From a Languish to a Damn

After languishing in a torpid state through the early part of the summer, the latter half had perked up for me with the arrival of Moneypenny in August. Her visit here in Eze with her husband, Jacques, had been long in the planning, so much so that I had come to believe that it would never materialize. Much depended on the health of Jacques, of course, who has been in a more fragile condition intermittently since May. Over the years Penny and I had often discussed her visiting here, but it was always a topic mentioned lightly or in passing. Finally, when it was decided that she would be making the trip down for a five-day stay, I was absolutely delighted. I immediately offered her one of the spare rooms in my home, assuring her of the spaciousness, comfort and privacy she and Jacques would find with it. But she politely declined, preferring instead to stay at Les Terraces d’Eze. I was quick not to push it with her, but restated my offer of the room should she wish it.

There was much to show her and Jacques and we made the best of it. I met them at the Nice airport and drove them in the Bentley to their hotel to help them settle in and familiarize themselves with their surroundings. The scenic overview of the Mediterranean Sea from their room achieved its desired wondrous effect on Penny and Jacques. I made certain of that by speaking with Charles at the front office beforehand to ensure the room they would receive would have the finest spectacle of a view. Of course, there was no need to mention to Penny and Jacques that I had done so.

Over the course of their stay we explored the Cote d’Azur between Marseilles and Monaco. It was at the casino in Monte Carlo that Jacques managed to reap some winnings at the blackjack table, showing no sign of having lost his touch at his favourite card game. In fact, his winnings, which he had wisely walked away with rather than risk losing any or all of it on one more play, actually paid for their holiday expenses, with a few thousand pounds to spare. I had refrained from joining in the game myself, not wishing to jinx Jacques’ luck.

As leisurely as we were in our movements about the coast, Jacques still easily tired every now and then. He would look wan for a time and needed to rest for some hours before his color and energy would be restored. It concerned me that perhaps he might not have the strength to last out the intended five days, that Moneypenny might suddenly have to cut short the visit to return to England with him. But he held up admirably, and I suspect he did so for Penny’s sake. It made me envy the obvious love they still had for each other.

The end of their stay came much too quickly and before I knew it, I was driving them back to the airport in the Bentley. Penny rang me up once she arrived home to assure me that their return flight went safely and all was well. She thanked me for being a gracious host, and a patient one with regards to Jacques during his more frail moments. Her gratitude was unnecessary, as being with Moneypenny alone rekindled for me, as always, good memories of a past time.

When September arrived, once again so did Vivienne as my occasional boarder. The arrangement between us has proven to work very well, that of my allowing her to stay in a private room in my home once or twice a month, generally on weekends, in exchange for light housekeeping and gardening duties. She was back to resume her studies at the Université Aix-Marseilles, from which she commuted here by train, after another summer spent touring Italy with her best friend Emilia.

It was refreshing to have her reappear in my life. On her first weekend back, the weather had not been at all favourable, but the sunless day proved to be an ideal one for Vivienne and I to simply relax and entertain each other with stories, most of which were her own. One of her latest stories concerned a young man whom she had met last June while cavorting through the Italian countryside with Emilia. She seemed to be quite enamoured of him and I was amused by her recounting of her meeting with Dario, and also very much pleased for her joy. She spoke of him with such a thrill and passion that are reserved only for the young. She asked if I would like to meet him one day. I simply replied, “One day.” He has since visited her at the university twice, but he has yet to be introduced to me. I can only imagine that Vivienne wishes to make certain that he is worthy of just such an introduction. I have gleaned through our numerous conversations that she perhaps views me as a father figure without her outrightly ever telling me so, and I sense a respectfulness from her in that vein. The absence of her real father in her life, who had abandoned her at the age of four and her mother, explains some of that. I suppose I should feel a certain honour and privilege to be thought of in such a surrogate manner.

In mid-October, I was surprised to have received an unexpected call from Sean. He rang me up from Italy, where he was staying for a week to be the guest of honor for the first Rome Cinema Film Festival. He was to be awarded the Golden Marco Aurelio Prize in recognition of his lifetime work in film. He proposed that we meet over drinks and have ourselves a round of golf after he ended his participation with the festival. He suggested the Mandelieu and asked for Rene to join us. I was more than happy to agree to that. Aside through his films “The Rock” and “Entrapment,” I hadn’t seen Sean in over a decade, although we have exchanged the odd brief correspondence every couple of years.

When at the Nice airport I greeted Sean and his wife, Micheline, a tiny woman when next to him, he had already arranged an overnight stay for us in rooms at the West End, the century-and-a-half-old belle epoque hotel located nearby the old city. We spent a good deal of time in the terrace restaurant overlooking the Promenade des Anglais alongside Le Blue Beach, of the Baie des Anges stretch of beaches, amusing ourselves by updating our lives and relating a variety of other less-than-sordid tales of the last decade. Then before retiring early for the night, I confirmed with Rene by phone his arrival at the golf club the next day. He stated his every intention to be there promptly at 9 a.m. Sean appeared to eagerly anticipate the first tee in the morning.

It was a half-hour drive with Sean and Micheline in the Bentley to the Mandelieu Golf Course, being nearby Cannes. Its flat terrain runs parallel to the coast, between the Mediterranean Sea and the foothills of the Esterel range. The eighteen holes encircle four lakes in a splendid green of umbrella pines and mimosa. A quaint feature is the small ferry one takes on both the outward and return trip to cross the River Siagne which flows through the middle of the course. Sean, Rene and I each are fond of the course for its technical challenges, as the majority of the tee-shots require draw or fade. Precise flight control and exact club selection are crucial to get into the right position to line up the birdies that are often only dreamt of.

Being the skilled player that he is, Sean won the game handily, and then we relaxed afterward in the Norman club house for our drinks and chat. Micheline had elected to go shopping with an old friend who lives in Cannes, recognizing that ‘the boys’ needed their time together. Sean and I joked with Rene that he was soon to become a household name through his inclusion in the new film, “Casino Royale”. He had finally joined the ranks of the 007 film fraternity. “I never thought I would live to see the day,” was Rene’s reaction to that, adding, “And I am not at all adverse to who it is that plays me, either. I have enjoyed Giannini’s work over the years. I very much would like to see the film when it is released.” Sean asked what I had thought of the new actor to play me. I admitted to some healthy skepticism on the basis of his photos, not actually having seen any of his prior film work, but Sean assured me that I would find this Daniel Craig chap a revelation by all of what he has seen of him. “Excuse my bias,” I told Sean, “but it’s impossible for me to see myself in anyone else other than you. To this day I still marvel at how in just the first film alone you uncannily captured much of the essence of my persona and nuances at the time.” He acknowledged the compliment with his infamous smile, one defined by a perceptible slyness with a tinge of a sneer. So Bond-like.

In mid-afternoon Micheline rejoined us at the club house after parting company with her friend. Her purchases typically were new outfits, but also included charcoal sticks and a large sketch book. Being an artist, generally in the realist school, she insisted on some spontaneous quick renderings of Sean, I and Rene together and individually. We submitted to her wish and were not at all disappointed by her creations, which she happily gave Rene and I as gifts.

Following an entertainingly talkative dinner at the restaurant Pierrot 1er in the centre-ville of Cannes at the Old Harbour, our reunion then began to dissolve as the evening descended. Rene left for home and I drove Sean and Micheline back to the Nice airport for their return flight to their abode in the Bahamas. The time spent with them all was much enjoyed, and again much too fleeting.

Over the last decade it appears to have become a tradition to release a new 007 film on or about my birthday. “Casino Royale” continued the tradition as I marked my 82nd year. As timing would have it, Barbara at EON ensured that I received a personal copy of the film as yet another commemoration of my increasing maturation, delivered to me by special courier. I decided I would save viewing it for a later and more appropriate occasion.

For some reason I find it interesting that as I now enter my eighty-third year I am more at peace with my age. Throughout my seventies, and even as recently as eight months ago, I often had felt most unsettled and uncertain about what limited time was left me or, worse, about dreading succumbing to some miserable bed-ridden state for a good remainder of my life, if not for the rest of it. But it is only lately that I have embraced my eighties with an appreciation for however many additional days, weeks, months and perhaps even years I will still be generously allotted. It is quite remarkable, and never ceases to amaze me, that I still am in overall reasonably good health and that my mental faculties continue to be alert, and for that alone I should be most grateful. Actually, I have not felt this optimistic about myself in quite some time.

Some sad news fell on the 20th of November. Kevin McClory had passed on at the age of 80. I met him during the filming of “Thunderball” and “Never Say Never Again,” both of which he produced. They were the only two instances when our paths had crossed. He was a genial enough gentleman with me but we had never established a real rapport. And then I had learned on the 26th that a London court had posthumously awarded him an additional credit on all subsequent reprints of the “Thunderball” novel in addition to a retention of the film rights. Something for which he had repeatedly fought for half his life had finally been accorded him in less than a week after his death. Could the irony be any crueler? It appears the surviving members of his family would now be entrusted with those rights matters. I sent them my condolences through a sympathy card and a floral arrangement.

Last weekend I invited Rene, Madame Fournier and her husband Michel for the delayed private screening of “Casino Royale”. It was preceded by a delicious light dinner, prepared by La Madame herself, of salmon and spinach terrine with a special rice of bacon bits, sage and parmesan cheese. I must say, besides having our palates well satisfied, we also were certainly most impressed by the film. However, as admirable a job Craig may have done, I’m still afraid his portrayal of me was a mite too ... blunt, shall I say? Fine for the cinema, but unlike Sean, he didn’t entirely make his portrayal of me a personally relatable one. Just the same, a pleasing escape that met with universal approval among us all. A wonderful evening spent.

But then more grim news arrived yesterday. Moneypenny rang me up to tell me that Jacques did not survive his latest operation. It felt crushing to feel her loss and grief. I was embarrassed by my speechlessness in trying to console her, knowing full well that no words I could choose would begin to heal her pain at this time. I told her that I would fly to London Friday afternoon for the funeral on Saturday, and to be there for her.

Damn.