Words: Gentleman's Journal
Photography: Getty Images
A typical day in the life of diplomat Porfirio Rubirosa ran thus: up at lunchtime, dress, get in a Ferrari and go to the Bagatelle Polo Club in the Bois de Boulogne to exercise polo ponies; leave for home at six; off to dinner at eight — and then on to adventures in the beds of Parisian ladies.
More acute readers might note this does not leave a lot of time for the to and fro of embassy life. Frank Sinatra once asked him, “Rubi, have you ever had a real job?” to which he replied, triumphantly: “women are my full-time job.”
Rubirosa liked zippy cars, fast horses and heiresses, but most of all he took pride in stylish indolence; in doing virtually nothing — but doing it with élan. Still his employer (and the first of his five father-in-laws) Dominican Republic dictator Rafael Trujillo didn’t seem to mind. “He’s an excellent diplomat,” exclaimed Trujillo of Rubirosa, “because women like him and because he is a liar.”
Rubirosa was born on January 22nd, 1909, in San Francisco de Macorís, Dominican Republic, the third and youngest child of Pedro María Rubirosa and Ana Ariza Almánzar. After an ignominious beginning as a sort of upscale bandit, his father was sent to Paris to headup the Dominican embassy. It was here, in France between the wars, that Rubirosa developed the mores which would make him renowned around the world as the world’s greatest but most discreet playboy. He could not immediately put them to use however, given that he was packed off to Dominica at 17 to join the presidential guard of Trujillo, while also captaining the polo team.
"Sinatra once asked him, “Rubi, have you ever had a real job?” to which he replied: “women are my full-time job.”"
This was a dangerous period for Rubirosa because the worst thing he could imagine happening began to happen: he became bored. Boredom was a poison to him — and so he did something cavalier that would have cost less charming men their lives: he seduced Trujillo’s 17-year-old daughter, Flor. Rubirosa contrived not merely to survive, but managed to marry her and get himself sent on a plum diplomatic posting to Berlin for his troubles.
This is when his real talent began to show: absorbing heiresses. He chucked Flor (the president didn’t seem to mind: he kept him on), and married, in sequence, and tearing haste: Danielle Darrieux, a French actress; Doris Duke, the tobacco heiress and richest woman in the world; Barbara Hutton, the second richest woman in the world; and Odile Rodin, a French actress, 22 years his junior.
The swag he acquired from these conquests included a 17th-century house in Rue de Bellechasse, Paris; a fishing fleet off Africa; a B-25 bomber converted into a private plane; a coffee plantation; and $2.5 million. Taki Theodoracopulos recalls that when he got drunk, Rubi would take out his guitar and sing: “I’m Just a Gigolo”.
It was this self-deprecation — mixed with gallantry, generosity of spirit and absolute discretion with friends and lovers — which meant that, far from being hated as a roué and fortune-hunter, Rubirosa was adored. He was a friend to everyone from JFK to Sammy Davis Junior and Truman Capote. “He could shake hands with a king and then have sex with the queen,” said his biographer, Shawn Levy.
The real testament to his charm and kindness was that when Doris Duke died in 1993, there were two pictures on her bedside: of her current boyfriend, Louis Broomfield, and of Rubirosa.
“He could shake hands with a king and then have sex with the queen.”
Was he a good man? Probably not. Was he amusing company? Certainly. But then morality and mirth seldom collide: which explains why padres seldom get invited to dinner parties. Rubirosa was still a fixture of the Jet Set to the very end.
And the end came much too soon — with a screech of tyres and crumpled metal. After a celebration at the nightclub Jimmy’s in honour of his polo team’s victory at the Coupe de France, Rubirosa was driving back to the Bois de Boulogne when he lost control of his Ferrari 250 cabriolet. The car span off the road and smashed into a tree. He died as he had lived — at speed and in some luxury. He was 56.
This is why Michael Caine doesn’t want to live to 100…
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