COMING TO CONCLUSIONS

The Autobiography of Peter Tristan Stuart

by

Gene C. McCoy

CHAPTER 6

I spent the rest of Sunday missing Angela, and on Monday morning a slow, steady drizzle of rain was falling. I showered, dressed in a clean pair of faded Levis and a cashmere pullover sweater, then checked out of the hotel to leave Sevilla to head south to Jerez de la Frontera, and the Straits of Gibraltar.

The whitewashed villages, which on the start of the trip had been bathed in sunlight and bustling with activity, were now dreary and soggy. The peasants clustered together and hovered in the doorways or under the eves of the buildings which surrounded the tiny, cobbled plazas.

Dressed in black smocks, black berets, plastic rain ponchos, and knee length rubber boots, the men stared out at the rain which they knew would help insure that they, and their families, survived for one more planting season. The expressions on their faces reflected their gratitude. They joked, laughed and poked fun at one another, glad to have a day off from the back breaking labor that is farming in Spain. I wished that I could feel the same gratitude - be happy and content with nothing more than the gift of rain falling on thirsty crops.

The metronome like click of the windshield wipers and the sound of the music coming over the radio were soothing and hypnotic. It was a local station from Sevilla and they were playing flamenco guitar music. I recognized the piece as Fandangos de Huelva.

I did not want to leave Angela or Sevilla. I wished that Angela could have come with me, and I lapsed into a reverie, to mull over and savor the kaleidoscope of images that lingered in my memory; meeting Angela in the dark, dusty shop on the Calle Sierpes and later sitting in the sidewalk cafe sipping sherry with her; the ride through the Parque de Maria Luisa in the open horse drawn carriage, the sun shining through her chestnut hair - drinking chatos de vino tinto and eating gambas al ajillo in the taska in Triana where the barefoot gypsy girls danced sevillanas.

I remembered Angela's smile, her green eyes, the way she touched my lips with her fingers when she said, with her impeccable English accent, "I can still love you for today. No one, not your wife nor your children can take this day away from us," and finally I thought about when we came together in a cheap, run down hotel that rented rooms by the hour.

I remembered, the tentative, timid expression in her eyes when we closed the door to face one another in the drab, dingy room, and the feel of her bare breasts pressing against my chest, the way her body trembled, and the soft, almost a whimper, sigh in her voice when she came. I wondered if that refined, gentle surrender to her animal instincts was personal, unique to Angela, or was it the way all English women had orgasms? That would make a good research project for a book, I thought "Orgasms Heard Round the World." If I weren't already married, I could very easily fall in love with Angela, I thought.

I thought about Marsha back in Madrid, and her silent scornful glances when ever I was enthusiastic, wanted to have fun, be playful or joke - her lack of interest in Spain, my work or anything except what she wanted to do, and just what that was I had not been able to figure out.

In so far as I could determine all that Marsha wanted out of life was to be back in California in the small town of La Crescenta where we were raised together, and where she could see her mother every day. Marsha had a bland, American women's magazine, idea about the way life was supposed to be lived that did not fit with mine.

I had an insatiable curiosity to taste, savor and smell the world. In my mind, what I hadn't experienced didn't exist, and I had to find out for myself what the world was like and how it worked.

I compared Marsha's unwillingness to even accompany me to the Cafes in Madrid with Angela's adventurous spirit, her willingness to go to a whorehouse with a man she had known only a few hours. I compared Marsha undressing in the closet to hide her femininity with my recollection of Angela standing with her arms at her side, proud of, yet a little frightened by, her womanhood.

Why in the fuck did I ever marry Marsha in the first place? I asked myself, and the only answer I could come up with was that's way you did things in those days.

Marsha and I would have been better off if we had gone off for a weekend to shack up with one another instead of parking in front of her house to steam up the windows of my car; I should have known that our sex life was not going to be any good when, after the one time I was able to talk her into jacking me off, she gagged and threw up. All of that sticky stuff on her hands made her sick, she said, and I wondered what she would do if I asked her to stick it in her mouth?

But how is a boy to know that the first women, no matter how willingly, who touches his cock is not necessarily the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with? How was I to know back in La Crescenta that there were women like Angela and Rosa Mercedes Serrano who wanted to share that soft spot between their legs, and if it gave a man pleasure so much the better? How was I to know that it felt good for them, too?

Marsha thought that she had something no other woman in the world possessed. The truth of the matter, I was discovering, was that Marsha came with the same equipment that half of the world's population had, and they knew how to use and enjoy it, better than she did. I had let Marsha manipulate, manage and coerce me for over ten years. I had not said a word when she told me that she had punched holes in her diaphragm and deceived me about practicing birth control while all to the time hoping and praying that she would get pregnant. I loved the children anyway. How could I not love children who were my own flesh and blood? But I resented the deception and being denied the choice about having children.

I had not said a word when she begged me not to apply for the Foreign Service when I graduated from college, but now that I was in my beloved service, in my beloved Spain, I intended to enjoy every second of it. If it included other women, and I hoped it would, that's the way it was going to be.

I was unaware of the subtle, pernicious, soul erosion that is provoked by the guilt of living a lie, and how illusive happiness becomes when you have momentarily lost sight of the truth. Nor could I imagine the emptiness that comes with loosing sight of the truth all together. I pulled up to a roadside inn for breakfast to stop the swirl of negative thoughts.

I gathered up a sheaf of Caridad documents and my road map from the seat of the car and entered the inn. A fire snapped in a large open fireplace, and it was warm and smokey. I could smell the big smoked jamones serranos and sausages hanging on hooks over the bar. A group of noisy peasants holding small shots of brandy in their hands laughed and joked with one another while playing a game of chinos, a Spanish game that is played to kill time and determine who pays for a round of drinks, or coffee.

The players each hold three five peseta coins, duros, in their hands behind their backs. Then, each player puts from one to three coins in a closed fist to hold in front of him. In turn, the players try to guess the total number of coins held out front by the entire group.

When everyone has made his call they turn the palms of their hands up flat, to count and see who has won. The ones who makes the right call are eliminated, and thus do not have to pay. This goes on until only two players remain. Then it becomes a mano a mano, duel of wits and psychology, until only one player is left. He pays for the last round, another is ordered and the game starts again.

I pulled off my sheepskin car coat, hung it on the back of a chair and sat down at an empty table to order orange juice, huevos tibios, soft boiled eggs, toast and cafe con leche. I had learned in my travels in Spain that the only food that does not taste of olive oil is a boiled egg, and my stomach wanted relief.

The waiter served my coffee, then I studied the map, and decided that I would make for the village of Tarifa on the southern most tip of Spain at the straits of Gibraltar. I put the map aside and thumbed through the stack of Caridad food program documents.

Caridad and the Church had a forest of pencils made up of volunteer workers that would rival the bureaucracy of the Ming Dynasty in China. This network of volunteers prepared a set of complicated, hand written, reports that included the names and addresses of all the beneficiaries for every parish in Spain, along with the names of the priests who were responsible for the food distribution. They balanced the quantities of foodstuffs received and distributed with on-hand stocks. All of the documents were signed, stamped, stapled and forwarded from the villages through the diocesan headquarters to the CCS and Caridad offices located in an old building on the Cuesta Santo Domingo in Madrid with carbon copies to the embassy.

Andre, his assistant Carmen and the priests on the Caridad staff, mulled over the documents trying to glean some sociological snapshot of the poor in rural Spain. The entire operation had a Kafka-like quality that was reminiscent of the Castle, but I had been surprised by the accuracy of the reports.

I pulled out the sheets for the village of Tarifa and noticed that the parish priest was a man named Dino Garibaldi, and my curiosity was aroused. It was an Italian name, and very unusual for Spain. There were practically no foreign priests working in Spain, and the country was more often the source of priests for Mexico and Latin America where fewer men were hearing the call to a spiritual vocation.

I finished my breakfast, paid the bill and once again headed south on the highway to the Mediterranean coast. By the time I reached the sea all that remained of the storm were strong steady winds blowing across the Straits of Gibraltar. The rain had stopped, and the whitewashed village of Tarifa shimmered in the sun against a blue back drop of choppy seas. Beyond Tarifa and the whitecaps, on the opposite side of the Straits, I could see Tangier, and I got my first glimpse of Africa.

Tarifa is the point where, in the eighth century, an Arab named Tarif landed with an invasion army from North Africa to launch the Moorish occupation of Spain that lasted until 1492, and Tarifa still bore traces of its Arabic heritage.

The streets were narrow, cobbled and winding like those in a casbah, and the women, although Christian, covered their heads with shawls which they pulled across their faces in the presence of strange men.

I inched my way through the narrow, twisting lanes filled with people and animals toward the main square, and on a street at the side of the church I spotted a group of ragged children and women waiting in a line outside a doorway. A sign over the door with the crossed flags of Spain and the United States painted on it announced the distribution of the Ayuda Alementicia Americana, the Nutritious American aid.

I parked the car and walked to the doorway. The women waiting in the line pulled their shawls across their faces. Inside the building several volunteers leaned over the reports, comparing their lists with the names the beneficiaries called out to them. Behind the counter other volunteers measured out rations of flour, cheese, cooking oil and ladled the mixture of powered milk into aluminum and cheap enamel pails carried by the recipients. Another pail set on the end of the counter was available to deposit "Contributions."

A ubiquitous energetic long haired young man rushed about to give instructions, and answer questions by the women doing the work as well as those waiting in the line. He was perpetual motion, and dressed in jeans and a shirt made from a cotton flour sack that still bore traces of the imprint of the American red, white and blue shield and the words "Donated by the People of the United States of America," the man resembled a Berkeley graduate student more than he did a priest. His flamboyant, frenetic gestures, and heavy accent confirmed that he was Italian, and I knew that he was Father Dino Garibaldi.

The priest stopped at a table to consult with a woman working on the reports, and I approached him.

"Are you Father Dino Garibaldi?" I asked in Spanish.

The man looked up from the table and turned to face me. "Yes," he replied in English. "Can I help you?"

"My name is Pete Stuart," I said and offered my hand. "I'm from the American Embassy in Madrid.

I handed my diplomatic carnet to the priest who took the folder, studied it then handed it back to me. "Not a very good picture of you," Father Dino said. His bright blue eyes sparkled over a mischievous smile. "To what do I owe the honor of a visit by an officer of the American Embassy?" he asked.

I explained to him that I was on an inspection trip of the food distribution points in Andalucia, and that I had just stopped in to see him and his parish.

"Good," he answered. "Why don't we go have a coffee, and you can tell me what it is you want to see?"

"Fine," I replied.

"Just let me get my coat," Dino said and walked behind the counter where all activity had stopped while the volunteers as well as the beneficiaries watched and eavesdropped on our conversation. Clapping his hands Dino urged the women to get back to work, then pulled on a short corduroy jacket and walked back to where I waited.

"Vámanos," he said. "This is going to be the biggest event to happen in this village since the invasion by Tarif. They'll be talking about the day the diplomat came from Madrid for the next hundred years." He pulled a beret out of his pocket and slipped it on his head then stuffed his hands in the slash pockets of his jacket as we walked briskly toward the main plaza.

"Maybe I will be, too," Dino said. We walked across the plaza, past a group of boys kicking a soccer ball, and children playing on swings then entered a cafe. Father Dino knew everyone. He scurried through the men gathered at the bar and went from table to table to slap backs and shake hands like a politician running for public office before we sat down at a table

. A white jacketed waiter rushed to take our orders. "Have you had breakfast?" Father Dino asked.

"Yes," I replied. "I'll just have a cafe corrtado."

"How about a cognac? Will you join me? It's not very often that I get a chance to talk to an American diplomat, and this calls for a celebration."

"Sure," I said. "I'll join you."

"Good," Dino said and turned to the waiter. "Dos cafes cortados y dos thiento tres." He lisped with a Castilian accent.

The waiter served us with the gracious formality that is common in the most simple of Spanish bars and cafes. I had almost forgotten the surly attitude of New York waiters and bartenders. New York and the United States slipped farther back into my memory every day.

Father Dino lifted his glass of cognac in a toast. "Salud," he said and touched my glass with his own.

"Salud," I replied and sipped the strong sweet liquor.

"You know I was going to be a Vatican diplomat, but I changed my mind," Dino said and sipped his brandy.

"Really," I said. "It's un usual to meet an Italian priest in a small town in Spain, but it's even more unusual to meet one who was planning on becoming a Vatican diplomat. Tell me about it."

Father Dino pulled a package of Ideal cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt, removed one from the package, and began rolling it in his fingers. Ideales are half completed cigarettes that require finishing, and they are popular among the poor who cannot afford "tailor mades." He finished rolling the cigarette, licked the gummed strip on the paper then lit it. He inhaled deeply then blew a cloud of blue smoke in the air. It had the sweet smell of the black tobacco in French Gitans.

"I was in Rome. I had just come back after getting my MBA at Harvard, and I was getting ready to go out as a Third Secretary in the Papal Nunciatura in Havana. I was walking on the Via Veneto, right in front of the American Embassy, and I was struck like Paul on the road to Damascus. I don't want to be a diplomat, I said to myself. I want to work with people, poor people." He paused to sip his brandy. He was silent and I could tell that he was reliving that moment. Dino laughed and his blue eyes sparkled.

"I didn't know what to do, how to tell my superior, so I walked to a small church that is a favorite of mine. I walked to the communion rail and kneeled to pray. The eighth verse of the hundred and forty third Psalm came to me. Do you know that verse?

"I don't think so," I replied. "How does it go?"

"Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning; for in thee do I trust. Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk for I lift up my soul unto thee."

He paused again, picked up his brandy and tossed it off then gulped the demitasse of coffee. Clapping his hands, he caught our waiter's eye, motioned for another round of both coffee and brandy then continued his story.

"I left the church, caught a taxi and went to the Vatican to see my superior. I told him what had happened. He was furious, but I insisted. He told me to go home and think about it. I told him I had thought about it, and I knew that I wanted to be a parish priest. I'm a shepherd not a bureaucrat, I told him." Dino was silent again, and had an expression of far away nostalgia on his handsome young face. He looked at me and smiled.

"That's a very interesting story, Father Dino," I said. "Have you ever regretted your choice?"

"Never," he said. "The most important thing in life is to know what you are supposed to be doing, then do it."

"I agree," I said. "How did you happen to come to Spain?"

"I've always loved Spain," he said. "Ignacio de Loyola was my hero. I should have been a Jesuit, but I'm not that much of an intellectual. I like being involved with people, organizing benefits and self-help projects. I was too young to get involved in the reconstruction of Italy after World War two. I was still going to school, but through a friend I heard about the food program in Spain, and I went back to my superior and wrangled this assignment to Tarifa. This is just the kind of thing that I love. I like to use the food program to leverage up the people, the same way a business man uses credit to leverage up his business."

"I can see that your training as an MBA has not gone to waste," I said with a smile. I thought about how to approach Father Dino over the matter of making collections for the food that was supposed to be given away. It was obvious to me that I was not dealing with a simple rural man like Manuela la Cabrera's priest in Rio Frio, or the others whom I had met in the Sierra Bermejas mountains on my way to Sevilla.

With those men a simple showing of the flag, and veiled threats of terminating the program were enough, but with Father Dino I would have to make a case of logic, and that was becoming more difficult to do. I could see the logic of allowing the people to express their gratitude. It gave them a sense of self-worth, and the logic of "leveraging up the people" made sense to me.

I had no skills in diplomacy, so I decided to simply state the case and let the chips fall where they may. "You, know, Father Dino, that there's an American legislative prohibition against charging money for the food."

"Oh yes, I know that," he said. "I don't charge anybody."

"What about the pail on the counter where people drop their money?" I asked.

"Those are voluntary contributions. I urge the people to show their gratitude by making some voluntary gift, what ever they can afford. If they can't give anything, fine. They still get the food."

"It might be a good idea to move the collection pail out of the distribution center to the church. That way there wouldn't be any confusion about the contributions being voluntary."

"If I did that the contributions would drop by fifty percent. You've got to have the pail close to the gift. Otherwise people forget about showing their gratitude. In addition to my MBA I studied psychology," he said and laughed.

"What would you do if a journalist came by and saw the people giving money, and he said that he was going to write a piece saying that you were charging for the food? That's what concerns the embassy," I said.

"I see your point, but I would simply tell the journalist the same thing I told you. The contributions are voluntary, and I would show him what we do with the money we collect just the way that I'm going to show you what we do with the money." He tossed off the second round of coffee and cognac, pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. "Come on, I'll give you a tour of my operation."

We left the cafe, and walking at the same brisk pace returned to the distribution center where the line of children and women had thinned.

Entering the building we went behind the counter to a large room used as a warehouse to store the food. It was clean, dry and well swept. The bags of powdered milk and flour were stacked above the floor on palettes to protect them from moisture, and the cans of oil and cheese were neatly stored on shelves beside the usual boxes of medicines and drugs. A volunteer warehouseman proudly showed me the records he kept and offered to prove that the inventory on his records agreed with the actual physical count.

I let the man show me. We counted the cans of cooking oil on the shelf and the warehouseman smiled with pride when the count agreed with his records.

Leaving the warehouse we walked to another smaller room where a half dozen women were sitting at sewing machines to make shirts, like the one that Father Dino wore, from the left over milk and flour bags. Made in small, medium and large sizes the finished products were hanging on racks.

"What do you do with the shirts, besides wear them yourself?" I asked.

Father Dino laughed. "Some we give to the poor, and others we sell to the stores in Marbella and Torremolinos. They're very popular with tourists. I suppose your phantom journalist could make the case that I'm embezzling shirts, but it's not true. I paid for it." He pulled one off the rack and held it up to me. "This is about your size. Take it. It's a gift."

"No, I'll pay you for it," I protested.

"Nonsense!" he said and waved his hand. "It's a stockholder's dividend or public relations. I'll write it off." He pressed the shirt into my hand, and tugged my arm. "Come on, there's more. You have to see our sheet metal shop."

I followed Father Dino out of the room into a courtyard that characteristic of Andalucia was shaded by olive trees covering a profusion of color with blue and yellow Talavera tiles, red and pink geraniums, and purple bougainvillaea growing in terracotta pots. Crossing the courtyard we entered what had once been a garage. Inside, an assembly line of men working with ancient, flame heated, soldering irons and the tin from the cheese and cooking oil cans, crafted candlestick holders, salt and pepper shakers, images of la Virgen, and a variety of children's pull toys. The finished products were neatly stored on shelves against the wall. Thumbtacked into the shelves, three by five cards contained permanent inventory records.

I examined some of the toys and other products. The work was that of craftsmen with fine narrow soldered seams, and carefully folded edges.

"Do you have children? Dino asked.

"Yes two, a girl five and a boy almost three." Dino took two pull toy lions off the shelf and handed them to me. "Another dividend or PR," he said.

Finally we toured the office where all of the accounting, record keeping and inventory control was done, and it was obvious that Father Dino's Harvard MBA was put to good use.

"Well what do you think?" he asked. "Would a journalist crucify me for being too materialistic?"

"I don't think so," I replied. "He would probably write an article about the colossus, the miracle maker, of Tarifa."

"No miracles," he said. "Just hard work, and a lot of help from God."

"You're too modest, Father Dino," I replied.

"Not modest either, just humble. Like Christ preaching on a street corner. Will you stay for lunch? I can't tell you how much I enjoy having someone to talk to."

"Well, I'm going to back to Madrid, but I have to eat lunch. Thank you, I will stay." I said.

"Good," he said. "I'll call my housekeeper and tell her that we'll be having a guest for lunch."

We ate a leisurely lunch that started with jamon serrano and melon, then pasta followed by fresh broiled lenguado, flounder, boiled parsley potatoes, fried zucchini and a crisp salad of lettuce and tomatoes, both of which came from his own garden, Father Dino said with pride. To wash it all down we had a pitcher of the local red wine.

It was obvious that Father Dino enjoyed good food, wine and companionship. He was articulate and worldly, both complex and simple. I could see that he would have made an excellent Vatican diplomat, yet it was also obvious that he was very happy with his life in Tarifa. He was doing the right thing.

"Do you think I'm too materialistic for a priest?" Dino asked as we sipped coffee in his patio after lunch.

"Not at all," I replied. "I think you're doing a fantastic job."

"I'm glad," Dino replied. "My philosophy is that you have to help the people take care of their physical needs, provide food and shelter for themselves, make them feel worthwhile, before you can help them with their spiritual lives. Nobody who is cold and hungry can think too long about the abundance that God has provided for us to enjoy."

"That's obvious, Father Dino, and I compliment you on the way you are leveraging up the people," I replied.

"You liked my little bit of Harvard MBA terminology, eh?" Dino said with a smile. "Very much," I replied. "I might use it in my report to the ambassador about my trip to Andalucia."

"You have my permission," he laughed.

I finished my coffee, thanked Father Dino for the visit and the lunch, then excused myself to leave.

"You know the key to my success is trust," Father Dino said.

"Trust in God or the people?" I asked and smiled at him.

"Both," Dino said and smiled back. He offered his hand. "Goodbye, Pete, and God bless you. Have a safe journey and come back to see me sometime."

* * * * *
I spent the night in Cordoba, and it was late in the afternoon of the next day by the time I got back to Madrid. I stopped in the embassy to pick up my mail. On the top of a stack of letters on my desk was an engraved invitation, with an embossed gold seal of the United States at the top.

"The Ambassador of the United States of America and Mrs. Walker request the pleasure of the company of Mr. and Mrs. Peter Tristan Stuart at a reception....." it said. The reception was that same night. I shoved the mail into my briefcase and called for the duty driver to take me home.

The children were in Laurie's bedroom playing with Merche when I walked in.

"Daddy," Laurie squealed and ran to throw her arms around my neck. "I missed you, daddy," she said."

"I missed you, too, sweetheart," I said and picked her up to kiss her. I put her down, then picked up Drew. "How are you, tiger?" I asked and tickled his tummy.

He squirmed. "I'm fine," he said, but he was serious. Something was bothering him.

"Daddy?" he asked.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Are all the bus drivers going to die?"

"No," I laughed. "Why do you ask that?"

"They don't ever sleep," he said, still serious.

"What do you mean they don't sleep?" I asked. "Sure they sleep."

"But I hear the busses going by all night," he said with a puzzled expression on his face.

"They have some bus drivers who work at night, and some who work in the day time," I said and put him down. "Not to worry. Everybody gets to sleep."

"Good," he said. "I was worried." Drew was satisfied with my explanation of the all night buses.

"I have a surprise for both of you," I said and opened the bag where I carried the pull-toy lions that Father Dino had given to me. They both screamed, jumped up and down, then took the lions and pulled them out of the bedroom down the hall.

I turned to look at Merche. "La señora?" I asked, inquiring about Marsha.

Merche raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. "Esta dormida," she said. She's sleeping.

"Was she drinking?" I asked in Spanish.

Merche cocked her head, and shrugged her shoulders again. Without saying so she told me yes.

I walked to the living room, sat down in a chair and opened my brief case to look through the mail. There was a letter from my mother and one from Marsha's mother. I opened the one from mine.

"So, you got home." I looked up at Marsha standing in the doorway. Wearing a bathrobe she looked grey and drawn, and she was holding a very dark scotch and water in her hand.

Yes, " I said. "Hi." I stood up and walked to her, then kissed her. "Here's a letter from your mother." I handed the letter to her.

She took the letter and shoved it in the pocket of her bathrobe. "At least I get mail when you're here," she said. "At home we have mailmen to bring the mail to us." She took a long swallow of her drink.

"You could go to the embassy and pick up the mail when I'm gone," I said and walked back to the chair.

"I suppose I could," she said and sat down on the sofa.

"We're invited to a reception tonight at the Ambassador's residence," I said.

"I can't go," she said. "I'm too tired."

"I'm sorry, Marsha," I said. "I have to go. These things are obligatory."

"I know," she said. "You go ahead. Tell the ambassador's wife I have the flu."

"All right," I said and stood up. "I have to shower and change." I leaned down to kiss her then walked to the bedroom to pull off my clothes. Standing under a stream of hot water I thought about Angela.

I dressed in a new dark blue suit that I had had made just before leaving on my trip. It was cut in a continental style with deeps side vents, and I liked it better than the Brooks Brothers suits that branded me as an American.

Marsha was back in bed asleep when I left for the residence.

I wished that Angela were going with me to the reception.

Gene McCoy © July 1998

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