GORE VIDAL AT CLARIDGE'S

GORE VIDAL AT CLARIDGE'S 

BY JOHN STAPLETON

Living in London in the 1980s, by the time I got to Gore Vidal I was a little blasé about interviewing famous people.

Nor did doing the interviews alone seem like fun anymore.

So for Gore Vidal I took along a lesbian friend called Liz I had a crush on and occasionally slept with, much to the chagrin of her girlfriend, as well as the editor of the London Gay Times.

I had become friendly with the staff on the city’s leading gay magazine after writing a story called On Being A Cold Australian and then taking it into their offices on the off. Like many an editorial office, the staff were bored and appeared to enjoy the diversion. Anyway, they published the story and kept on publishing or commissioning others; and Martin and I kept get invited to the editor’s home and to his parties.

Gore was staying at that most iconic London hotel Claridge’s, where I had also interviewed Dirk Bogarde. Except by the turn of the century most journalists were under instructions not to use the word “iconic” anymore, it having lost its original impact.

Gore Vidal was a large man and while it may be world famous the rooms at Claridge’s are actually smallish by modern standards.

When he opened the door Gore Vidal seemed to take up most of the available space.

He blinked in surprise at the sight of three of us when he was expecting a lone reporter, but quickly rose to the occasion.

“Do come in,” he boomed. “Please don’t be overwhelmed.”

I explained who we each were, said I hoped he didn’t mind that there were so many of us, and Gore, quick on the uptake, immediately settled into being entertaining and hospitable for the next hour.

I mentioned that I had recently been in Morocco and seen Paul Bowles, who I knew he was friendly with.

This led him to relate his own Moroccan story in hysterical detail.

Truman Capote, the author of In Cold Blood and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, was at the height of his fame when he decided that like William Burroughs, Tennessee Williams and the already legendary Bowles, he himself would visit Morocco.

But unlike everybody else, who just arrived and left Tangiers by common modes of transport, Capote had to do it in the grand style.

Gore Vidal, born into privilege, always smart and a successful writer from his very first book published when he was just 21, regarded Capote as nothing but a horrid, preening little imposter.

The hatred was mutual.

Capote had loathed Vidal ever since Gore had the temerity to write a hostile review of one of his books.

Capote preferred to be adored by all.

Knowing that Gore Vidal was the last person on earth Capote would want to see as he made his triumphant arrival in Tangiers, Vidal flew from his home in Italy to Tangiers for the day of his arrival.

Well ahead of schedule, Gore planted himself firmly in the centre of the Tangiers docks.

A large white man in the midst of the crowds of dark Moroccans, he was more than conspicuous, which was just what he wanted.

As his ship came into the docks, Capote, who Gore described as looking like a little Southern senator in a green suit, came out on deck to wave to his adoring fans.

Capote always assumed that any crowd he faced was made up of adoring fans.

In reality most of the Moroccan workers on the dock wouldn’t have had a clue who he was.

As Truman’s eyes scanned across the always crowded docks, his hand half-raised in a kind of royal wave, it was impossible not to spot Gore Vidal standing there, staring straight back at him.

As Vidal told it, Truman’s royal wave froze and his face dropped.

Paul Bowles is recorded as describing the incident thus: “Truman Capote fell apart when he spotted Gore Vidal. His face looked like a soufflé that had suddenly been put in the freezer. He even broke down for a few seconds and went behind the bulwark to regain his composure.”

Vidal then turned around, went back to the airport and flew back home to Italy.

It was worth the effort, he said, just to see the look on Truman’s face.

Vidal was in the midst of his series on American Presidents and I asked some questions on the ostensible purpose of the interview, but for much of the time he regaled us with various tales he knew would amuse us. It was one of the single most entertaining interviews I’ve ever done.

Gore had always moved easily amongst the world’s cultural and intellectual elites; and as the interview wound up I remember being impressed by his next visitor – apart from Rushdie the most famous Indian writer and journalist of the day. They greeted each other like old friends as we three, scruffy in contrast to the padded luxury of Claridge’s, made our way down the hall and out into the muddy light of London streets, and back to our far more humble dwellings.