The American Embassy in Madrid is located on the Calle
Serrano just opposite a Jesuit Church. On the corner of the
Calle Diego de Leon, right next to the church, is a little
sidewalk Cafe called the Bar Blanco where I went every morning to
have a Cafe con leche and a churro before going into the office.
I had just returned to Madrid from my TDY in Libya, and,
after having been gone for so long, I went into the embassy early
in the morning to have a few quiet hours to go over the
accumulated mail and cable traffic before the rest of the staff
came in. My Ford Station Wagon was still in the repair shop so, while
still on the high of savoring the street scenes of Spain, I
walked into work and stopped at the Bar Blanco for a coffee.
I sat down at one of the outside tables and ordered a cafe
con leche, and as I sat dipping my churro in my coffee, I gazed
across the street at the embassy. I noticed that with the sun
rising behind the church, the shadow of the cross that stands on
top of the steeple is cast on the sleek marble facade of the
embassy. The Power and Glory, I thought. The Jesuits and the
Americans, but which is the Power, which is the Glory? I
wondered, also, if some mortal architect had planned this little
phenomenon of light and shadow, or whether it was part of a
larger scheme by a more powerful Creator.
I finished my coffee then walked across the street and
pushed the button to ring the bell at the embassy. A Marine
Guard appeared at the big glass entry door, saw who I was, then
walked outside to open the gate.
"Good morning, Mr. Stuart," he said. "I haven't seen you
around for a while. Have you been gone?"
"Yes," I replied. "I've been on a TDY in North Africa. I
just got back last night."
I signed the after hours log then took the elevator to the
second floor and walked to my office. Although I had left
instructions that the car parts which I had ordered just before
leaving were to be delivered to the Ford Garage, they were all stacked, still in the packages, in my office.
It took the best part of the morning to get the parts over
to the garage and consult with the mechanic about the Ford which
was set off to one side, up on blocks, with all of the parts which had been removed in
the wagon back.
I wondered whether an American Ford, broken in
Spain, would ever run again, and as a hedge against the garage
not getting the Ford back together, I stopped by the Fiat agency
and ordered an Italian racing red 1600-S Spyder. It was similar
to the 1500 we had rented in Rome, but with dual overhead cams
and a de tuned Osca racing engine the 1600-S was more powerful and
faster. The car had to be ordered from Italy, and the salesman
said it would be about two months before it arrived.
I explained to the salesman that I was without a car and I
needed the new one as soon as possible.
"I'll see what I can do for you," the salesman said. "I
have one just like yours due in Hendaye this afternoon, and I'm
not sure the buyer has the paper work completed to import it.
He's also a diplomat. I'll call you just as soon as I know
something."
I returned to the embassy, gossiped and consulted with Tom
Blacka and Frank Harrison about Libya and work then prepared to
resume my work of managing the PL 480 food program for the poor
and needy. After so much travel and excitement I was beginning
to feel a let down, the day after Christmas syndrome, so I was
pleased when the Fiat salesman called to say I could have the car
that was at the French Border just as soon as I could arrange the
import permit.
The import permit for the Fiat turned out to be a problem.
Before I could bring the new car into Spain I would need to
export the Ford. I called the Ford garage; the car would be
ready to drive in a week. Mike Chang, the Tote Cyro of Madrid,
started the procedures with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for
the export of the Ford and import of the Fiat; I held my breath,
but ten days after placing the order for my Fiat I was on my way
north to France where I put the Ford in temporary storage,
cleared the new one through customs, and the next morning I was
on my way back to Madrid in a brand new bright Italian racing red
sports car. The Ford was eventually sold to an officer in the
embassy who re imported it.
Even though it was mid November when I left San Sebastian I drove
with the top down, and the tonneau cover stretched over the empty
right seat of the Fiat. The air was fresh and cool, and I wore my
heavy sheepskin car coat and a wool visored cap as protection
against the cold. Driving across the Spanish countryside in my
little red sports car that morning was just another facet of my
dream come true, more fulfillment of a boyhood fantasy, and I was
as happy as I have ever been in my life.
By noon I was in Vitoria and I pulled into a CAMSA gas
station for gasoline. I had just finished checking the oil and
was lowering the hood when a stubby, melancholy looking, little
man about my age approached me.
"Are you an American?" he asked in English with an American
accent.
I lowered the hood, pushed hard to lock it, wiped my hands
on a rag, and turned to face him. Dressed in a pair of baggy
pants, a brown corduroy jacket and a khaki shirt he looked like a
Spanish peasant, but I knew by his shoes that he was an American.
They were Clark Desert Boots.
"Yes," I replied.
"I thought so," he said. "Even though you're driving an
Italian car I noticed that you had Italian Tourist EE plates. My
name's Henri Fulton," he said and held out his hand.
I took his hand. "Hi, Henri. My name's Pete Stuart."
"You aren't by chance going to Madrid, are you?" he asked.
"Yes, I am. Do you need a lift?"
"I sure do," he said. "If you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all. I'd enjoy the company," I said.
"Can I buy your lunch?" Henri asked.
"Thank you, but why don't we just go Dutch," I replied. "Do
you know a good place to eat?"
"There's an inn on the other side of town that's not bad.
Just let me get my bag from inside," he said and turned to walk
back to the station.
I pulled the tonneau cover off the right side of the car,
and when Henri returned I slipped his little overnight bag behind
the seat.
"Good thing you're travel'n light. There's not a lot of
room in this car," I said and walked around to the driver's side
and slipped behind the wheel.
"This is a neat car," he said as I pulled on to the highway.
"Did you buy it in Italy?"
"Yes," I shouted over the roar of the wind and the exhaust.
"I just picked it up in Iruqa."
He slumped down in the seat, and said nothing more. I think
he was trying to evaluate how well I drove the car to see whether
he wanted to go all the way to Madrid with me.
The restaurant, a small whitewashed, red tile roofed
roadside place was about five miles up the highway, and was
called La Venta del Torero. Owned by a retired bullfighter, the
walls were covered with photos of him in varias moments of
triumph and glory in bullrings around the world.
The owner was friendly and spoke with the raspy, cante hondo, singer's voice that is typical of many Spanish men. He
welcomed us to a table near a fireplace, and recommended the
special, cochinillo, roast suckling pig, then placed a pitcher of rioja wine on the table.
Both Henri and I ordered the special and Henri picked up the
pitcher.
"Will you have wine?" he asked.
"Please," I said.
"Are you in the Air Force?" he asked, and filled my glass.
"No," I replied. "I'm in the Foreign Service. I'm assigned
to the embassy in Madrid; I just came up to the French border to pick up the
car."
"Good," he said and filled his own glass.
I laughed.
"Why do you say, good? "You don't like Air Force people?"
"They're all right," he said and sipped the wine. "I just
don't have much in common with the military. I was on my way to
Biaritz with a military couple, but I dropped out in Vitoria. He
drove like a madman; they fought all the time, and I think she's
crazy.
I laughed again, and sipped the wine.
"There's a lot of military people in Madrid," he said. "You
see'em all the time up at the AFEX on Generalissimo with their
kraft paper bags filled with American dog food, peanut butter and
Wonder Bread. I don't understand them. I didn't come to Spain
to eat peanut butter and Wonder Bread."
"Why did you come to Spain?" I asked and sipped my wine.
"That's a good question, and I wish I knew the answer," he
said and pulled a blue box of French Gitan cigarettes from the
pocket of his jacket. "Do you like black tobacco?" he asked and
offered one to me.
"Sure," I said. "I'll try one."
He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply then blew a cloud of
the sweet smelling smoke into the air.
"Actually I came to
Spain about a year ago to research and write a musical based on
the feria de Sevilla. I was in the theater in New York, and I
decided to break out and go on my own, but things didn't work out
for me. My partner went nuts, and I went broke. I decided not
to go back, and since that time I've been doing a little work in
the Spanish theater. I paint a little, write a little and I keep
body and soul together doing medical translations from English to
Spanish."
The waiter served our food and we both picked up forks.
"Doesn't sound like a bad life to me," I said. "It's the kind of life I imagined for myself when I was going to college,
before I had a wife and two kids."
As it turned out Henri was a friend of Bob and Cyn Balzac, and by
the time we got back to Madrid Henri and I had become bosom
buddies; over the next few months he introduced me to theater
people, painters, writers journalists and other expatriates who
were far removed from my embassy and Foreign Service friends.
Just the kind of people who in my boyhood fantasies I imagined I
would meet in Madrid.
Henri and I saw one another several times a week, either
over a long lunch, in a cafe at night, or he would come by my
office or apartment. We shared all kinds of conspiracies,
gossip, pleasures, tragedies, ups, downs, meetings and partings.
But even with the close friendship that developed between us I
never really had an insight into the ordeal that was his daily
life.
He was financially destitute, frequently depressed,
expatriated and alone in a strange country living from day to
day, hand to mouth, knocking from pillar to post.
I never sensed the depth of his struggle, in part because Henri
did not let me, or anybody else, see his anxiety about economic
insecurity, nor how much he suffered. He was always witty,
charming, a good cook, always a good one to have at a party, or
even before to help prepare things. He made superb hors
d'oeuvres, would help with cleaning, straighten pictures and set
up the bar.
He loved and had known luxury, but it was not of enough
importance to him to make him knuckle under to the discipline of
a nine to five job in order to have it. Henri was going do defy
the whole bloody system, and be a free man. He was not selling
out to anybody. Even though his life on the surface appeared
chaotic, he had a sense of direction and purpose. He was in the
process of remaking his life, trying to establish himself as a
director of theater in Spain, and one day at a time he was doing
it.
Being a latent Gauguin myself, at least in temperament if
not in talent, I thought I had met a demi-gorgon who had some
mysterious secret which he used to beat all of the natural laws
of human survival. How does he eat? Where does he live? Where
does his money come from? I wondered. Over the years I would
find out that Henri begged, borrowed, conned and freeloaded. He
also drew upon the fantastic range of talents that he possessed.
Henri was a regular renaissance man. He painted; he wrote;
he was a director of theater, translator, journalist, dress
designer, cutter and seamer, film maker and set builder. He had
so many alternatives he couldn't decide what he wanted to do.
In addition to all of his talents he could talk
knowledgeably about Plato, Kant, Zen Buddhism, Schopenhauer,
Nietzsche, Goya, Modigliani, El Greco, Shakespeare, Quevedo,
Cervantes and Garcia Lorca, just to mention a few.
As Thanksgiving approached Marsha and I planned a small party. I
asked Marge and Ralph Chamberlain, Bob Balzac, his wife Cyn and
Henri Fultan to join us for a late afternoon traditional turkey
and trimmings dinner.
The Chamberlains and Balzacs accepted, but when I called
Henri on the telephone he said he had a tentative date with
another American couple. They were planning on going out to a
restaurant.
"Alors!" I exclaimed. "Go out to a restaurant on
Thanksgiving! Jamas! Get back to your friends and tell them to
come along to my place. Commissary turkey, and embassy booze are
too cheap not to share it with other Americans. Are your friends
Air Force?"
"No, thank God. They don't have any special privileges, so
your invitation sounds like a good idea," he said. "I'll call
them now, and get right back to you. Where are you?" he asked.
"I'm in the embassy," I replied. I'll be here for about an
hour."
Ten minutes later Henri called to say that his friends
accepted my "gracious invitation."
"Who are your friends? Do I know them?" I asked.
"I don't think so," he said. "Their names are Thais and
Jack Tamanaka."
"The name doesn't sound American," I said.
They're nisei Japanese Americans," he said. "Jack's an
engineer building some kind of a petro-chemical plant or
refinery, and Thais is a decorator. I knew them casually in New
York. They came to Spain last summer. They're great people.
You'll like them."
"They sound interesting," I said. "I'll be looking forward
to meeting them. I'll see you Thursday afternoon about three."
******
By Thanksgiving day almost everyone knew one another, so there
was no need to ply people with drinks to break down their
inhibitions. Nevertheless, by the time we finished the turkey we
had knocked off half a case of Cordon Rouge Champagne. The
conversation became more animated by the bottle.
We had moved away from the dinner table for coffee and
cognac in the living room. Balzac was sitting on the couch
playing my guitar, and singing Yiddish folksongs to Thais.
Ralph, Jack and Marsha had gone out to the terrace, and Henri,
Cyn, Marge and I were sitting on the floor getting heavy into
philosophy. We were trying to define the nature of being,
articulate who and what we thought we were.
"I suppose I have modeled myself after the Aristotelian
man," Henri said.
Cyn, well into her cups, cocked her head, and closed one
eye. "Thish coversashun ish getting too deep for me," she
slurred. "What in the hell is an Arishtotelian man?" She shook
her head from side to side as though dismayed by either her
inability to speak, Henri's pretentiousness, or both.
Henri took a sip of champagne, and was pensive for a moment.
He inhaled deeply, turned his head to give us a profile, and in a
deep, well modulated theatrical voice described what he thought
was the image that he projected.
"I try to avoid danger and too much risk. Actually this
comes from my belief in Zen. You see, if you rid yourself of
desire, there is very little you care about. If you don't care
about anything you're less likely to find yourself in a situation
where you have to defend your beliefs, property or what have
you."
Henri loved to have an audience, and he was pleased when
Balzac stopped playing the guitar to listen to him. Henri sipped
his champagne and continued.
"I will admit that under certain circumstances a man must be
ready to give his life for what he believes. The Vietnam war is
not one of those circumstances, I might add.
"I try to do favors for people, have as many friends as
possible, and avoid being obligated to others. It's better to
have people obligated to me - puts me in a superior position. I
strive to be honest and frank - not just with other people but
with myself as well. I gloss over wrongs that are done to me,
and try not to judge people or to fix blame. Lastly, I try to
make the best of my circumstances."
Henri seemed quite satisfied with his performance and was
offended when Balzac said, "Bullshit, Henri, but it sounds good
anyway. Say by the way, so as not to feel obligated to me, how
about paying back the thousand pesetas you borrowed from me over
a month ago."
"Balzac you're so pedestrian. Don't you realize that a mere
debt of money is not an obligation. An obligation is more
metaphysical. For instance, if you come to me with a problem,
and I listen to you, perhaps give you some sound advice, or
confirm your own ideas, then I have done you a favor. You have
an obligation to me. I mean after all, what greater favor could
one do for another than the sharing of one of life's burdens or
problems, to say nothing of maybe even providing a solution."
"Okay, Henri," Balzac said. "I could never win an argument
with you, but let me tell you that I feel less sure of ever
seeing my thousand pesetas."
"Nonsense, old boy," Henri replied with his typical aplomb,
and pulled a bill from his pocket. "It slipped my mind. I meant
to pay you some time ago." He handed the bill to Balzac. "Here,
take this, and thanks a lot. You really helped me out of a tight
spot."
Henri then turned to me. "Say, Pedro, now that you know I'm
an honest man, and always pay my debts, could you let me have a
thou?"
I roared with laughter, but I reached in my pocket for a
thousand peseta note and handed it to him. I don't know if he
ever paid me back or not.
Balzac put the guitar aside and slipped onto the floor to
join the philosopher's circle, and I moved up to the couch. I
picked up the guitar and strummed a few flamenco falsetas.
"I like that, what is it?" Thais asked.
"Zorongo Gitano," I replied, and recited a few of the words
of the poem that Garcia Lorca wrote to accompany the music.
"La luna es un pozo chico, las flores no vale na... Lo que
vale son tus brazos cuando de noche me abrazan."
"My Spanish is not good enough yet. What's it about?" she
asked.
"Like all Spanish songs and poetry it's about love and
death," I replied.
"You play very well,"
"Not so," I replied, "but it's kind of you to say so. I was
taking lessons, but I gave them up."
"You should start again, you're good."
"Thank you, maybe I will," I said. "How long have you been
in Spain?" I asked, and wished that I could think of something
more original to say. I wished that I had the courage to tell
her that I thought she was the most beautiful, interesting and
charming woman I had ever met, but I didn't, and we played cat
and mouse.
"We arrived during the summer, in August."
"That makes about four months," I said. "And you came from
where? New York? Henri told me he knew you in New York." I
knew that I sounded like an inquisitor, or a visa officer
grilling an applicant, but I was tongue tied.
"Yes, but Jack and I are both Californians, from San
Francisco. We were living last in New York, but before that we
were in Paris for about seven years."
I had been in Europe for just a little over a year, and
outside of the few days in Italy, and the TDY in Libya, I knew
nothing about any country except Spain. I felt a little
intimidated by her cool international sophistication. I was
still in the stage of practically pinching myself every few
minutes, still unable to believe that I wouldn't wake up and find
myself on the five-twenty-five to Westport or New Jersey.
"I'm a Californian, too," I said. "From La Crescenta in
Southern California, but like you I was living in the East before
coming to Spain. I lived in Connecticut and commuted to New York
on the New Haven." I made no mention of New Jersey; Connecticut
sounded more sophisticated. "I worked for Shell Oil Company
before I was appointed to the Foreign Service."
"Oh, tell me more about yourself. Where you got your tan
for instance."
"I spent the summer in North Africa, in Libya," I said.
"When I wasn't working I did a lot of skin diving and spear
fishing. That's about all there was to do down there."
"How interesting. Did you get out to the Roman ruins at
Leptis Magna and Sabratha?" She asked.
"Oh yes, many times," I said. "I lived in an Italian
Pension with a bunch of crazy Italian colonials. We went to the
ruins a lot to skin dive. I've got a few artifacts in my office
that I picked up skin diving in the old port at Leptis." I felt
a bit more confidence in myself. "You must know North Africa?"
"A little bit," she said. "Jack and I spent several months
in Cairo a few years ago, and I took a trip over to Tripoli to
see the Roman ruins."
"That's about the only reason anybody goes to Tripoli," I
said.
"I know, it's dismal, but I love North Africa, maybe it's
the oriental influence. I'd like to go back and travel all the
way across visiting the ruins in Tunisia, Algeria and Morocco."
"I thought about doing that myself, but with the war in
Algeria it's impossible. Instead Marsha and I spent a few days
in Italy between Rome and Amalfi then came home on a ship from
Naples." I knew down deep in my innermost self that I was being
a travel snob, name dropping, trying to impress her with my
worldliness. Thais was kind, however, and did not try to
puncture my ego.
"It sounds as though you had a good time, and that you know
how to enjoy life," she said.
Throughout the afternoon I noticed that Thais had a demure,
gracious and appealing way with men. She was not a flirt, but
she obviously liked men and felt comfortable with them. She
laughed at their jokes, looked straight into their eyes when she
listened or talked to them. She touched their hands or arms and
made complimentary remarks. She had been very attentive to
Balzac and I thought that they might be having a love affair.
There is a certain way that lovers look at one another that
reveals their secret, and I thought I detected that kind of
intimacy in the glances that they exchanged.
The group could have been lifted straight off the pages of a
Fitzgerald or Hemingway novel with a young diplomat, an exotic
oriental couple, the painter Balzac and his sculptress wife Cyn,
Ralph Chamberlain, a very British retired Army Officer and
gentleman, his wife Marge and Henri Fultan who were both unique
and in a class by themselves.
That Thanksgiving dinner was the first meeting of what we all
came to call the Club de Alegrias, the happiness or fun club. We
were all dedicated to the highest of hedonistic cravings; booze,
sex, Epicurean delights and perpetual motion; over the next
several months we all saw one another regularly at Sunday
brunches, on trips or at night in the Cafe Gijon, and I became
more and more attracted to Thais. I found myself feeling fits of
jealousy whenever she showed affection or attention to Balzac,
and even though all three of us were married, I fretted over why
she would prefer Balzac to me. Gradually it dawned on me that
she didn't.
* * * * *
As the big trees that shade the Paseo de la Castellana shed
their leaves, the umbrellad cafe tables, that blossom like
flowers in the springtime, disappear for the season. Heavy
leather and velvet curtains are hung in the cafe doorways to
protect the patrons from the cold as they retreat into the dark
steamy interiors for the winter.
Everyone in Madrid has a cafe, barbershop and favorite
restaurant that has more permanence in his life than either his
bedroom or his office. A man may change jobs, his mistress or
his apartment, but he never changes his cafe or his barber.
For our gang, the Club de Alegrias, our cafe was the Cafe
Gijon on the Paseo de Recoletos, one of the two most famous cafes
in Madrid, and the gathering place for artists, writers,
painters, journalists, intellectuals and theater people.
Marsha did not like the Cafe Gijon, however, 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. The rest of the gang,
however, gathered every night to plan our varied and many
activities over cafe cortado and 103 Brandy.
We went to baroque music concerts in the palace at El
Escorial, guitar recitals in the Teatro Zarzuela, taska hopping
on the Calle Echegaray, or watched flamenco dancers in La Zambra,
El Duende, and the Arco de Cuchilleros. We went on camping trips
and picnics.
On Sunday afternoons we hung out at the jam sessions in the
Club Whiskey y Jazz, or we got together for brunches with the men
alternating as hosts and chefs. Each of us prepared a dish that
was his specialty. Jack was an expert in shrimp tempura, Henri
did chicken livers in sherry, and Balzac made French toast. Mine
was scrambled eggs with grilled tomatoes and smoked trout. These
sessions started around noon with Bloody Marys, Bullshots,
Margaritas and Sangrias, and ended around midnight with champagne
bottles stacked up like cord wood or dead soldiers to remind us how far we had come.
Thais drank very little. She seemed to get high on just the
people, and it was at one of these marathon sessions in her
apartment that we began stealing kisses.
She had gone off to
the kitchen to prepare a snack to keep us all from collapsing,
and I followed her. I had taken my full ration of drinks, and
was feeling quite relaxed, and well entertained. She was cutting
chorrizo, jamon serrano and cheese while I stood beside her
sipping champagne.
"You know, Thais, I think you're the most fantastic woman I
have ever known. I've really enjoyed being with you over the
past few months. I've never had so much fun in all my life."
She giggled and looked shyly at me.
"I hope you've noticed how much I have enjoyed your
company," she said. "You're a very unusual man, Pedro. I don't
think you know how unusual you are, and that makes you all the
more unusual."
"I'm just an ordinary kid from a small town in California,"
I said digging my toe into the imaginary sand on the floor.
She put her hand on the side of my face and looked into my
eyes.
"That's not so, and I want you to know that I don't think
that at all. Will you kiss me, Pete?"
I placed my glass on the counter and took her into my arms.
She pressed her long body against mine, and we kissed long and
hard. She pushed her tongue into my mouth and it roamed over my
own setting skyrockets off in my head.
I was lost in a passionate euphoria when I heard Henri say
"Shall I go out and come in again?"
I turned to face him. "You should knock before entering," I
said.
"I always knock before entering a bedroom, but a kitchen?
Come on!" he said.
He walked to the refrigerator and opened it. "We need
another bottle of Champagne. By the way, Pedro, you better go
look after your wife. I think she's had more to drink than she
can handle. She's getting sloppy, and I hate to see women get
sloppy."
He was bitchy, and I had the feeling that he was jealous. I
walked back out to the living room and found Marsha sprawled on
the couch; the empty glass in her hand hung over a puddle of
spilled champagne. Balzac was kneeling on the floor beside her
trying to convince her to go with him to the bedroom. I don't
know where his wife, Cyn, was.
"I doe wanna be'room. Tell Pete I wanna go home. I doe
feel well." Her eyes were closed, and she was as pale as a
corpse.
"Why in the hell do you drink so much, Marsha? If you know
you can't drink, why do you do it?" I was angry and I showed it.
"I doe' know, Pete. It mus' be 'cause I'm nah happy. I
wanna go home, Pete. Will you take me home please." She pleaded
like a little girl.
I took her arm and helped her up from the couch. When she
was standing, Jack took her other arm and the three of us wobbled
out to the elevator. Just as I was putting her into the car she
got sick and vomited, and just missed getting it all over
herself, but it managed to splash on my shoes. She lay back on
the seat and passed out.
"Do you want me to come along and help you get her up to
your apartment?" Jack asked.
"That's all right," I replied. "I can manage her. Tell
everyone we said goodnight."
It was a cold night, but I put the top down in case she got
sick again. I hoped that the cold air would revive her. I then
walked around the car and slipped in behind the wheel. With a
little help she was able to get herself into our elevator, and to
the bedroom. I undressed her and she fell naked on the bed.
"Pete, do you love me?" she asked as she lay her head back
on the pillow.
"Sure, Marsha, I love you." I stood beside the bed and
looked down into her pale face.
"Then kiss me."
I leaned over and kissed her lightly, and the smell of stale
champagne and half digested shrimp filled my nostrils. I
remembered the taste of Thais' mouth, and the scent of her
perfume.
"I love you, too, Pete. Honest I do. Goodnight."
I turned off the light and walked to the bathroom to clean
my shoes.
"What's wrong with mommy, daddy?" I turned to see Laurie, my
six year old daughter, standing in the doorway.
"Nothing, honey," I lied. "Mommy just doesn't feel very
well. What are you doing out of bed?"
"I was thirsty and I got up to get a drink of water. I
heard mommy talking to you. She sounded sad."
"She's not sad, darling. She just felt a little sick."
"Would you carry me back to bed, daddy? I haven't seen you
at bedtime for a long time. Tomorrow will you tell me a story?"
"Sure, baby," I said. "Tomorrow I'll stay home and tell you
a good long bedtime story." I picked her up and carried her back
to her bed and tucked her in.
"Goodnight, daddy."
"Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams." I leaned over and
kissed her.
I walked to my study and sat down and looked around at the shabby furnishings: a cheap plastic sofa, an old oak dinning
table cut down to coffee table height, a small chintz covered
cricket chair. The walls were covered with Spanish tourist
posters. I despised the place. I despised Marsha and the God
damned trap I was in. I should never have gotten married, I
thought. I want to live like Henri; I want to live by my wits,
be always on the edge of disaster, my back against the wall where
it's do or die, sink or swim.
I got up and walked out to the kitchen and poured myself a
whiskey, hoping that with a drink the feeling of dissatisfaction
would pass. I returned to the study and slumped in my chair
again.
Ten years of marriage and all we have to show for it are two
children and a few sticks of broken down furniture. At least, I
mused, we're in Spain. That much I'm satisfied with. That and
our glittering circle of friends, even though Marsha doesn't fit
with or like them. Marsha is a small town girl who wants only to
go back and live next door to her mother where she can run by
every morning for coffee and chit chat. She wants to live in a
small town where she knows everybody, the butcher, the baker, the
candlestick maker.
What I need is a woman like Thais. Intelligent, full of
energy, good taste, sophisticated. The thought never ocurred to
me that living the way Henri lived and having a woman like Thais
were mutually exclusive propositions.
Marsha was the kind of woman that if she loved a man she
would scrub floors, iron shirts, change diapers and go out and
work half a day. She was a loyal wife, but after ten years of
marriage I had become bored with her. I found her dull and
uninteresting. I finished the drink then walked out to the
terrace and looked down on the street. A pair of lovers walked
with their arms around one another. I wondered how long it would
take before their passion and tenderness turned to lethargy and
bitterness.
* * * * * *
Jose Luis's was one of my favorite restaurants in Madrid. It's
located just a block away from the American Embassy on the Calle
Serrano, and Henri and I frequently lunched there together. It's
rather expensive, so when we went there it was generally at my
invitation. I was surprised, therefore, when Henri called to suggest that we meet at Jose Luis's for lunch. He made a point of
saying "It's my treat."
It was a warm indian summer day as I walked up to where
Henri was sitting at a table on the sidewalk reading the Paris
Herald Tribune.
"Hola, Prdro, have a seat," he said, "or would you rather go
inside?"
"No, its a beautiful day. Let's stay outside," I replied
and sat down.
"Good news, Pedro," he said and raised his martini glass.
"I'm in the bucks." He pulled a wad of thousand peseta notes
from his pocket and held them out for my inspection. "Look at
that, would you. There's more money in that bundle than I've
seen in all of the past year."
"What did you do, stick somebody up?" I joked, and ordered a
martini.
"No man. I'm going to do a play and this is an advance
payment for my services." He stuffed the wad of bills back in
his pocket.
"What do you mean, do a play? Write it?" I asked.
"No, I'm going to direct Strindberg's Ghost Sonata. Last
night when I left Thais' place I went to the Cafe Gijon. I ran
into my friend Trino who had been looking frantically for me all
over town. He wanted to tell me that we had an appointment to
see the producer this morning. It's a project we've been working
on together for over six months. I had given up hope that it
would ever come to fruition, but, just when things look the worst
something good always happens."
"It's always darkest before the dawn." I said.
He took a swallow of his drink and pulled a box of Gitan
cigarettes from the pocket of his coat, then lit one. He inhaled
deeply, and blew a cloud of the sweet smelling smoke in the air.
"This will keep me busy for the next three months and allow
me to move out of that God damned dungeon I'm living in. I can't
swing an apartment yet, but at least I can up grade the quality
of my pension."
With Henri it was either highs or lows. I don't think his
life had ever been on an even keel. If it ever got close to a
balance, he took immediate steps to knock things off dead center.
The waiter served my drink and I raised my glass in a toast.
"Congratulations and here's to success," I said and sipped
the martini."
"Maybe I should be toasting your success," he said with an
impish, ironic smile. His director of theater smile I called it.
"My success? Success in what?" I asked.
"Oh come on, Pedro. What's going on between you and Thais?"
I picked up my drink and took a large swallow. "If there
were anything going on, I would tell you it's none of your
fucking business, but since there's not, I'll tell you that.
Nothing!"
"When I walked into the kitchen last night it didn't look as
though nothing were going on," he said with the same ironic
smile.
"A casual kiss at a party where there's been a lot of
drinking a love affair does not make." I parried. "Anyway, Thais
is not my type. I don't like women who throw their ass all over
town."
"What the hell are you talking about, Pedro? I'm not aware
of Thais throwing her ass anywhere." He was quick to defend her.
"What about Balzac?" I asked and showed my infantile
jealousy.
"Balzac! Are you kidding? Shit, Thais thinks Balzac is a
buffoon. She wouldn't throw her ass into that bearded clown's
bed for anything. But you, Pedro, I think you have more of a
chance. Thais likes men with class, and Pedro, you've got class."
He flashed his ironic, director of theater, smile.
"Knock it off will you. I find this conversation in bad
taste." I grabbed the box of Gitans, shook one out and lit it.
"The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks, but anyway, good luck and watch your step. I think you might find that Thais
is a bit more difficult to handle than some of those little
Swedish and English deserts you pick up down in Torremolinos when
you're off on your business trips."
"Henri, are you jealous?"
"Don't be foolish. I'm not jealous. I care about both you
and Thais very much. I wouldn't want to see either of you do
anything to hurt yourselves, or each other."
"I'm touched by your concern," I said with a cynical edge in
my voice, and tossed off the last of my drink. "I want another
martini. How about you?"
"Sure, and it's still on me."
I was astonished by how clearly Henri could see inside of
me. I did not understand my feelings as well as he understood
them. I was beginning to feel the effect of the martini on an
empty stomach. My tongue was getting loose.
"Actually, you're right about one thing, Henri. Thais would
be a lot different from Angela. Angela's coming back to Spain
you know."
"No, I didn't know." He rose to the challenge of the little
game of fence and parry that we were playing.
"Yes, I had a letter from her. She's going to set up an apartment in Torremolinos. Maybe I'll take a run down there and
see her when she gets settled. That should get my mind off my
problems at home and Thais."
He didn't miss either slip and lunged to press his sword
against my heart.
"Problems at home?" he said. "I thought you and Marsha were
a happily married couple - at least as happy as any married
couple. And what's this about getting your mind off Thais? You
just made quite a point of telling me how little interest you
have in her?"
"Let's eat. I'm going to have huevos Navarros." I knocked
the sword out of his hand. I wanted to drop the subjects of
Marsha, Thais and Angela.
"I'll have the same." He called the waiter. We had
ordered, and he picked up his sword. He probed like a dentist
with a pick. When he found a tender spot he went after it
relentlessly.
"Don't you think your problems at home might be related to
your interest in Thais?"
"My problems with Marsha have nothing to do with Thais,
Angela or any other woman." I was becoming irritated. "You know
damned well that Marsha and I were separated for six months.
She's still ragging my ass about getting out of the Foreign
Service. She wants to go back to live a nice quiet life in
California where she can see her mother every day. I could care less if I ever see California again. When I left there six years
ago I was fed up with the place and the phony life everyone lives
out there."
"Pedro, I don't mean to be rude, but I think that you get fed
up with people, places and things with regularity."
"You may be right, Henri. Right now I'm getting a little
fed up with you," I blurted, then immediately repented.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Christ, I feel like you
were my brother," I said. "You're probably the best friend I've
ever had."
"To steal a line from your hero Hemingway, 'I feel sorry for
you', but that's all right, Pedro. Maybe I was going beyond the
limits of good taste. It's a bad habit of mine. Sometimes I
probe too deeply into people's feelings. It's the director of
theater in me. I try to play God. In order to play God you have
to know exactly what's at the center of a person. Hey, we're
becoming pesados. This is supposed to be a celebration. Come
on, Pedro, drink up." He lifted his glass. "To success in what
ever."
The waiter served our lunch of Huevos Navarros, scrambled
eggs piled on top of a toasted course peasant's bread, and
covered with thin slices of smoked Navarra trout. We ordered a
pitcher of white wine,and the conversation turned back to Henri's play, and his plans
to move out of his pension to a better one. I told him I would
help him when ever he was ready to move.
We finished lunch, and I returned to the embassy. I would
have preferred to go for a long walk through the old city or a
stroll through the Prado Museum. After the excitement of
travelling in Italy and North Africa, a ship cruise, buying a new
car and being involved in the big picture of major league
military base rights negotiations, I was having a hard time
settling down to the mundane reality of looking after the
Catholic Charities/Caridad food program. It seemed small and
insignificant.
I frequently missed Birgitta, and there were times when I
even missed my work and my colleagues in Shell Oil. Working with
the best and brightest in the oil business, had a lot to be said
for it. We paid our money and we took the risks of drilling
wildcat wells. The risks were great and the payoffs were big.
The results showed up in the bottom line, and with Shell it was
the bottom line that mattered.
Thais' husband, Jack was in the oil business. He worked for
a big international engineering firm that was building a refinery
for the Spanish Government to run Libyan crude. While I was in
Libya I had run into an oil man on the terrace of the Underwater Club who talked about the Spanish refinery deal. The economics
and the profitability of the oil business stretched the
imagination to its limits.
One of the big "Seven Sisters" international oil companies
had agreed to finance the construction of the refinery to run
their Libyan crude oil production for a period of ten years. At
the end of the period the Spanish would own the refinery, but
during that time the oil company would have recovered their
investment, and made a profit that boggled the mind.
In diplomacy the objectives were not so clear. They were
vague, undefined political goals. Everything moved at a snails
pace, and it was impossible to measure results, risk or reward.
Diplomatic life was beginning to bore me. We took short
notes from the Foreign Office and stretched them in to long
cables to Washington, or took short cables from Washington and
expanded them into long notes to the Foreign Office then met at
cocktail parties to discuss our notes and cables.
I was beginning to find the round of cocktail parties,
formal dinners and ceremonial representations stiff and trivial,
These superficial exchanges of trivia were poor fare compared to
the lively and erotic exchanges in the Club de Alegrias and my
other friends outside the embassy. If I had been able to put as
much passion into my work as I did my extra-curricular activities
I would have undoubtedly been elevated to ambassadorial rank with
record brevity.
Sometimes I thought that if I could find a way to stay in
Europe without the stifling rigidity of the embassy I would be
happy. The notion that I could find work as a journalist or
translator were just a couple of the fantasies that I toyed with.
Then, of course, there was always my old idea of going off to sit
by the edge of the sea to write a novel. Whenever I had a spare
moment I would devise plots that surrounded embassy life and
international intrigue. My imaginary undertakings were far more
colorful and exciting than the actual humdrum, day to day,
reality of life in the Diplomatic Corps.
I was locking up the classified files for the night when the
telephone rang. My secretary had gone and I picked up the phone.
"Economic Section, Mr. Stuart speaking."
"Darling, you sound so formal. I never thought of you as
Mr. Stuart." It was Thais.
"You've never seen me when I'm playing my embassy Foreign
Service Officer role. I'm terribly straight laced," I said.
"I can't believe it. To me you'll always be Pedro -
handsome, boyish, fun loving, Pedro,"
"I think I like your idea of who I am better than the stuffy
Brooks Brothers button down image I have of myself," I said.
"Which is the real Pedro - mine or yours?" she teased.
"Good question. I'll think about it and tell you later.
Maybe they're both real. I'm sure you didn't call to talk about
my image. What can I do for you?"
"I have two things I want to talk to you about. The first
is very exciting. Jack and I are invited to the Marques de Villa
Noble's ranch this weekend. He raises fighting bulls, and he's
having a tienta. You know where they test the young calves to
see if they're brave?"
"Yes," I said. "I know what a tienta is. I've been to a
lot of tientas in Mexico, but never one in Spain."
"I know how much you love bullfighting, and I told the
Marques that I had a friend in the embassy who would also enjoy
it very much. I asked if we could bring you along. Aren't I
terrible and pushy?" she said.
"Yes, but I'm glad you are so pushy. It sounds wonderful.
What are your plans?"
"We're leaving Friday morning and coming back on Sunday.
Can you make it?" Her voice was anxious.
"I think so. Let me talk to Marsha tonight and I'll let you
know tomorrow."
"I hope you can go. It wouldn't be any fun without you,"
she said.
"You're very good for my ego, Thais. What was the other
thing that you wanted to talk about?
"I'm going to show you again how terrible and pushy I can
be. I have a favor to ask of you. Will you forgive me?"
"After that build up, how could I refuse you?" I said.
"Even without the build up, you know that if I could do you a
favor, I`d be glad to do it. What do you need?"
"I need a new passport," she said. "And I hate to stand in
line and deal with bureaucrats. Could you help me?" she pleaded.
"Of cours e, " I la ughed. "I thought you wanted a big favor,
something really important like getting a visa for your lover."
"I don't have a lover," she said softly.
"Good," I said. I almost said maybe I could do something
about that, too. "You come by my office anytime, and I'll take
you down to the Consular Section. I'll see to it that they give
you the red carpet VIP treatment with no standing in line and
dealing with steely eyed bureaucrats."
"You're a darling, Pedro. Can I come by in the morning?"
"Anytime," I said.
"Would ten-thirty be all right?"
"Ten-thirty is fine. I'll be waiting for you. We can have
coffee after, and I'll tell you about the weekend."
She hung up and my morale soared. Not only was I thrilled
to have an invitation to a tienta, I was even more thrilled at
the prospect of spending a weekend in the country with Thais.
