stop partying, with a few solemn moments thrown in for good measure. I had been asked to read a poem, and for once I carried it off. No drinks before the ceremony despite my stage fright. Norman Mailer’s presence dominated as usual. He now walks with the help of two canes, and at 81 years of age looks like the grand Jewish patriarch that he is. He has been married six times and has nine children. He had some pretty strong things to say about the war in Iraq, as did most of the guests. Michael is a Harvard graduate, and his friends are East Coast liberals and opposed to Bush. When I produced the American Conservative, along with The Spectator, the booing and razzing almost drowned out the Mariachis and the pounding surf. The fact that the former has been against the war since before it began and had predicted that victory on the battlefield would spell defeat went unnoticed. Coupling it with the dear old Speccie was enough. Talk about guilt by association. Never mind. It was not the first time I’ve come across illiberal liberals. What particularly amused me was the reaction of some of my buddies to the lack of what in today’s world are considered essentials. Telephones, television, air-conditioning, newspapers and 24-hour room service. There was none of the above, and you can’t imagine how much I enjoyed it. It was like being back at summer camp. I spent hours swimming in the lagoon, riding the surf and running on the beach. Then at night I got drunk on Margaritas and tequila. I got very friendly with the natives, among the nicest people I’ve run across, by yelling ‘Viva Zapata!’ by way of greeting. Big smiles all around. The Mexican fat cats are in the big cities stealing the country’s oil wealth, the bad guys are paying off the cops and selling drugs to the gringos, and the poor in Tulum dream of a modern Zapata coming to rescue them. Except that, if he does come, he will end up in a big palace in Mexico City with a fake-blonde, big-bosomed mistress and a large Swiss bank account. This is the real world, although for a while in Tulum one tends to forget, reverts to nature, and dreams of what might have been in a perfect world. This was my first visit to Mexico. For years I heard people complaining what a dump it was, and how Mexicans were treacherous and hostile. According to Hollywood, I guess. Nothing like finding out for oneself. Years and years ago, Rafael Osuna, the great Mexican tennis player who died tragically in an air crash, came to my aid as I was about to fight Cliff Richey, an American champion and arch bully. It was in the locker room at Roland Garros stadium, and Richey had just beaten me in the doubles in five sets during the French championships. He was totally in the wrong, and Osuna had been a witness. Just as we were about to square off, he jumped in and said, ‘Let me have him; if you fight him, they won’t invite you again.’ Richey and Osuna were stars, I was a nobody. Mind you, cooler heads prevailed and Richey was forced by the American captain of the travelling team to apologise to me. But I will never forget Osuna’s kindness and sense of fair play. This week the French Grand Slam begins, and as always I will be thinking of poor Osuna. And I thought about him while I was in his birthplace. There were lots of Osunas around. |
