My Claus Von Bulow Affaire

My Claus von Bulow Affaire

Copyright © 2013 Andréa Reynolds .

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8425-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8427-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8426-2 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 4/11/2013

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

One

I t was a rainy and cold New York morning. As usual, I was going through the routine of administering breakfast to my husband. It was almost a religious ritual. I shall never forget the date: March 16, 1982.

Sheldon Reynolds was forty-eight years old when he married me in 1972. He had been a professional bachelor until then, and I, a professional married woman, having been married since the age of eighteen to one man or another. Sheldon was my third husband, and I was madly in love with him. Aside from having been a successful playboy, he had also had a very successful career. In 1950, at the age of twenty-six, Brooklyn-raised Sheldon—Shelly, as his friends called him was already considered the child prodigy of a budding new industry: Television. In those days, he was the producer, writer, and director of a series called Foreign Intrigue. But from having been a professional bachelor, he became an amateur husband—and not a very enthusiastic one. His only real love was Josephine, an affectionate blonde. She was a golden retriever from whom he was inseparable.

To say the least, he was set in his ways. The fried eggs had to be just so; the bacon was even more crucial—it had to have a certain limp crispness that eludes me to this day. Josephine would usually get the bacon if it wasn’t exactly the way Sheldon had wanted it. As for the oatmeal, it was either too dry or too soggy. And regardless of how successfully I had cooked these items, I wasn’t allowed to talk while he ate them, lest it interfere with his digestion of the food and the absorption of New York Times.

On that morning of March 1982, I was particularly annoyed at being treated like a robot. Sheldon was leaving for London in the afternoon. As always, his reason for going was business, but I knew that not to be entirely true. We had not gotten along well for some years, and Shelly was spending more and more time in England without me. For four to five months a year, I was alone in New York. Like Penelope, I would wait patiently for him to return. Instead of tapestry, I had started a dress business. It was not doing well. I had the talent to wear clothes but not to design or sew them. Feeling frustrated and irritable, I decided to needle Sheldon a bit. Are the eggs all right?

Fine, thank you, he said without looking up.

Encouraged, I continued. At what time is your plane leaving?

Four.

How long will you be staying?

He put his fork down with a bang, and as he peered at me over the top of the paper, he muttered, For God’s sake, can’t you leave me alone at breakfast? You know damn well that it’s the only meal I enjoy. If you’re bored, watch television!

After noisily pushing back my chair, I left the table and crossed the room to the television set. I knew that after a while, even that would get on his nerves.

As I turned the switch on, I cried out to Sheldon, Look, its Claus von Bulow in the courtroom! I think it must finally be the verdict.

We knew Claus, and I had been following the case carefully. In a few moments, the jurors were expected to give their verdict after six days of deliberation. Sheldon got up from the breakfast table and sat down next to me on the sofa. After he lit a cigarette, he asked, Did you ever send him that letter you made me write?

I didn’t make you write it. I asked you to write it because of my atrocious spelling.

As I got up to bring him an ashtray, I went on, No, I didn’t send it to him. There was no point, really; it was a cold-fish letter.

What do you mean ‘cold-fish?. Well, all you really said was sorry that you are having problems but do get in touch when your troubles are over.

We both stared at the set. The camera was focused on Claus patiently waiting for the jury to enter the courtroom. His elbows were resting lightly on the table in front of his chair, and his hands were clasped. His face showed no emotion. But if you looked carefully, you could see that his clasp was tighter than it appeared to be. The knuckles of his fingers were turning white under the strain.

Herald Fahringer, Claus’s New York lawyer, looking slick and sophisticated as usual, with his snow-white hair and pastel satin tie, was trying to appear relaxed. He was flanked by his crony, John Sheehan, who was wearing tweeds and a jovial look. Sheehan was the Rhode Island lawyer to whom Claus had gone when he had first learned that the police were investigating him. It was Sheehan who had recommended Fahringer, and it seemed to me an unlucky choice. The defense had been limp, to say the least. The few times that it had scored any points had been the rare occasions when Fahringer let Sheehan cross-examine a witness.

The jurors were taking their time, and Sheldon went on, Did you write him another letter?

You bet I did, bad spelling and all.

And what did you say?

The obvious, that since we had known him for more than twenty years, we didn’t believe the nonsense the media was printing about him. I also assured him of our sympathy and support.

As he puffed away at his cigarette, Sheldon said, You could have consulted me.

I would have, my dear, but how could I? As usual, you were away. And with that, I turned my attention to the news announcer, who was saying that this was the last day of the most publicized criminal proceeding that fashionable Newport in Rhode Island had ever witnessed. To me, Newport was a place I had only visited watching the wonderful movie High Society, starring Grace Kelly, Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. Grace and Sunny were equally beautiful.

Tabloids all over the world agreed that the Von Bulow Affair was the most exciting trial of the decade. All the elements that made a good melodrama were present.

The alleged victim, Martha Sunny von Bulow, was rich, beautiful, and American. The accused, her husband, Claus von Bulow, a foreigner, was Danish. He, too, was well-off, though he was not in the same financial league as his wife. But he was handsome, charming, witty, and very cultured.

The supposed motive: Alexandra Isles, the mistress, a pretty, young divorcee with a floundering career as a soap-opera actress.

The accusers: Annie-Laurie (Ala) and Alexander von Auersperg, Sunny’s children, born during her first marriage to a penniless but handsome Austrian prince, Alfred (Alfie) von Auersperg; Claus’s two stepchildren were in their early twenties at this time. (Their half-sister, Cosima, then fourteen, had remained loyal to her father, Claus.)

Sunny’s mother, Annie-Laurie Aitken, who was in her eighties and in failing health, was remarried to a man fifteen years her junior. He had been one of her jewelry salesman.

Maria Schrallhammer, Sunny’s personal maid for over twenty years, a dour, intelligent German spinster, loved her mistress as fanatically as she apparently loathed her master.

Last but not least, Morris Gurley, Sunny’s trust officer at Chemical Bank, was ideally suited for his role as a banker: smooth and slightly effeminate.

The alleged crime: Claus was accused of twice attempting to murder his wife, who had been in a coma since 1980, by injecting her with insulin and barbiturates. This accusation had germinated originally in the minds of Schrallhammer and Claus’s stepchildren. When Ala and Alexander learned that as long as their comatose mother was alive, they would have to depend financially in major part on their stepfather, they went to see Gurley, who confirmed this state of affairs. The two young people confided in the banker their suspicions that Claus may have been responsible for their mother’s coma. Sunny’s mother, Mrs. Aitken, was also a client of the bank and even wealthier than her daughter. Gurley was subsequently named as one of the executors of Mrs. Aitken’s will. She would die in April 1984, leaving an estate of a hundred million dollars to Ala and Alexander but disinheriting Cosima von Bulow, their young half-sister. Gurley advised the two princelings to consult a lawyer. They hesitated at first, fearful of a public scandal, but finally agreed to do so. On January 5, 1981, they met with Richard Kuh, a former district attorney of New York, who was known particularly for his unrelenting prosecution of drug charges against Lenny Bruce, the comedian. The meeting had been arranged by Gurley.

If Maria Schrallhammer could be compared with Mrs. Danvers, the sinister housekeeper in the movie Rebecca, then Richard Kuh might have been cast as the great inquisitor of medieval Spain. His hairless face and nervous tics reminded one of a reptile. He was in the habit of keeping his mouth half-open, while his tongue protruded, flicking left and right like a viper about to strike its prey. Kuh was Claus’s most implacable and tenacious persecutor.

On January 23, 1981, eighteen days after their first meeting, Kuh sent Alexander von Auersperg to Clarendon Court, the von Bulow’s’ Newport estate, accompanied by a private detective named Eddie Lambert, who had been with the New York Police Force for eighteen years. The purpose of the expedition was to find a certain black bag that Maria and Alexander allegedly had seen in Claus’s closet and luggage at various times. And indeed, the detective and Alexander came back with a little black bag, which they said they had found in a closet belonging to Claus. This little black bag was to become the main piece of evidence in Claus’s trial. It was the smoking gun.

Two months later, the Rhode Island Police came to New York in order to question Claus, and three months after that, he was indicted.

The prosecution alleged that the first murder attempt had occurred at Clarendon Court on December 27, 1979. Sunny had slept all day. When the maid, Maria, expressed concern, Claus reassured her by saying that Madam had drunk too much the night before, which, in conjunction with a sore throat, had kept her awake; in other words, she was sleeping it off. At approximately six in the afternoon, Sunny’s breathing changed. Maria and Claus later said that it had become a rattle.

Claus had been in touch earlier that day with Dr. Janis Gailitis, the head of Newport Hospital, who had told him to keep watching Sunny. When her vital signs changed, he called Dr. Gailitis again and asked him to come as quickly as possible. The doctor arrived within ten minutes, and after he cleared Sunny’s airways of the vomit that obstructed them, he administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She was then rushed by ambulance to the hospital. A few hours later, she was considered out of danger. The treating physician’s diagnosis was hypoxia—lack of oxygen to the brain—which in this case was due to her obstructed windpipe. The word insulin was not mentioned at that time.

The prosecution alleged that the second attempt took place a year later. At eleven o’clock on the morning of December 21, Claus found his wife lying half-naked on the ice-cold marble floor of her bathroom. She was unconscious. He called an ambulance, and again, she was rushed to Newport Hospital. That day, Dr. Gailitis was not on duty, and another doctor, Gerhardt Meier, looked after Sunny.

Since then, every neurologist who examined her said that her coma was irreversible. She would never recover.

The television commentator was talking endlessly, obviously trying for time as everyone continued to wait for the jurors. Sheldon was fidgeting restlessly, and the air in the room was blue with his cigarette smoke.

As I got up to open the window, he said, I really think that it would be a bad idea for you to get involved in this story. I didn’t have to answer, because the twelve jurors had entered the courtroom and were walking in single file toward their bench. They all looked very serious. When they were seated, the clerk of the court moved toward the woman who had been chosen to represent them. As he stopped in front of her, she stood up. The courtroom had become as silent as a tomb.

Clerk: On count one, assault with attempt to commit murder on December 27, 1979, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?

Foreperson: Guilty.

While the camera zoomed in on Claus, cries of dismay were heard throughout the courtroom. Claus continued to show no emotion.

Clerk: On count two, assault with attempt to commit murder on December 21, 1980, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?

Foreperson: Guilty.

More cries arose from the spectators as the judge demanded silence, rapping his gavel vigorously on his desk. Now Claus, having closed his eyes for an instant, was looking straight ahead, with his hands clasped tightly as before. The judge announced that the jurors would be separately polled, each in turn, on both charges. As the clerk proceeded to poll them, Sheldon and I looked at each other and burst out simultaneously, It’s ridiculous!

How could this have happened?

I got up and turned off the television. I wish I had been on that jury, I said.

After he lit another cigarette, Shelly asked me to make him another cup of coffee. While I was preparing the espresso machine, he continued, If twelve honest, average American citizens came to the unanimous conclusion that Claus was guilty, they must have known something that we don’t.

It’s a blue-blood drama being judged by a blue-collar jury, I said. Anyway, you didn’t follow the trial at all—I did. And there were moments when even I had doubts, especially after reading some of the papers

Shelly interrupted, What do you think influenced the jurors most against Claus?

I poured myself a cup of coffee. Of all the evidence presented to them by the prosecution, I think the least convincing but the most effective bit was Alexandra Isles.

Which one was she?

She was the woman Claus loved, the woman who loved Claus, or at least that’s what they said. They’d been lovers since 1979. She was an actress, and when the prosecutor asked her, ‘Do you still love him?’ she lowered her eyes demurely and said in a bare whisper, ‘I don’t know.’ Then later, when the prosecutor asked, ‘What did you think when the case against Mr. von Bulow started?’ she said, ‘I thought it was a lot of nonsense.’ When he asked her what she thought now, she lowered her eyes again, gave a deep sigh, and finally whispered, ‘I don’t know.’

Sheldon raised his eyebrows. There must be more to it than that, he pressed.

I told him that apart from Alexandra, there was another witness who I thought influenced the jury a lot more than the complicated scientific evidence. It was Sunny von Bulow’s maid, Maria Schrallhammer. It had been obvious that Maria had worshipped Sunny. She had been engaged to become her maid by Prince Alfred von Auersperg soon after their marriage. You know, I said, servants can be the biggest snobs in the world. To be the maid of a princess carries a lot of glory; maybe to be just the servant of Mrs. Von Bulow puts you at every other servant’s level.

Sheldon was obviously fascinated. I hadn’t seen him so attentive in years. This Schrallhammer woman, he asked, why did the jurors believe her? Didn’t Claus explain what happened?

I told him that Fahringer had been very limp in cross-examining the maid—and that to make things worse; he hadn’t called Claus to the witness stand.

That sounds crazy. Why not?

He was of the opinion that the prosecution had not proven their case.

How come you know so much about this? Sheldon finally asked.

Elementary, my dear Watson. I spent half an hour on the phone with Claus two days ago. We agreed to meet for drinks as soon as he gets back to New York.

Shelly looked at me carefully and said in a sanctimonious tone, There you go, chasing ambulances again. I think it’s unwise for you to get involved.

I couldn’t resist it. You were quite an ambulance case yourself, remember?

Thanks for reminding me. he shot back.

I felt sorry the second I had said it, so I changed the subject. There is something that I haven’t told you, I said. In a strange way, I’m somehow already involved in the von Bulow case. A couple of weeks ago, Spiro told me he saw Claus’s stepchildren sniffing coke in the nightclub Xenon’s private room. So I asked Seymour Peyser (my lawyer) to get in touch with Fahringer and let him know. But apparently, the information got there too late. The jury was already out deliberating.

You sure are a busybody.

Maybe so, I said. But don’t you think that the testimony of witnesses who use drugs is looked upon with certain skepticism? In Court, the Auerspergs gave the impression that butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

Sheldon had started to pace up and down. What can I do to stop you from getting mixed up in things that are none of your business?

You could, for instance, spend a little more time with me, I said sweetly.

He glared but remained silent.

Would you like me to help you with your suitcase?

You’re trying to change the subject, he said, lighting another cigarette. Being the busybody you are, I’m amazed you didn’t offer yourself as a witness for the defense. After all, you knew Sunny.

Indeed, I had met Sunny in 1959 or 1960, a year before I had met Claus. But I hadn’t seen her since 1975, so I knew nothing about her health or the state of their marriage in later years, I told Sheldon.

Sheldon’s curiosity was aroused again. Where did you meet poor Sunny?

"The same place I met you and Claus, St. Moritz in winter, the coldest, most expensive melting-pot in the world. And she was hardly poor Sunny! She had over fifty million dollars. Plus, she was incredibly beautiful and very sweet when she wasn’t drinking. She was quite intelligent, too."

Were you already married to Pierre when you met her? he asked.

Pierre had been my husband. It was just a year after our daughter Caroline was born, and Sunny had had a daughter too, Ala, the one who’s now one of Claus’s accusers.

In reality, my meeting with Sunny had been far from all sweetness and light. That winter evening, Pierre and I had been sitting as usual in the Palace Hotel’s nightclub. Our days were busy with a lot of foolish activities. Having skied all day, we would then have tea in the hotel’s lobby. Where one’s table was located was of great importance. If you weren’t sitting on the right just as one walked in, it meant that you were not an in person. In those days, the hotel was populated by a lot of glamorous jetsetters. The Greek ship owners and brothers-in-law Onassis and Niarchos were rivals, competing over which of them could give the best party. Italy was represented by the handsome tycoon Gianni Agnelli and his lovely wife Marella; they usually had an entourage of attractive and titled compatriots.

The Austrian and German contingent included names such as Habsburg, Liechtenstein, Thurn und Taxis, Krupp, and Thyssen. And there were always a few Spanish and Portuguese dukes and duchesses and of course many members of the British aristocracy. After all, they had discovered and launched St. Moritz. Only a very small number of French people were on hand, for the French made very bad tourists. As they hate each other, they find it even more difficult to like foreigners. My husband, Pierre Frottier, was a Frenchman but an exceptional one. He was intelligent but also broad-minded. I, being Hungarian, felt at home everywhere.

After the ritual of tea and patisserie, the ladies would rush to the beauty salon to queue for their evening chignons. In those days, a chignon was a construction that would have made the Egyptian pyramids pale in comparison. Hairpieces were used—not the artificial nylon ones of today but beautiful, lustrous tresses that had been cut from the heads of devout nuns or needy Mediterranean peasant girls. Between tea and hairdo, if you hurried, you had time to make love, which Pierre and I thought was an excellent change of pace.

Once our hair was in place, we ladies would go to the hotel safe to choose that evening’s ornaments. (Considering a diamond ring of less than ten carats wasn’t deemed worth the trouble of keeping under lock and key, one can imagine the opulence at hand.) Then up we’d go to get dressed, either in evening gowns or glittering après-ski outfits made by the likes of Emilio Pucci, himself another popular Palace guest. There were private parties every night, but come what may, you simply had to finish the evening in the Palace nightclub, where an American and a Brazilian orchestra alternated until dawn.

In St. Moritz, aside from skiing, skating, or going down the Cresta run, the favorite sport was adultery. And if one wanted to do any people-watching, it was on the nightclub’s dance floor that one could find out who practiced that sport with whom.

On that particular evening, there were, as usual, about a dozen guests, all too tired to go to bed. We had been watching the table next to ours for the last half hour. Our neighbors all spoke German, and we knew most of them; however, there was one couple we had never seen before. Both were young, blonde, tall, and slender; they were one of the best-looking couples I had ever seen. She was wearing an ice blue, strapless, satin dress—Givenchy, I think—and her hair was swept up in a massive and elaborate chignon. Like all the other men, he was wearing a dinner jacket. Both had amazingly bright blue eyes. These two beautiful young people had been having a raging fight for the past half hour. Most of their words were inaudible because of the loud samba music, but it was obvious that the young man had been flirting outrageously with a buxom brunette and that his companion didn’t like it.

Suddenly, the young woman threw the contents of her glass into her escort’s face. Without missing a beat, the drenched young man picked up a bottle from the candlelit table and actually smashed it on her head. At that point, everybody in that part of the room stopped speaking, but the frenetic samba beat went on. As if in slow motion, the young woman got up and started to walk hesitantly toward the exit. I got up, too, and after I picked up my evening bag, I wished everyone a goodnight. As I walked toward the door, I heard Pierre say laughingly to our guests, Andrea is the biggest ambulance-chaser of all time. The day she doesn’t find someone in trouble that she can help, she’ll get in trouble herself.

I caught up with my new case, took her by the arm, and led her gently to the powder room. She threw me a grateful glance, but we didn’t say a word to each other. There was no stool or chair, only a couple of mirrors with shelves, so I had to take her into a stall and make her sit down on the toilet. By that time, blood was oozing out of her golden hairdo. I found a couple of small towels to wipe her face and her neck. I then proceeded to take out dozens of hairpins which were holding the blonde tresses in place. After a few minutes, there were more golden locks on the floor than on her head. As I removed the glass splinters, I asked her, What made Golden Boy do such an ungentlemanly thing? After all, he could have simply thrown another glass of champagne at you.

The young woman, wincing with pain, replied, Golden Boy is my husband, also known as Prince Alfred von Auersperg.

She lit a cigarette, and as I continued to search for glass splinters, she said, We had a lot to drink, and Alfie was making a pass at that plump Austrian girl. I guess I complained about it once too often. She was a bit tipsy and her words were slurred. As she lifted her head, she looked at me with her lovely blue eyes and said, My name is Sunny, by the way.

Mine is Andrea. What a lovely name—Sunny. It suits you well.

She gave me a dazzling smile.

You and my hairdresser are the only people who know that my hair is not sunny at all.

I’m sure you would be just as pretty with dark hair.

Sunny got up, obviously feeling better. As she moved toward the mirror, she continued, As a child, I was blonde. I think my hair turned dark just to annoy my mother and grandmother. Blonde was their idea of breeding and distinction.

I suggested to Sunny that perhaps it was time to go to bed. She agreed, and we picked up the braids lying on the floor. As I walked with her to her apartment, we decided to meet the next morning at the hotel hairdresser’s to repair the night’s damage.

Shelly had remained silent during this story, with Josephine curled up beside him on the sofa. Now he asked, Did you see a lot of her after that?

No, I soon realized that under normal circumstances, Sunny was a very shy and private person. We only saw one another one or two times a year. We would go shopping when she’d come for the Paris collections.

And Claus, when did you first meet him?

The year after I met Sunny, Brigitte de Malleray brought him to a dinner party Pierre and I gave in St. Moritz.

That meeting had not been historical. I remember telling myself that, in spite of his wit, which was dazzling, and his culture, which was obvious even through the silly chatter so usual at such gatherings, Claus von Bulow lacked self-confidence. During the subsequent years, we would meet him occasionally at other events. He was an excellent host himself, and we always enjoyed his parties.

Sheldon then asked me a question that surprised me, for he was the soul of discretion. Did you flirt with Claus?

Good heavens, no! We were not each other’s type at all.

After he looked at his watch, Shelly said suddenly, I had better go and pack my suitcase.

May I help you? I was already emptying the ashtrays.

"You know I never let anybody help with my suitcase. It breaks my routine, and I forget half the things I need."

I shrugged and started to clear the breakfast dishes. Over the past few years, the length of his stays abroad had escalated seriously, and that day, I knew from experience that I probably wouldn’t see him for at least three months. Every time he came back, I hoped and prayed that things would be different. They weren’t, and I was running out of hope.

Half an hour later, Sheldon reappeared, dapper and elegant, his overnight bag in one hand and an elegant Gucci leather suitcase I had given him in the other. He leaned the case next to the entrance door and walked back, saying, Now don’t spend more money on the farm while I’m gone.

That didn’t go down well with me. You spend too much money chasing movie deals in places like Cannes, Monte Carlo, London, and Paris, I said. What’s wrong with New York and California?

Stop talking nonsense. You know nothing about the movie business.

We always had a fight just before he went on his trips, and in this instance, Sheldon wanted to confine the discussion to my shortcomings.

You’re avoiding the issue. Not only did you spend a bloody fortune on the farm, but you built the place where I’m supposed to live in the wrong place!

This was one of Sheldon’s favorite arguments, but I knew my ground.

"In the place you wanted, the barn would be flooded every spring; besides, you’re never here, so how the hell can I consult you? The last three years you’ve spent a maximum of four months a year with me."

Then Sheldon said nervously, If you weren’t such a pain in the neck, I’d probably see you more often.

He knelt down to say good-bye to Josephine. When he was finished, he gave me a distracted peck on the cheek and said, Don’t call me. I’ll call you.

I’ve heard that one before!

As he turned to go, he replied, You always have the knack of calling either when I’m in the bathroom or when I’ve finally gone to sleep.

I smiled at him, but I could feel the tears coming to my eyes, so I turned away and said, Okay. I’ll wait for your call. Have a safe trip, but please call.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I phoned my best friend, Hilda. I had inherited her from Shelly a long time ago; she had been one of his passing fancies. Hilda was my confidante and my best advisor. She answered at the second ring, and I immediately blurted out, Hilda, Shelly is gone.

How do you feel? she asked.

As usual, I’m sad but also relieved.

Did you watch the von Bulow verdict?"

Yes. Wasn’t it awful?

She replied distractedly, Yes. It’s so strange. Last night, I dreamt that you and Claus had become lovers.

Is that so? Well, I’m having tea with him tomorrow at five. Only tea and sympathy, I said with a giggle.

She sounded concerned. Do you think that’s wise?

Two

B y evening, Lula, our housekeeper, had made the apartment sparkling clean and tidy. Even the smell of tobacco was barely perceptible. All traces of a male presence had disappeared. I knew this was her way of showing her disapproval of Sheldon for deserting what she once called his marital home. We had been renting this apartment at the Wyndham Hotel for the past three months, waiting to move to the farm near Livingston Manor, New York, which was still under construction. Our objective was to spend three days a week in the city and the rest of the time in the country. I watched the late news that evening; there was still a lot about the von Bulow case. What was most remarkable I thought, was Claus’s courtesy to the press, who were hounding him, as well as the unruffled dignity he was able to maintain in the face of this dreadful stress. In spite of his problems, he looked well. I remember thinking that the years had improved him—he used to be almost too good-looking, but now the lines that marked his face gave him a more rugged appeal. It wasn’t at all difficult to understand why women like Sunny and Alexandra Isles had been seriously taken with him.

One of the reasons Claus is attractive to women is that he really likes them—not merely as sex objects, but also as human beings. All through his life, many of his deepest and most lasting friendships have been with intelligent and attractive women. One of them was the French poet and painter Marie Laure de Noailles, now deceased, and another, the Princess Anne Mari Bismarck, a real "Grande dame" if there ever was one.

When Claus married Sunny at the age of thirty-nine, he was ripe for matrimony. He was in the midst of a successful career as Paul Getty’s personal assistant, and his love life had been busy and varied enough to make him long for a lasting relationship. Above all, Claus wanted children. Sunny was on the rebound from her romantic but not very happy marriage to Prince Alfie Auersperg, during which she was often left, just like me, alone and bored in the small Austrian village of Kitzbuhel.

With his golden hair, bright blue eyes and gleaming white teeth, Sunny’s first husband was handsome in a rather spectacular way. But in spite of his title, Prince Auersperg was a bit too beautiful to look distinguished.

Claus, on the other hand, in spite of his growing baldness, was both handsome and very distinguished-looking. The two men were also very different intellectually. Alfie was a sportsman who was at his best outdoors. In fact, when he and Sunny met and fell in love in 1958, he was working as the tennis coach at an Austrian hotel where she and her mother were staying. Alfie had not pursued any academic studies, and although he was perfectly charming, no one had ever accused him of being intelligent. But he was totally unpretentious, and his lack of culture was made up for by lots of charm. Claus is full of charm too, but his personality is more complete. He didn’t excel in any sports, but he was adequate at most of them. His culture, on the other hand, is remarkable. Claus is one of the best-read men I have ever met.

Sunny’s life changed radically when she married Claus. They spent most of their time in New York and London, where Claus had a fabulous apartment and where they gave many sumptuous parties soon after their marriage. (Sunny gave her mountain chalet in Austria, as well as the apartment they had in Munich, to Alfie.) It was evident for all to see that she and Claus were very much in love. And unlike Alfie, Claus spent most of his time with Sunny. During the first two years of their marriage, he continued working for J. Paul Getty, but Sunny hated it when he went on business trips. Even though he always offered to take her along, after she accompanied him on one trip to Japan, she refused to join him again.

Sunny was a very headstrong woman, and she was determined to put an end to her husband’s career. It took her two years to achieve this goal, and ever since, Claus has bitterly regretted having given in to her—a point that illustrates his biggest fault; he shies away from controversy and confrontations, often to his own detriment. So a couple of years after her second marriage, Sunny found herself with a new baby girl, Cosima, Ala and Alexander, her two children by Prince Auersperg, and a twenty-four-hour-a-day doting and devoted husband. For some time, love and a sybaritic life dulled Claus’s unhappiness about not working. He and Sunny kept busy doing things that were great fun and very expensive. However, he very soon began looking for business opportunities that would not clash with his wife’s wishes. It was during that time that he studied for the stock exchange exams and became a registered broker.

Sunny’s income was about three million dollars a year, while Claus was worth just about that amount in total. Given this discrepancy, it was obviously Sunny who paid the couple’s living expenses. Their first major acquisition was Clarendon Court in Newport, Rhode Island. That resort was populated by very rich and elegant people. As a rather silly understatement, the twelve bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms were called cottages.

Sunny had asked Claus to give up his apartment in London, which he did reluctantly, and they used its contents to partially furnish and decorate their new summer home. Day after day during those months, they spent their time shopping for more furniture, more paintings, and more silver. Claus also helped Sunny buy her clothes. Twice a year, French couturiers like Givenchy, Dior, or St. Laurent would send her sketches and photographs along with swatches of material; Claus would help make the selections and order them, and then they would to go Paris a few weeks later for Sunny’s fittings.

Seen from the outside, the von Bulow’s marriage seemed like a good one. Neither of them was rumored to be unfaithful and they were constantly together. During the first three or four years of their union, they would often be seen at big parties—those given by the Patinos, the Rothschild’s or the Bismarck’s in Portugal, France, or Germany. Sunny’s alcohol consumption was not as evident as it had been in her twenties, and both she and Claus seemed to be very happy together. Then gradually, they dropped out of the international social scene. Once or twice a year, they could still be seen in Paris, she being fitted for clothes at the couture salons, he playing backgammon at The Travelers Club. But now instead of being observed at parties, they would be found having lunches and dinners together in four-star restaurants; more often than not, they