The little kid from a dysfunctional family in a small town
in California, an ex high school dropout GED graduate who was an
ex Ordinary Seaman Merchant Marine, who was an ex Air Force
Corporal who had lied about his age was now a diplomat in Madrid,
and my first six months in Spain had been more than a dream come
true. They had been beyond anything I could have imagined. I
had the best of all possible worlds. I had all of my diplomatic
prestige and privileges, duty free imports, cheap liquor and
cigarettes in the embassy commissary, CD license plates for my
car, access to Air Force commissaries and PX's, and an
interesting, active and sometimes glittering social life. Yet,
my job kept me in touch with the real world from where I came and
where people struggled for their daily survival. My work took me
out of the embassy, away from the diplomatic cocktail circuit and
the never-never land of a privileged minority. For the first
time in my life I did not have to scrimp, scrape and pinch
pennies in order to survive from payday to payday. With the
small increase in salary that I got when I left Shell, cheaper
living and my housing allowance, I had money left over on payday
and could afford to go places and do things without worrying
whether I had enough money. Through Bob Balzac I was meeting a
group of expatriate and Spanish, artists, writers and theater
people and I was learning about the cafe life of Madrid.
Just as I had preconceived notions about Sevilla, Barcelona,
and Torremolinos, so, too, did I have a set of ideas about the
cafes in Madrid. Like most of my ideals they had their roots in
Ernest Hemingway:
Then you could walk across the town and to the cafe where
they say you get your education learning who owed who money
and who chiselled this from who and why he told him to kiss
his what and who had children by who and who married who
before and after and what and how long it took for this and
that and what the doctor said. Who was so pleased because the bulls were delayed being unloaded only the day of the
fight, naturally weak in the legs, just two passes, poom,
and it is all over, he said, and then it rained and the
fight postponed a week and that was when he got it. Who
wouldn't fight with who and when and why, and does she, of
course she does, you fool you didn't know she does?
Absolutely and that's all and in no other fashion, she
gobbles them alive and all such valuable news you learn in
cafes. In cafes where the boys are never wrong; in cafes
where they are all brave; in cafes where the saucers pile
and drinks are figured in pencil on the marble table tops
among the shucked shrimps; of seasons lost and feeling good
because there are no other triumphs so secure and every man
a success by eight o'clock if somebody can pay the score in
cafes.
The Cafe Gijon on the Paseo de Recoletos is an institution
in Madrid. Along with Chicote's, which is famous for it's women,
the Cafe Gijon is one of the two most famous cafes in Madrid.
The Gijon is the gathering place for artists, writers, painters,
journalists, intellectuals and theater people, and from the
moment that I was introduced to the Gijon I knew that it was my
place, my cafe. The waiters are all correct, cordial and
friendly. The drinks are cheap and the ambience is warm and
comfortable.
I eventually came to recognize the faces of the regular
patrons and many became familiar. There was one old, very
elegant, woman who came every night and read the ABC, Madrid's
premier daily newspaper, from cover to cover. She was nearly
blind and had to read it with a magnifying glass.
There was a tertulia of old men who met every night to
discuss politics, bullfighting, theater or what ever was the
current event.
Then there was Luis, the bootblack and cigarette vendor.
Dressed in a dark shiny suit with a white shirt and a black tie,
he wore dark glasses, day and night. Everything about Luis said
he was in mourning.
Finally, there was Manolo, the waiter who's life long dream
was to own a pension in Murcia.
Manolo was from Murcia, and he had come to Madrid to make
his fortune, but always with the idea that he would one day
return to Murcia and open his pension. He had it planned in his
mind down to the last detail. He knew exactly what kind of
glasses, dishes and silverware he would use. What kind of food
he would serve. Where he would buy the sheets, blankets and
towels, and what the decoration would be.
I always encouraged Manolo to hang on to his dream. "It may
take a long time, but dreams do come true," I told him. "I know
for sure that dreams can come true. Look at me sitting here in
Spain in the Cafe Gijon, and I had to dream about this for a long time before it could come true."
Manolo would smile and his eyes sparkled.
"Tiene usted razon, Señor Estuart," he would say. He liked it
that I encouraged him to dream.
Bob and Cyn Balzac, as did all the regular patrons, had one
table where they always sat. Just walking into the cafe Gijon
gave me a feeling of permanence, order and stability. There
might be revolutions in Africa, people might fall in and out of
love, but everything in the Cafe Gijon went on from day to day,
night to night, just as it had for probably fifty, maybe a
hundred, years. Balzacs, and all the others would be at their
tables.
Marsha, when she had been in Madrid, did not like the Cafe
Gijon, and she rarely went with me. She employed the tactic of
silent scorn whenever I suggested that she go with me in the
evenings, complained of a headache, or said she was too tired.
Even before Marsha left I spent a lot of time alone or with my
new friends in the Cafe Gijon. After she left I went practically
every night. I did not like to be at home alone in an empty
apartment, and I especially did not want to go home alone that
night after the week in Torremolinos and having just said goodbye
to Birgitta.
As was usual when I returned to Madrid after a long absence
I went into the embassy to pick up my mail, and I was pleased to
find that along with letters from home, and a message to call Bob
Balzac I also had an invitation to a cocktail party that Easter
Sunday Evening at Tom Blacka's home.
I lived in three or four different worlds simultaneously, and
even though my life was compartmentalized, it seemed to me that
I could easily jump from one dimension to another; each slot
appealed to a different facet of my personality. Nevertheless, I
think that Penny and other psychologists would have described my
life as "lacking integration." At times I asked myself which is
the "real world," but to me they were all real, and I liked the
contrasts.
Even though I missed my children I was enjoying my
bachelor's life in Madrid, and I had met another women, Helen
Bellton, whom I dated. Helen, was a young mother and the widow
of an Air Force fighter pilot who had died in Vietnam. Helen's
father-in-law, the Agricultural Attachá‚á in the embassy, had
brought Helen and her two children to Spain to help her recover
from the loss of her husband.
A graduate of Smith College where she had played on the
tennis team, Helen was a bright, intelligent, athletic young
woman. She liked to do pushups, and she was fond of being on top
when making love. Her father-in-law had cautioned Helen that I
was a married man, but he encouraged her to "do what you have to
do to get over the loss. Life goes on, and it's short, so get on
with living it," he told her. I first met Helen at an embassy function, so she fit very
well with my embassy cocktail circuit friends, but she also
enjoyed my expatriate pals. Helen did not live with her in-laws
but had rented a little furnished <(>pied-a-terre to live out her
own fantasy of being an expatriate artist; she was a good writer
and was working on a book, and she enjoyed Spain as much as I
did. I hoped and suspected that Helen might be at Tom Blacka's
party that evening.
Tom was my boss, and I was technically expected to arrive early
to any representation party which he gave, just the same as I was
expected to arrive early at the ambassador's residence, but the
party was well under way by the time I arrived at his home in the
Puerto de Hierro Country Club section of suburban Madrid. I
apologized to Tom's wife Berle for my tardiness, explaining to
her that I had just returned to Madrid late in the afternoon
after a holiday on the coast. I was forgiven, and worked my way
through the guests toward Helen whom I had spotted as soon as I
arrived.
"Hi, Helen," I said. "You look ravishing this evening." I
took her hand and kissed it then embraced her and kissed her
cheek.
"You take to this diplomatic stuff like a bird does to the
air," she said. "Flattery will get you everywhere.
"I wasn't trying to flatter you," I said. "I mean it;
you're looking radiant. Keep up whatever you've been doing for
yourself."
"Thank you," she said. "I repeat flattery will get you
everywhere with me. Where have you been? I called your house on
Thursday and Friday and both times an English speaking woman
answered so I hung up. I was going to invite you to an Easter
Sunday morning brunch."
"That was my friend Marge Winslow. We swapped houses for
Semana Santa. I gave her my place here, and she let me stay at
her place in Torremolinos," I said. "I'm sorry I missed your
party."
"So that's where you got your tan," she said. "I was
watching you when you came in, and I thought to myself that you
are a very handsome man, and that I was proud to know you. I
mean it when I say that you take to this diplomatic stuff. I
watched you with the guests. You're a natural."
"Now I'll tell you that flattery will get everywhere," I
said. "What are you doing after this party? Would you like to
go to dinner with me?"
"I'd love to go to dinner with you," she said.
"Good," I said. "I have a few more people I have to say
hello to. I'll get back to you and we'll leave just as soon as
we can." I kissed her hand and moved on to circulate through the
party.
By the time I had paid my respects to my colleagues and counterparts in the Spanish Government the party was winding
down, and I found my way back to Helen.
"How would you like to go to Horcher's Restaurant?" I asked
her.
"Horcher's!" she exclaimed. "Wow! What's the occasion?"
"Nothing special," I said. "It's Easter Sunday, and we're
both beautiful people. It will be the first meeting of the Helen
and Pete Mutual Admiration Society."
"It sounds good to me," she said and hooked her arm through
mine. "Can we go now?"
"I think so. It looks as though the party is breaking up,
and all of the foreign guests have gone." We worked our way
toward the door, and more than one of the Foreign Service wives
gave us glances that signaled their mild disapproval of our
leaving together.
Horcher's was the perfect place for two young people to
celebrate; me, for having achieved more success than I ever
dreamed possible, Helen for having recovered from the loss of her
husband that had almost been more than she could endure.
Owned and run by a German refugee, Horcher's preserved all
of the old world elegance of pre-World War I Berlin. The walls
were covered with rich silk damask tapestries; the lighting was
soft. The tables were covered with stiff red linen tablecloths,
and set with fine bone ivory colored china; an array of gold
plated knives forks, spoons and, crystal glasses reflected the
candlelight. The waiters wore white tie and tails as well as
white gloves, and the food was superb.
"I can't believe this is happening to me," Helen said after
we had ordered.
"I know exactly what you mean," I said. "I have to keep
pinching myself to make sure that I'm not dreaming."
"What are you dreaming?" she asked.
"I'm not dreaming," I said. That's the point. I'm really
sitting in Madrid with the most beautiful and talented writer in
Spain, maybe the world."
"Oh please," she laughed "but I'll go along with you. And
I'm really sitting in the finest restaurant in Madrid with a
handsome young diplomat. Me, Helen Bellton, a little girl from
the middle west who never imagined she would ever see anything
more than St. Louis. Pinch me," she said and smiled.
I laughed and reached across the table to gently pinch her
arm. Her skin was as soft as it looked in the candlelight.
"Little girl from the middle west, my foot. Helen Bellton, Smith
College, Phi Beta Kappa."
The waiter poured wine into the oversize red wine glasses.
I raised my glass in a toast. "To Helen. May she always be as
happy as she is now."
She touched her glass to mine. "I'll certainly drink to
that, but here's to you, Pete. You've been a good friend, and I'm really going to miss you."
"Miss me - where are you going?"
"I've got a job offer in Washington, and I'm going home in
about ten days. That was the occasion of the brunch that you
missed. It was my own farewell party."
"Wow! I'm going to miss you, too, Helen. But
congratulations on the job. What is it?"
"Writing for a magazine. It's not Time or Newsweek, but a
trade journal in the arts that I can live with."
"That's great," I said. "What can I do to help you get
ready?"
"You can take me on a picnic out in the Spanish countryside,
and I'll go to dinner with you as many nights as you want to take
me," she said and laughed. "How's that for a forward woman -
will I make it back in the States?"
"You'll get by just fine," I said and laughed.
After dinner we stopped in the Cafe Gijon and ran into Bob
and Cyn Balzac. They already knew that Helen was leaving and had
been to her brunch. We gossiped, joked and teased, then Helen
and I spent the night at my place.
Over the next week I scheduled my work so that we could drive to
Toledo to visit the house of El Greco; one day we packed a picnic
lunch and stopped in Aranjuez to eat fresh strawberries for
desert. On another trip we drove out to the village of Chinchon.
It was during the Chinchon feria, and the villagers had closed
off the main plaza to make a bullring. Rather than the fancy
suit of lights worn in regular bullfights, the bullfighters
dressed in traje corto with leather chaps, much the way
bullfighting was done centuries ago or on ranches during tientas.
Most nights we ate out at the Botin, Jose Luis, and
Argentina restaurants, and we always stopped in the Cafe Gijon.
Several nights I invited Helen to my place for dinner, and Merche
cooked special dishes, Cocido Madrileño, Pisto Manchego, and
Paella. A couple of times I included the Balzacs. Helen showed
that she knew how to cook, and we ate at her place several
nights.
On Saturday night we went tasca hopping, a Spanish version
of pub crawling, around the Plaza Santa Ana and the Calle
Echegary in the old part of Madrid, to eat tid-bits of shrimp,
lobster, roast lamb, and squid. All of which we washed down with
little glasses, chatos, of red wine.
The next morning we ate a leisurely breakfast then went to
the Rastro, a Sunday morning flea market of antique junk.
From the Rastro we went with Helen's children to Retiro Park
and walked through the zoo, then had lunch in the open air,
Florida Restaurant in the park. After lunch we walked through
t he Prado Museum.
I was busy as hell the day she was leaving, but I went with
H elen to the airport to see her off. "I'm going to miss you," Pete," she said. "You've been a
wonderful friend and you've helped me get through the most
difficult time in my life. It was a lot of fun. I hope
everything works out for you."
"I'll miss you, too, Helen. I wish you all the best. It
has been fun."
TWA announced the departure of her flight.
"Goodbye," she said.
"Goodbye."
She took the hands of her children and walked to the
boarding gate. I knew that I would miss Helen both as a friend
and a lover. We had a lot in common, and If I had had my head
screwed on straight, been wrapped a just a little bit tighter,
had the issue of my marriage to Marsha solved, Helen and I might
have made a couple. If......
Several months later her father-in-law told me that Helen
was engaged to marry a naval officer. Her fiancá‚á was a navy
fighter pilot assigned to a carrier that was headed for Vietnam.
The father shook his head with dismay.
"Helen must have some kind of a repetition compulsion," he
said. "She has to keep doing the same thing over until she gets
it right."
"That's the way tennis players are," I said, but I had
noticed that her father-in-law, the Agricultural Attache, had a
bit of a repetition compulsion himself. He was opposed to the PL
480 giveaway food program. He said it interfered with commercial
sales of U.S. grains to Spain. He could never get the ambassador
or anyone else in the embassy to agree with him, but he never
missed a chance to make a case for stopping the program.
