The
foghorn blew its lonely wail as the Q.S.S.Arkadia made its
steady
eighteen knots through the choppy waters of the North
Atlantic.
PART ONE
I
Inside the Neptune room, a dapper
dressed man raised his glass in
toast.
"To my fellow American and Italian
travelers. To your health," he
said. "Thank you Kirk, health is
everything. It's more important than
money," said the American.
"You are an idealist," said
the German, "Just like in your
movies.
Your women however are realists and
they make fools out of you American
men.
When they are going with you they talk only of wanting the same
things you want. But once they marry
you, then as you say in your
country `the honeymoon is over'. Your
women take over and you husbands
have to work yourself to death because
your wives want more and more."
III
"Have you ever been married Kirk? You have such a cynical
attitude, I bet it was unhappy,"
said the Italian. The mustachio rosy
cheeked German got up.
"I must go. A friend of mine in
first class invited me over for a
cognac after the movie. They are seeing `Port Afrique' a picture with
this Italian actress. The one who took
what you say in Italian -- her
bambino to Italy because her divorced
husband wants to see the
child. What's her name?"
"Pier Angeli," said the Italian.
“Cameriere, waiter, bring this
gentlemen a pernod," said the American.
"Cognac is too expensive,
Kirk. You can order that in first
class."
The three men sat back and relaxed on
the soft cushions in the
ship's Neptune Room.
IV
A little
girl wandered in from the kiddie play land which was across
the hall. She watched the bartender mix the drinks.
Kirk's brown eyes
darted to the little girl; he watched
her watch the bartender and he
felt the tragedy of growing old. He
sipped at his pernod. "Okay, have
it your way. I will go to first class
in time. I am in no hurry," he
said, throwing out his hands in
resignation.
"You see I was married for twenty years in the old Germany. I
had a daughter. She died when zehn years. Whether this was good or bad,
I do not know. Perhaps it was for the
best. Who knows? A zeitgeist!"
And again
he threw out his hands in resignation. The white flag was
being
hoistened.
He sipped the pernod and one had the feeling that the
drink made surrender seem easier. But
the little girl watching the
bartender knew nothing of defeat
because life to her had only triumph
and a temper tantrum now and then --
certainly no tragedy.
V
"My wife," continued Kirk, "she was a lovely girl. I
mean beautiful not
like your
American or Italian women.
She had a figure -- she
would
never
lose it...
it was that fine. She Never worried about calories or
what you say in America -- Rockefeller
diet? She was a woman who would
age gracefully and would not need a beauty
parlor to disguise her
wrinkles and keep her young forever
like the old young women in
Hollywood, how you say?"
VI
The
American and the Italian gazed at each other only for a second
lowering
their eyes at the same time,
perhaps feeling an affinity
of guilt. To the Italian his
women were the most beautiful in the
world between the ages of eighteen to
twenty five but they got married,
grew
out and got big.
And to the American, his women were the
tallest in the world because
of the food they ate and the climate
they enjoyed. But they had a fear
of growing old and no matter how tall
you are or whether you're from
Miami Beach or Los Angeles, they wanted
to relive the memories of
their youth and thus
failed to grow old gracefully by living in
their
yesterdays instead of their todays.
"My
wife she is a wonderful girl," said Kirk. "Only
complaint I have
she was too attached to her
parents, especially her father. When I
got this job as a restaurant manager in Canada, she did not want to
come with me. She cried and cried until finally I just
up and left."
Kirk paused, sipping his pernod.
"When you go back to Frankfurt, you
think you will see her there?"
asked the Italian.
"I doubt it," he
answered. "I haven't seen my wife
for ten-eleven
years.
I do not want to see her. I tell you the truth, man to man.
I have a friend in Ontario. She no want to get married. She had a
sweetheart who died. She says me and
her, it would never work out. She
always has those wonderful memories of
him. I always have those
memories of my wife and
daughter." Kirk nurtured the last
drop.
"No, my American - Italian
friends, I will never get married again.
When you are single, the woman she does
everything for you but once you
marry you must do everything for
her."
Kirk looked at his Swiss movement
wristwatch. "It is getting late and I
must go see my friend in first class. She is very bored -- it is so
lonely there."
He walked to the doors of the Greek
ship's Neptune Room.
He hesitated and turned around like he
had left Something behind.
Something he had forgotten.
His brown eyes darted over to the
little girl who was watching the
bartender make pernods and cognacs. Then he walked
out.
"It’s
a pity, isn't it," said
the Italian.
The American swallowed down his Danish
beer. "Yes it is/ I
feel
sorry for him."
And the
little girl kept watching the bartender, not knowing he was
helping
only those travelers who wanted to forget.
The Big
Apple, April 11,2011 five decades later....
2011***********************************************************************
PART TWO
"You
Americans are all alike," said Natalya, a young German woman
on the
Greek ship "Arkadia"
midway in the North Atlantic, en route to
her home in Duseldorf after a year of
work as a dressmaker in
Montreal. "You think you can win
any girl with your money.
All you do is show off. You have - how
you say - some complex.
Inferiority complex? You American men,
all you do is talk and talk. You
big shots, all of you."
5000 miles away on a tennis court North
of Beverly Hills Hotel in
Beverly Hills, the owner of a motion
picture studio was warming up his
backhand. He swung the racquet through
the air with vigor.
"Beautiful form, chief.
Beautiful," said the studio's casting director.
"We'll moider 'em, right?"
asked the owner of the studio.
"We will chief, we really
will," answered the studio's casting
director.
The
"Arkadia" slipped through the choppy waters of the Irish sea.
On
the top
deck standing inside the bingo room, Bryan, an Australian
returning to his native land after a year of working for a tobacco
company in Canada said, "You know 'Harr, you are an odd bloke for an
American. You're not a cannibal, after
all. You're quite a decent chap.
Now nothing personal, of course. No
offense. But I heard America is
the land of cannibals."
The studio's casting director walked
over to the owner of the studio.
"Shall I serve first, chief? That
way we can let up a little on your
serve."
The studio chief handed the balls to
him. "You go ahead and
serve. My shoulder is still sore from
the twist last night. You
shouldn't have taken me to that party,
Solly. You know Rosita always
ends up drunk and wants me to dance every dance with her."
***********************************************************************
Alice, a French Canadian and wife of a
film director in Paris,
walked on the main deck of the
`Arkadia'. "Am I ever happy in bed?
Yes?" she laughed.
"You see, I like Jewish men.. They
are more open minded, they don't
make a fuss like most men. They read,
they are clever, very clever.
“My husband, he is clever. You know, I worked veree hard to make this
trip.
I went to school three times a week to learn dress design. I
make very simple clothes but they are chic.
I worked during the days
as a secretary and sewed at nights to save enough monee for this
trip. I haven't seen my husband for
seven months, Harree"
"Wonderful shot, wonderful
chief," cried the studio's casting
director on the tennis court North of the Beverly Hills Hotel in
Beverly Hills. "You're hitting the
ball like Pancho Gonzales. Just
great, never seen anything like it.
Right, boys? Right!"
In the shaded patio overlooking the
court, two men concentrated on
a backgammon game. "Your move." One of the men
turned his head to the
court. "Yeah, you're right, Chief,
you're playing terrific. You must
have been practicing at Cannes,"
said the man, turning back to the
backgammon game.
The owner of the studio laughed.
"Come, come boys, you know better
than that. I'm just a virile buck. I
never grow old. You should of
seen me in that celebrity tournament in
Palm Springs. Tell you all
about it sometime," said the owner of the studio, moving closer to
the net.
Hazel, a plumpish mother of three, was
homeward bound for Derby,
England after a stay with her mother
and father who had migrated from
England to Canada.
"You Americans, you spoil your
children, Yank. Now I'm not saying I
wouldn't have wanted an American for a
husband. That's what we English
girls always talked about when we were single." She shrugged her
shoulders. "Of course, I'm happy.
I married the bloke I did. He
provides us a good living. Our children
are still children.
Not like American children who are born
like most babies but right away
become adults, getting their own way. Trouble with you Americans,
Yank, is you want more and more. You're
never satisfied."
Out on a tennis court north of the
Beverly Hills Hotel in Beverly
Hills, the owner of the studio wiped
the sweat from his hand off the
handle of the tennis racquet with his
tee shirt. He walked to the
service line, served, the ball hit the
net for a fault. The second
serve was good but shallow. The return
was deep to the studio's chief's
forehand. He took a half swing, the
ball dropping over the net, inside
the other side's service box.
The opposing player returned the ball
short to get the studio
owner's
backhand side.
"Get it. Get it. "shouted the owner of the studio. The studio's
casting director ran for the ball,
scooped it up with his racquet
before it made a second bounce, and prayed that the
opposing side
would flub the shot.
The owner of the studio guarded his
alley with his forehand.
"Beautiful run. You play another
shot like that and I'll pull you off
that Mexican location. Keep you near me
in the studio," said the owner
of the studio.
The `Arkadia' wiggled its way through
the Irish Sea, the ship swaying
from side to side.
In their tourist class cabin, a German
born Canadian chemist named
Hans Kruger, turned to his wife, a
commercial artist from Montreal.
"There's no sense in killing
ourselves for a bloody dollar, you know
that, darling. You don't have to keep
on working anymore. I don't want
you to. We're doing well enough on my
salary."
The diminutive, very pixie-like
brunette with the rosy puffed
rice cheeks, placed
her hands around
her husband's neck.
"You
are
very considerate, dear, but I
want to work. I love my job and we
need all the money we can get. You know how expensive living is in
Paris, you can't get an apartment. It's like the Puerto Ricans in New
York, places are so hard to find."
And as the Greek ship `Arkadia' moved closer to its ports of
embarkation, the distance between the ship and the tennis court
north of the Beverly Hills Hotel in
Beverly Hills, grew larger and
larger.
The way the day starts off for most of
the Americans making this
trans-Atlantic crossing for the
first time, they lie awake in
their
cabins, thinking about how
they'll plan their day. Of course
I can't speak for all the Americans
except the six at table 34. They
are an
ebullient lot, always exchanging
bon mots with their waiter
from Bremerhaven, Germany, Ralph.
"Well, what should we do today,
Anna? You think we should have our
Italian lessons first? Or would you rather go to French?"
asked
Celeste.
Anna, a handsome American woman, mother
of a girl in her junior
year at the Sorbonne, and wife of a
Manhattan psychiatrist, had
arrived at table 34 late for breakfast.
"Oh, you're such a darling,
Celeste. Starting right out by organizing
my day, you dear. But you know this
Greek Captain - the one
in
charge of the ship - well, I can't
figure him. He's always
throwing curves, you don't know what to expect."
"You think Sal Maglie - you know
the guy who used to pitch for the
Dodgers and Giants - you think he's a
Greek. He had a breaking curve if
I ever saw one," said the
thirtyish year old bachelor high school
teacher from North Hollywood,
California.
"Yes, I'm sure of it," said
Frieda, the wife of a doctor who always
sat at her left. "I knew it for a
fact Sal Maglie is Greek. If he ever
retires from baseball, he would make a
wonderful sea captain. He's
traveled around a lot in his time;
thrown a lot of curves."
"What irritates me about our
Captain is he's always interrupting my
day with drills. Why yesterday Luigi's orchestra was playing
`The
Star Spangled Banner' and we were all
standing up when the bells and
sirens started going off. We never did
hear the end of the piece.
Everybody was stumbling out on the deck
to lifeboat stations, putting
on life jackets," said Anna.
Sandy, the young American girl from
Long Island, sliced her hard
boiled
egg on her roll. "Don't
remind me. I like my eggs poached and
on toast. It reminds me of home. But
doesn't Luigi play wonderful
dreamy music. He's the best thing on
this boat. And have you
heard him play rock and roll, he's just the
greatest."
“That's the German beat. They play
American music on a Greek ship where
only the Captain and his first mate
happen to be Greek. The rest are
German. These Germans are so polite. So
efficient like Thomas Mann's
“Felix Krull”. Did you read it,
Anna?" asked Celeste. "They make
wonderful waiters."
For a rare moment no one said anything.
The doctor was scanning the
‘Arkadia',the ship's paper. "You
know people, I have no interest in
the news. Here I am in the middle of
the Atlantic and I don't know
whether Arthur Godfrey is
recovering or Jackie Gleason has gone back to
work. And you know
something funny, I don't care." He
studied the
paper a while. "I
see Panama is stirring. Some trouble, something about
a revolution."
The boat rolled to the
hot beat of Luigi's first class orchestra,
the same orchestra that played
for the tourist class under the
name
of just `Luigi'. He
played the same music for both classes, but he
played more for the
tourist class since there were two hundred and
fifty of them to thirteen first class travelers in a
ship that
normally carries a passenger
list of 1300.
Table 34, the table with the grinning
American gringos had it `made
in
the shade' as they say in the
states. "You haven't said anything
this morning, Maria.”
“What's on your mind?" asked the
blonde-haired doctor's wife and
mother of two boys at Harvard and Yale.
Maria, a Lebanese-American from
Massachusetts, and mother
of
a twenty-six year old
Lieutenant Junior Grade in the Navy,
forced a smile. She popped a pill in
her mouth. "Oh, I'm seasick. Stop
this crazy boat from rock
and rolling, I feel nauseous."
The bachelor high school teacher from
North Hollywood looked at his
sunset colored cheese omelette. He had
paid off Ralph, table 34's
waiter, with a two dollar
tip, so he could have an omelette and toast
waiting for him when he woke up.
"You're a cool cat, Maria. You get
seasick like this every day and
you'll
have a wonderful voyage. You'll play your days by ear, no
organizing, no worrying about
time.
If you wanna go swimming, you'll swim.
If you wanna eat and sleep,
you'll do that. If you wanna Cha Cha, mambo, waltz,
polka,
folk dance, stand on your head, you'll do that. Horse racing every day
at five, bingo every night at eight. Four bars, always open
for
drinks, two dance floors. Why you got a
ball, Maria. A real wonderful
ball."
The attractive dark haired mother
stuffed another pill in her mouth.
"Dramamine, I'm too weak to do
anything else. Wait till my Italian
family sees me next week. You think
Sandy, I'll get my color back
in my cheeks by then?"
"Don't worry, don't worry,"
said Sandy, sipping her black coffee.
"A
Friday and Saturday night in Paris will
put color in your cheeks if
Any thing will."
And so the Americans finished breakfast
and walked away from table 34.
Their step showed determination of
purpose. They knew their destiny;
whether it was a Greek ship or a German
crew - it made little
difference in the long run. They
started planning their day while still
in bed. No one -the North Atlantic, the
Greek Captain, seasickness –
would make them change their day.
They knew their destiny. They knew
where they were going. The
two
men - an American
high school teacher and
the other an
Italian professor knew each other well
enough that it made no
difference neither knew the other's language. They spoke - one with
his blue eyes, the other with his brown
eyes - as they moved their
chessmen into play. This then was their
esperanzo. The way they
touched each other's lives with meaning and purpose.
The European man - older and graying - had the continental
wisdom
and savoir faire which comes from
knowing oneself and thereby
knowing others. He spoke softly in a somewhat epigrammatic
manner, but
he made himself clear whenever he
moved forward in his chair
saying,
in German, "Schachmatt", checkmate.
The American high school teacher
displayed a tension, an
aggressiveness forcing him to
push his pieces out for a quick
offensive. But this drive for making the
"deal" placed him right into
the
professor's trap. "Oh
estupido. Muy stinko," cried the
American, his outgoing and buoyant
American way demonstrating
unconsciously his own feeling of inadequacy.
"Professore, molto bene. Tres
bien. Mucho stronger hombre. Un
champion," he shouted, his mind
groping for the sureness of the
European mentality and the European
languages.
Luigi's first class orchestra struck a
medley of tunes from
Johann Straus's `Tales from the Vienna
Woods'. "Ah ha, Straus's
`Waltzes'" exclaimed the
professor, his brown pupils dilating as he
inhaled a filter tipped `Matinee' cigarette.
An American woman traveling in the
schoolteacher's party approached
the two men. By discerning their faces
and how they wore triumph or
tragedy, she knew the outcome. It might be that humiliation is not
sometimes as discerning as defeat
or the other way around, but the
American schoolteacher wore his heart
on a very sensitive sleeve. And
that heart was crying from a fourth defeat in a row.
Better though to cry on such an
occasion; notwithstanding the
fact he was chronologically too old
to cry, yet not so
young that
he
didn't know sadness.
The American woman had been to Europe
before. She knew the trying
patience of the European's mentality.
That each day although appearing
like the others is somewhat different
in its subtleties and nuances.
And perhaps this is reason enough to
want to live and survive,
fulfilling the promising dawns of each
day with the awe and wonder the
human adventure demands.
Thus the life instinct in a way
prevails at all times, the death
instinct only functioning at the
curtain call.
We Americans are too petty, thought the
American teacher as he watched
the American woman and the professor
talk in French. Our ego
involvement prevents us from letting
our minds float on the
thoughts of our future.
"Be inspired by the belief that
life is a great and noble calling;
not a mean and groveling thing to shuffle through as we
may please but a lofty and elevating destiny."
The American schoolteacher could only
talk for himself, for sure.
However, he knew six other Americans at
table 34 were plagued by
resentment if one of them was fortunate
enough to get an outside cabin
with a porthole opening on the North
Atlantic; the less fortunate not
being
satisfied with an inside cabin.
They spoke very highly about the
Democratic principle, yet in
practice they
seemed to disregard it. "Do
as I say, don't do as I
do."
Therefore when one of the Americans
tipped the waiter an extra
two
dollars for a cheese omelette
every morning, another member of
the party spoke up.
"Now look here, if Harree has a
cheese omelets for breakfast, I see no
reason why I can't have one also. He's
no privileged character. In
fact, I'm his leader, I'm supposed to
chaperone him in Rome. Make sure
he acts like any American should
when they live with an Italian
family. I demand equal food, equal
rights, equal time. I want a cheese
omelette, too too."
If the American doctor from Great Neck,
Long Island, wants the benefit
of a cheese omelette, he must pay the
burden. Is this too much to ask?
How can an impoverished spirit afford
to eat for less than two bucks?
The American schoolteacher wanted to
rub out of his mind such pettiness
along
with words like "agreement" or "disagreement". "I
disagree with you" only
indicates again the two buck poverty
of
petty thinking.
Why couldn't the Americans learn the
expansiveness of the European
mind? Could not the American
schoolteacher learn from the
Italian professor? Defeats in chess are
only the feeble origins, the
beginnings of our development. And, therefore, victory is
meaningless
if we are not modest enough to take
off our masks as we grope
for
our identities.
The American schoolteacher got up out
of his chair. He heard the
American woman ask the professor,
"J'ai entendre dire que vous etes un
champion de chess. “
“Avez vous gagne tous le jours?"
he answered, "Je ne joue pas trop
mal." Out on the deck, the
American schoolteacher looked out on
the ocean of humanity.
The Greek ship "Q.S.S. Arkadia" was cruising along
the calm waters
at 18.56 knots
on her way to her first
European port, Cobn in
Ireland.
He heard the soft violins playing in
the first class quarters. It
was `Violoncello' from Madame Butterfly. Somehow he felt Puccini must
have known about the struggle and survival of the human lot. He
walked toward the sound of the violins.
The passengers on the Greek line's to
steamer "Q.S.S. Arkadia"
seemed
dull and languid as the Montreal-LeHavre voyage went into its eighth
and last day. The four liquor bars had closed down early
two nights
before.
The Canadians, British, Germans, French
and Americans refused
to budge from their cabins, better to
get some sleep and save some
money. They were all pooped out from
too much partying over
too little time.
Harree, the Air Force Reserve high
school teacher on his
way to Rome from California, with
stopovers in France, Italy, Israel,
Cypress and Germany paced the upper
deck of the ship. He knew the
voyage was closing another chapter in his life.
He had left the states for this trip
taking him halfway around the
world really to get away
from Lynn rather than just have
an
experience.
It was funny how he met her in the
first place... He was stationed
at an
Air Force base out on the desert of California, about 87
miles
from Los Angeles.
Having no time to wine and dine women
at the leisurely dining spots in
Los Angeles, Beverly Hills, or the San
Fernando Valley, his work in
the
legal office spending all his
energy, he placed an
ad in the
personals of
the L.A. Daily Mirror.
‘Ambitious Air Force high school
teacher seeks wife, mother, confessor,
cook and Girl friend. State qualifications.’
Harree Longway, the Air Force Reserve
high school teacher walked fore
to the sun-deck. He ignored the sign `First class passenger
only' and
sat down on a bench.
From the pocket of his trench coat, he
took out Lynn's letter - the
first one she had written him,
answering his ad.
"Dear Ambitious Air Force high
school teacher, I liked your ad. Ever
since I arrived in Los Angeles, I've
been buying all the papers in
pursuit of a job. The Mirror isn't much use as far as
secretarial
jobs go, but I keep buying it because the "Strictly
Personal" ads
makes me chuckle. I've been feeling
very superior and wondering what
type of person must place those ads, and
what type must answer
them. All of a sudden, I stopped
feeling superior and thought - maybe
its someone as lonely as I who has a little more courage than I, and
is doing something about it......"
Harree Longway, Air Force Reserve high
school teacher, leaned his head
back against the sundeck's bench. The
sun felt wonderfully warm against
his bearded cheeks. He unscrewed the
cap off the copa tint sun tan
lotion he had bought at the Beverly
Wilshire drugstore on Wilshire
Boulevard in Los Angeles. He smeared
some of it on his hands and rubbed
it into his beard.
"Your ad appealed to me - you
don't describe yourself as far as
your physical appearance age etc, and I like that. I've never
considered material things to be of too much importance and I hope
you don't either.
Maybe I'm wrong though, so I'll tell
you a little bit about myself. I'm
thirty, but I look younger and I am pretty in a nice, refined way. I
hope that doesn't sound conceited - but
being pretty has never seemed
to be much of an asset to me.
“People never bother to look for what's
underneath when you're pretty,
and after a while you wonder if its worth the effort to
try to be
sincere and honest. Oh well - anyway, I have blonde hair
and blue yes
and
I'm very tall, 5'9" and weigh 135. I'm of English-Irish-German
descent and although I have no formal
church affiliation, I was raised
as an Episcopalian.
”I was born and raised in New York, and
my family is back East. I came
here alone because I wanted to end a
dead-end romance with a married
man. I've been here less than a week,
and I don't know a soul.
“The loneliness is very depressing, and
you might say its desperation
That drives me to write to you. I'd
like to make a friend here. If he
turned out to be a husband protector, father confessor and boyfriend,
all the better. I do long for a nice,
decent life with all the
trimmings and maybe there's a
chance yet....."
Harree Longway, Air Force Reserve high
school teacher, closed his eyes
and leaned his head against the sun deck's railing. He saw a plane
soar high overhead, the grayish blue
sky a background in counterpoint
as the `Q.S.S. Arkadia' moved along the grayish-blue North
Atlantic.
He continued reading....
"I have a meager education. I
finished high school in three years at
the head of my class
and was so bored with education that I turned
down a scholarship for a job as a
clerk. I have a very high I.Q. –
something like 150, and I know a little about most things. I'm an
introvert, I guess. I like to read, and
I like music and the theatre.
I'm a poor dancer, and I have an
offbeat sense of humor, but I think
I'm pretty honest - as women go. I don't really know how to answer
these ads, because I never did this
before.
Oh well - if you don't like the way I
sound, forget about it. Maybe
it's a silly idea to begin
with......"
Harree Longway, Air Force Reserve high
school teacher, put the letter
aside.
His eyes scanned the seas until they came to rest on a fishing
trawler about five kilometers to the
starboard side. Then he looked
back at the letter ....
"I can't give you a phone number
or an address. You see, I expect to
decide on a job Monday. I'm living at a
hotel now, and as soon as my
week's
rent is up, I'm going to
find an apartment near
whichever job I
take. I'll be moving Tuesday, and
you probably
won't receive this letter before then. Anyway I'm a little afraid to
give you my phone number, or even
my name.
Try and understand why I'm so cautious
-this is all so new to me. If
you'd like to meet me and spend a few
hours in conversation, will you
be at the Owl drug store on 6th and
Spring on Friday at 8 p.m.? I'll be
having a cup of coffee and I'll wear a
black dress and a beige coat if
it's
cool. I'll sit as close to the hotel entrance as I can.
I hope I'll have one pal in Los Angeles
for my troubles
Lynn..................
Harree Longway, Air Force Reserve high
school teacher on his way to
Italy from California folded the letter
slowly and placed it back in
his trench coat pocket.
An English fighter-bomber circled the
ship, dived low, and pulled up a
few feet from the steamer's smoke stack.
A seagull hovered above the `scume',
the foam, the `Q.S.S. Arkadia'
left behind in its wake as it
cruised along at 19 knots,
destination
Le Havre, France.
***********************************************************************
Third day in Paris - Anna, the wife of
a Manhattan psychiatrist,
boarded the boat train at Le Havre,
France. In a few hours she would be
seeing
her daughter Jan, for the
first time in a year. What
changes could a mother expect to find
in her 18 year old daughter,
living all alone in Paris?
Anna had mixed feelings about seeing
Jan. The last time they had met in
New York, they were both repressed and
their parting was businesslike
and
unemotional.
To Anna, mothers must always love their
daughters with the same
intensity that daughters love their
mothers. Yet if one obeyed such a
principle, wasn't it in a way an admission of never growing old.
Realistically, the intensity cannot be
the same. Jan was a student of
the Political Science college of
the Sorbonne, a New York girl seeking
the same elegance Parisian women are
noted for having all over the
world.
She kept herself aloof from her
fellow-Americans. "I am
exclusive," she said. "I only date Africans, Algerians, Indians
and
Negroes. I hate Frenchmen, they're so sure of
themselves. I wouldn't
have an affair with one if you paid
me.”
Anna hated the thought of growing old
in America. It was not the best
country in the world for the old to die. It was a land of yearning
youth; yearning; always yearning for
something beyond their reach.
Old people yearn only for peace,
contentment, friends.
If she had her way, France would be the
place for one to die. The
older you get the more you are
respected, honored for your gray hairs,
each hair a degree of wisdom.
And your ideas are sought because your
mind is a fertile
battleground of life's struggles. You
have fought and you have won. But
Anna's husband was practicing in New
York. It was impossible for him
to earn enough dollars, even francs,
to keep his wife in
France,
his daughter in school
and maintain an apartment on
Madison Avenue
and 57th. He didn't have the money nor
the energy - not even the
contacts to make the money -
for such an international undertaking.
Meanwhile the daughter left her room on
the Rue de Vaugirard, prepared
to meet her mother at the depot.
The night before, while sitting at a
sidewalk cafe, sipping a glass of
acqua de minerale, she had been tempted to accept any one of three
passes thrown her way. She refused, not wanting her mother to
think
her baby girl, Jan, had grown up, bags
under bloodshot eyes, ready to
accept just any offer.
If Jan's mother had been less Puritan
minded than most American
mothers, she would share a few intimate
confidences, holding back
only
those which were
of scandal-shocking proportions
in America.
Jan had learned about biology in
France; she knew how to take care of
herself. Every girl learns it when
they're knee high to a grasshopper".
Only in America do unwed mothers face
social ostracism on account of
ignorance, and the bad manners of their peers and parents.
As for American men, they are children
de piccolo till they are 30,
and then they pass right into old age. By that time, their libido is
in a state of limbo and it's too late
to save them.
That night in Paris - their first night
out together in over a year –
mother and daughter realized the
French people were little
concerned with
they style of American masks
they each wore.
In the Pigalle, Anna chain-smoked her
cigarettes, swung her
pocketbook and felt
young and foolish again. In Montparnasse and
the Latin Quarter, Jan knew how it felt
to be a woman.
That night mother and daughter grew up
together. One, young; the other,
old. They knew then what it was for a
mother and her daughter to find
each other. They had come 4000 miles to find each other
and they had
found themselves.
***********************************************************************
5th day among the Parisians… The
American tourist, a
school teacher named Harree
Longway, never let his eyes wander from
the back of Jean Jacques Tavignot, his guide and
French friend in
Paris.
Com'on,Harree we don't
have much time to get
to the
Trocodero. Are all you Americans that slow?"
Harree Longway looked around the Metro.
"Vavin stationto Montponasse.
Change." "Loterie Nationale" "Crio c'est la vente Linge
plus beaux mains."
Sitting in the second class section of
the Paris subway, not too far
away from the first class car, Harree Longway's American
blue eyes
caught the French blue eyes of a
redhead; very reserved, very classy,
and very French. "Can we pick up girls in the Metro, Jean? Is it
anything like the subways in New
York?"
Jean's French eyes fell on the fille in
first class. "Oui, she is
nice. See her smile, she knows we are
talking about her. When we get
off at Trocodero, Harree ask her in the
only French you know, parlez-
vouz Francais?" To Harree he felt
at home. It could have been Times
Square during rush hour instead of
Paris at noon.
As he moved toward the first class
exit, there was no urgente, no
Anxiety about him. He could have been
taken for a Frenchman or a Roman
he was so at ease, his
presence of mind
somewhat like that
of
a headwaiter at Longchamps.
The train stopped, people shoved.
Harree got a glimpse of the
girl. He followed quickly now. Jean
gripped his hand. "No, Madamoiselle
is taking local. We're on Express."
For all the American knew, he was
taking the same train as the French
woman. In his mind - BMT, IRT, Express,
Local, it was all the same.
"No, no Monsieur Harry,"
cried Jean, tugging at the American's sleeve.
"She's going to Avenue H, we're at
Newkirk. This is where we get off.
In Trocodero Park, the French sparrows
not unlike those in Flatbush or
North Hollywood, squirmed in the dirt,
wiggling for the glory of
liberation.
An Irish setter snapped at Jean's
heels, proving the adage that dogs
are dogs whether they be Irish, French,
or what have you. They bark in
the same language, no matter how long
they've lived say in
America, Israel or the Vatican City.
A photographer snapped their picture as
they crossed the bridge toward
the Eiffel Tower. "Picture,
American?" he asked. "500 francs."
Harree hesitated. A dollar in American
money he thought. But what if
there were no film in the camera? Or
even if there were film, what
guarantees could the Frenchmen give
about mailing the shot to
California?
The Parisian knew Harree Longway would
not take a plane
to Paris in order to press charges over one buck. The Berlin
wall
may have had its difficulties, but it was made all the harder in
this day of the hydrogen knockout drop, because no one knew who was
buying, who was selling, who was
bluffing, and who would press charges.
Here on this bridge facing the Eiffel
Tower, Harree Longway could walk
away. Herter and Gromokyo in Geneva
could walk away also, but
they
might have to
face the consequences of the charges.
The
American teacher and the French student
stood under the Eiffel Tower.
"No go up," said the student
teaching the teacher a lesson in
economy. "500 francs, only for suckers."
They walked away again but were
buttonholed by a swarthy youth.
"American want pictures? Very
cheap."
Harree Longway, American schoolteacher,
forgot he was a schoolteacher.
There was no dog to put on, no
masquerade costume.
He felt in his pockets for the monopoly
money. He would pay any price
to prove his masculinity back in the states.
"No no, Harree," said Jean, sensing what was in the American's
mind,
yet not realizing the psychic
attraction of the erotic magnetism.
"In the trade, it cost him a
hundred francs. He's asking two
thousand. He's Algerian, he's
dishonest. Come, we must go."
He took Harree by the arm. "Never
stop to talk to peddlers. Him,
Algerian. He get mad, he stick knife in you. No talk.
Algerian
hungry, very hungry."
They hurried past Napoleon's palace.
Then a building where the Deputies
met and argued through the nights.
Through the Luxenbourg Gardens,
beyond the Comedie de Francaise..
Jaywalking across Rue after Rue...
Running.........
That night Harree Longway had his first
dream in nationalistic tones.
Paris - New York. The Seine - the
Hudson… Eiffel Tower - Empire
State.
Arch de Triumph - Statue of Liberty. A
World Government in a hundred
years? Capitol Paris? New York?
Eliminate war? Poverty? Disease?
Harree Longway woke up, the Algerian
peddler's knife went too deep.
***********************************************************************
When auto-bus 62 destined Tel Aviv
stopped at Allenby and
Ben Yehudah Street, an elegante
Israeli-born Sabra leaped off and ran
into the arms of a tall American man…
They walked arm in arm toward the
Mediterranean, their thoughts
centered on the universe of their passion, not knowing the
Furies were angry with them for
allowing their happiness to soar
into the Heavens without having any concern for the
realities of the Earth they left behind.
"Now look, Mirala, ya just gotta
get fired from your job. Ya just
gotta," said the American. He felt
like he wanted to drop his hand from
hers but the habits of all his yesterdays of courting in America.
The woman rolled her brown eyes at the
American. "Herbert, you don't
know your own mind. This is your third trip to Israel. You've
flown
around the world to marry
me. Why make a short romance out of a
thousand pounds?"
She held his hand tightly. He could
feel the heat from her fingers.
"Because ya gotta try and beat the
system. That's the American way. Ya
gotta find an angle," he said.
"I know no..how you say?" "Angle." "I know no angle."
"Didja try comin' late to
work?"
"Ken."
"How about callin' your friends up
on the office phone and talkin'to
'em about the life?"
"Ken."
"Didja try ignorin' the people
when they come in the office to
argue
about their income tax?"
"Ken."
"How about goin' home early?"
"No."
"Why not?" he cried.
Her brown eyes sizzled. She was back in
Sinai and this American was an
Arab soldier. "Oh, you terrible.
Money, money. That's all you think
of. I think you learn that in Brooklyn
and Beverly Hills."
"How about Israel? Is it any
different over here? The
government won't kiss you off cause it costs them a thousand pounds.
They won't fire you even if you burnt
the joint down. They're that
tight..."
"We a poor country. American rich.
And the Histradrut protects
employees from getting fired. They say
if government dismisses you, you
get severance pay. Only then. You
cheap. You come this far. A thousand
pounds is stopping you."
She tore her fingers loose from the
American's hand. "We finish. A
short romance. All because you think
money is everything. You foolish
boy. You make big mistake. You see, I
am lucky girl…"
She ran back to Allenby and Ben
Yehudah. Autobus 62 "Kiriat
Shalom" wheeled around the corner,
the doors opening, she boarding.
The American watched the autobus move
on until it vanished by
the
Tel Aviv traffic.
He turned his eyes toward the
Mediterranean. A chill came off the
water.
He pulled up his coat collar And walked
back to his hotel, shivering.
He
entered the lobby, breathing on his hands.
