And so to the big question: is it now possible to win the Tour de France clean? ‘Yes, I think it is, but that’s a very recent development.’ How recent exactly? Even after a two-hour, two-bottle lunch, Millar spots the bear-trap. ‘Well, I wouldn’t like to put an exact year on it …’ he says, smiling.
Does he regret, I wonder, not being born a few years later, into a clean sport and now that, instead of having to move to France and fend for themselves, young British riders have perhaps the world’s best national development programme? In some ways I would love nothing more than to be 18 now, going straight into the British Olympic programme, winning medals on the track, then moving to on the road. But [then] I’d have been just another pro-athlete – well-off, successful, fêted and egotistical … Having lost it all, I understand how fortunate I am.’
In the five years since his comeback Millar has won stages of the Vuelta and the Giro (Spain and Italy’s equivalent of the Tour), and become the only Briton to wear the leader’s jersey in all three. But perhaps a greater achievement is that rather than being shunned for breaking the previous generation’s omertà on drug use, he has emerged as an unofficial spokesman for the professional peloton, the eloquent voice of experience. When Belgian rider Wouter Weylandt died in a high-speed fall in this year’s Giro, it was to Millar that the peloton turned, and he later met race organizers to discuss safety. ‘Obviously, the circumstances were horrible, but it was one of the proudest moments of my career.’
The car is back, and this time Millar has to go. We say our goodbyes and, as I sit in the now empty restaurant, I think how differently it could have turned out. Floyd Landis, stripped of his 2006 Tour win after testing positive, protested his innocence for four years and has ended up discredited. Star cyclists Marco Pantani and Frank Vandenbroucke moved on from performance-enhancing drugs to recreational ones and both were dead before the age of 35.
It could have gone that way for Millar too but instead he will be starting the Tour as a pivotal figure in the sport, and even stands a chance of taking the yellow jersey after the time trial on day two. Then the rather long bill arrives. I just hope our lunch hasn’t scuppered his chances.
SCOTT’S
20 Mount Street, Mayfair, London W1
* * *
2 x sparkling water £9
Pilsner beer £4.75
2 x bottle of Viognier Sainte-Fleur 2008 £98
seared scallops £16.50
smoked salmon £14.25
2 x fillet of cod £43.50
chips £4
green beans with shallots £4.75
raspberry Eton Mess £8.50
gooseberry crème brûlée £7.50
Beaumes de Venise 2007 £9.25
Château Partarrieu 2007 £12
2 x espresso £6
2 x covers £4
* * *
Total (incl. service) £272.25
* * *
Thinkers
5 OCTOBER 1996
Jacques Attali
Attali and the global labyrinth
Over oysters and sea bass, the FT learns about one of Europe’s most controversial public figures, the former president of the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development
By Lucy Kellaway
Dear Mr Attali, I would quite understand if you had no wish to have lunch with the Financial Times. However, I should assure you that readers of the FT Weekend are intelligent people who are interested in articles about intellectuals …
It was a nice try, but I was barely expecting a response let alone an acceptance from Jacques Attali. After all, it was this paper’s unflattering coverage of his private jets and the quantity of Venetian marble in the headquarters of the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development that cost him his job as president of that bank three years ago.
Yet barely had I sent the letter than I received a fax saying that Attali would be willing to have lunch, so long as I came to Paris. London, he explained, was not his favourite place.
It was a beautiful autumn day as I strolled along the Champs-Elysées on my way to Chez Edgar. Inside, the restaurant was dark red; traditional. In halting French I told the fat madame at the door that a table was booked for two in the name of Attali. ‘Jacques Attali?’ she said, her face expressing admiration, awe.
A little late, Attali hurried in, hair swept back, looking pleasantly scruffy, a sprinkling of dandruff on the shoulder. ‘Champagne?’ he asked. That would be lovely, I replied.
Attali surveyed the busy surroundings and greeted a couple of friends. ‘Actually I am, in a certain sense, the origin of the success of this place,’ he said, his accent heavy and his diction idiosyncratic.
‘I’m sure you remember the Rainbow Warrior saga,’ he continued. ‘The minister of defence was a very close friend of mine – he had to quit. I was not happy about it. I wanted to say we are still very good friends.’ So Attali, who was then adviser to President Mitterrand, phoned Chez Edgar, a well-known haunt of journalists. He told the patron that the two of them wished to be seen eating lunch there that day. Thus, a tradition was born.
‘This is not the best cooking in Paris, but it is not very expensive. If I had invited you I would have taken you somewhere else, but this time you are inviting me.’ He picked up the menu and turned past the prix fixe to the à la carte, and chose oysters and sea bass. Our orders were taken by le patron himself, who greeted Attali like a long-lost friend, and shook my hand with considerable enthusiasm. ‘You like fish?’ he asked and suggested that I too had the sea bass. Noticing that it was FFr190 (£25), and being a cheapskate, I said I’d have the tuna, which was only FFr115.
‘What is your competence, if I might say so?’ asked Attali once the orders had been given. Somewhat at a loss, I described my job on the FT. In return, I asked him about his brand-new book, an abstract volume called Chemins de Sagesse, Paths of Wisdom.
‘The book is about labyrinths globally,’ he explained. ‘In the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries ideologies ran along straight lines, but now we are back to a time where the labyrinth is the way of organizing nature, literature, management, decision making, organizations, biology.’
Are you saying that things are more complicated now? I asked, struggling to understand. He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘You can say that. But labyrinth is much more than complexity. It is a metaphor of human creation. The qualities which are needed to go through the labyrinth are the qualities needed for the 21st century. These are: 1. When you are alone you are not lost. 2. A failure is not a failure but a success. 3. Memory. 4. Minutiae. 5. Intuition. 6. Dancing.’
Not knowing how to reply to this bizarre list, I asked whether he himself possessed these qualities. ‘I didn’t even think about it. It’s not about self!’ He seemed exasperated at the question.
How are sales going? I asked, in an attempt to shift the conversation to more solid ground. He said the book had sold 50,000 in the first 10 days, which is par for the course. Many of his 25 books, he informed me, have sold more than 100,000 copies.
People like Jacques Attali do not exist in England. The English do not believe it is possible for someone to be a world authority on any subject they turn their hand to, and distrust anyone who tries. But in France they also seem to have doubts: Attali has become almost as famous for allegations of plagiarism as for the books themselves. I watched him suck an oyster off its shell, and ask if he had developed a thick skin.
‘One of my weaknesses is that when I read something I think, “How can they say that?” And then afterwards I say, “Maybe they are right.” ’
Unable to resist, I asked if he now thinks they were right about the EBRD marble.
‘Of course not!’ he replied.
Would the same thing have happened in France?
‘Certainly not!’
He has rationalized that unhappy chapter in his life by putting it down to macroeconomics. ‘I can explain it to you. The reason is the elite is supposed to change when there i
s not full employment. The judges in the media play the same role as the guillotine played in the French revolution. But the guillotine was irreversible.’ He gave a broad smile, pleased with his joke.
So is it a huge relief to be a writer, and no longer a manager?
‘Writing books is a very small part of my activities,’ he corrected me. ‘I do not know how many other things I do. I cannot count them all. What I like is to create things, I create books. I launch projects. When I was with Mitterrand I launched lots of things. I launched Bangladesh. I launched La Grande Bibliothèque in Paris, which is my child.’
I had lost him.
‘I am not relieved to have left the European Bank,’ he went on. ‘I am happy to have created it. It is the difference between designing a plane and being a pilot on a commercial airline. I happened to be – unwillingly – a trial pilot. But if I was doing it again, I would do it exactly the same.’
Our main courses arrived. I had been given sea bass, whether I liked it or not. I did not dare complain: in any case the fish was delicious.
Writing may only be a small part of the whole, but no fewer than three projects are reaching completion. ‘I have just finished a play. I’m very excited about it. My next book is a novel that is almost finished. I am working on a book about futurology – the world in 50 years. And – er – that’s it. For the moment.’ He paused and added, ‘Plus, of course, some screenplays.’
A waitress asked if we would like pudding.
‘I should not because I have to lose weight,’ he said and went on to order a glace noisette, one of the most fattening dishes on the menu.
While I dithered, he leaned across the table.
‘Sorry, you have something in your hair.’ With charm he executed the potentially embarrassing task of removing a twig from my fringe.
‘I am teaching futurology at the University of Paris,’ he continued, ‘and writing. I am involved in French politics, advising governments in East Europe, Latin America, Africa. I am also advising companies on international strategy, mergers and acquisitions …’
I protested that all that is too much for one man; he attributes such disbelief to envy: ‘People are not happy to see someone who has two or three lives.’ And has he become good at dealing with so much envy? ‘Yes. Bof!’ he pouted. ‘Of course. When people realize next year that there is going to be a play …’ he paused, anticipating the reaction.
‘I will be thrilled when I see it. One of my best feelings as a creator was being backstage when a very famous French singer was singing a song I had written for her.’
Songs too! It turned out that Schumann had written the music, he only did the words.
Could he do the music too?
‘Bof!’ he said again. ‘I haven’t tried.’
He is able to do so much because he sleeps three hours a night. ‘Yesterday I worked till 2am – I got up at six to write and had a meeting on genetics at nine.’ He gave another broad grin, as if disarmed by his own energy.
During the lunch, he revealed little love of Britain or things British – they do not like ideas; they think ‘dream’ is a dirty word; our journalists lie – but would not be drawn into being openly disparaging.
‘I like London. I like the music. I wouldn’t say anything else, but music.’ His social life apparently left something to be desired when he was there.
He then expounded a theory about London being uncivilized because it lies on only one bank of the river. I demurred, but he took no notice. ‘It is a fact,’ he said.
I collected the bill and we prepared to leave.
Outside, his chauffeur was waiting to drive us a few hundred yards back to Attali’s office so that he could give me a sample of his recent books, including a promising-looking children’s story. As we parted, a look of unease crossed his face. ‘This is not another FT trick?’ he asked. ‘No,’ I assured him. ‘It is not.’
5 JULY 2008
Václav Havel
The playwright who became president
Too well known in Prague to eat out, the Czech intellectual invites the FT to his office to discuss globalization, rampant consumerism and his almost constant craving for cigarettes
By Stefan Wagstyl
Always a shy man, Václav Havel shuffles into view as if, even in his own office, he feels uncertain of his surroundings. Years of fame as a dissident writer, anti-communist revolutionary and president of both Czechoslovakia and the Czech Republic do not seem to have robbed the 71-year-old philosopher-king of his natural diffidence.
His welcome is warm but a little hesitant. His handshake is restrained. His voice, gravelled by decades of smoking that ended in lung cancer, is so gentle that it is hard to imagine him delivering the hundreds of speeches that he has made.
And yet the moment the conversation begins he comes alive. It is as if the mind inside this frail body has energy far bigger than the frame in which it is confined. He listens intently, pauses before speaking and shapes his answers with deliberate care – plus occasional flashes of the wit that brought him early acclaim as a playwright.
We sit down at a stylish cherry-red table in a space carved out of a period building in Prague’s historic centre. It is a self-consciously modern office with glass bookshelves and walls hung with contemporary art. Havel wears jeans and an open-necked blue shirt. Around him are scores of books in Czech, German and English.
Coffee is served – a mug for Havel and a delicate china cup for me – and a plate of chocolate biscuits that go untouched. I had asked to meet in a restaurant for lunch, but was told this would be difficult because Havel is so well known that we would be constantly interrupted.
I quiz Havel about his pictures. He says they are largely gifts he received as president and points to a colourful Buddhist tapestry. ‘There are small things here. But what is important is this carpet. It is a gift from the Dalai Lama, and only seven people all around the world have this kind of carpet,’ says Havel.
For many other public figures this would be a boast. But for Havel it is a statement of the obvious: his time as president transformed his life into what he calls ‘a fairytale’ in which extraordinary events such as meetings with the Dalai Lama, not to mention Pope John Paul II, the Clintons and Robert Redford, became ordinary.
This year Havel published an English edition of his recollections of his presidency, entitled To the Castle and Back. It is not so much a memoir as a series of commentaries, interspersed with contemporaneous office notes and entries from a diary he kept in 2005 while working on the book. President Havel worries about everything from the future of the planet to the half-cooked potatoes served to the visiting Emperor of Japan and the bat that has taken up residence in his summer house. ‘In the closet where the vacuum cleaner is kept there also lives a bat. How to get rid of it? The light bulb has been unscrewed so as not to wake it up and upset it.’
As he leaves the castle for the last time, he wonders about what happens to an ex-president in a country with little experience of ex-presidents. He writes: ‘I have to smile to myself when I realize that people don’t know how to address me. Some say “Mr President”, others say “Mr former President”, some say “Mr Havel” and it’s only a matter of time before someone addresses me as “Mr former Havel”.’
He also worries about the failure of ex-communist states to complete the revolutions of 1989 by reforming what he calls post-communism – the domination of former communists in positions of economic power. I ask him how the reform of post-communism is progressing. He says the fight is still on, with victories in popular revolts in Ukraine and Georgia and more sedate gains in central Europe. ‘As the young generation grows up, society needs to rid itself of the power of the people deformed by communism, people who had succeeded in quickly establishing themselves in the new regimes and in occupying various powerful positions.’
Havel is, however, disappointed that ex-communist societies have followed the west in embracing globalization and rampant consumerism. At our me
eting he makes clear that there is little that can be done about this in free societies. ‘But I feel there is no reason why we shouldn’t reflect upon this trend. It is a two-faced trend: on the one hand it brings people thousands of advantages and joys and pleasures; on the other, it is endangering the human race.’
I wonder whether there isn’t some intellectual snobbery hiding behind this anti-consumerism and put it to him that if people wished to use their freedom to go to McDonald’s, why shouldn’t they? He responds, ‘I don’t want to prevent anyone from being able to do that. What I want to say is something different … I get the sense that we are the first civilization in the history of mankind that is completely atheist. Human existence now isn’t metaphysically anchored in any way in a code of moral conduct, from which we could then derive a legal code.
‘That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the delicacies I can buy at the local supermarket … What I’m talking about is the underlying atheism and anti-spirituality of our civilization. We don’t know where it’s going to go from here and what it will bring for the human race.’
Pointing to a mobile phone, he says, ‘Fifty years ago, I wouldn’t have imagined this little device could be used to make calls all over the world, to make video recordings and to send images. If someone had told me about this then, I would have thought the future world would be a wonderful one when people would have these things and would be able to communicate better. But that didn’t happen. The world today is worse, and it is full of more traps and contradictions than it was 50 years ago.’
I am shocked to hear him go this far. Surely, at least in ex-communist central Europe, the world is incomparably better than it was 50 years ago? Havel answers patiently: ‘Yes, of course it is a good thing that the Iron Curtain fell and that communism ended, but that still doesn’t mean that the world is a better place. The big differences between the developed world and the developing world are deeper than ever. The unifying forces of globalization incite various forms of chauvinism or nationalism. Terrorists almost have the capacity to fire nuclear missiles. The world is full of various dangers, including ecological ones in the form of climate change, and so on.’
Lunch With the FT: 52 Classic Interviews Page 27