MAMAN
THE LONG GOODBYE
As things grew worse in the city and in the entire country, Maman’s world imploded, and her orbit seemed smaller and claustrophobic. The uncertainty in the gathering darkness was so intense there was no denying that these were very bad times. Maman’s infectious laughter was heard less and less in the house on Juncal, and Ada the housekeeper walked about the house on even more pronounced tiptoe than from being a former ballerina at the Teatro Colón, as she worried for the Señora’s nerves.
There were no intermissions now between the daily and nightly horrors, catastrophes and near misses. There were explosions, fires, demonstrations, strikes, marches, car bombs, kidnappings, threats aimed at our family, graffiti spray painted everywhere on beautiful buildings and a huge black acronym for the terrorist group ERP appeared in black paint on the roof terrace of the house. There were daily bomb scares at school when there was school, the daughter of the British Ambassador was almost blown to bits by a car bomb parked outside her bedroom window on her first night in the embassy and it was the heavy drapes that saved her life from the flying shards of glass. There were friends who had been kidnapped or knew someone who had been, and who knew people who were taken from their homes and on the streets, while there were battles and massacres in the streets, military farce for which the government blamed the terrorists after strewing the bodies of the disappeared dissidents labeled terrorists at the scene after the fact.
There were rumors of torture chambers and clandestine holding places, the few the military sent back who were not dead although they were no longer alive then either, went into society to spread fear recounting of mothers giving birth in captivity, and the babies spirited away as soon as they saw the light of day, while the mothers were frequently killed. There was the military in and out of uniform stopping you in the street at every opportunity, storming houses, and dragging away the residents at all hours of the night and day, and I have not yet even mentioned really the appearance of the Disappeared.
What had been a full social schedule at the house in Barrio Norte quieted down as gatherings were now infrequent. The string of luncheons, teas, dinners, drinks parties, formal receptions, and evenings of music after dinner, Maman’s form of a Parisian salon, came to a halt for the most part. Close family friends like the popular guitar Maestro Roberto Lara came to dinner almost every night to play classical pieces and Milongas after dinner well into the late hours, reluctant to make his way home.
Maman took to sitting on the red velvet sofa in the great room all day in her Chanel suit, smoking her Jockey Club cigarettes, sipping on whiskey and soda with ice. Often, she would be doing needlepoint or knitting. Her husband when at home would sit next to her in his Italian wool suit, his tailor-made shirts from Hong Kong, with the Bulgari diamond and amethyst cufflinks she had given him, while studying an ornate chessboard, drinking cognac from as enormous snifter, and smoking his dark tobacco Particulares cigarettes, which are the Argentine version of French Gauloises.
Maman would not leave the house but on rare occasions, and it was still possible to now and then coax her out of the somber townhouse for tea at the Café Biela at Recoleta, at Claridge’s, the Café Tortoni or The Alvear Palace Hotel, all places she loved, to drink there a Campari and soda. There she might cheer up and order a traditional picada, a plate of cured meats, cheeses, olives and peanuts which may at one time in Buenos Aires have been called a copetín.
At every gathering in Buenos Aires in the 1970s, the hellos and the holas were becoming more heartfelt and drawn out, the hugs were harder and held longer, the kisses on the cheek not just thrown to the air while pretending to kiss as is often the habit.
The endearments were so many in Spanish ~ Holaaaa mi amor, Hola Querida, Cariño, Tesoro Mío Hola Mi Vida, Belleza, Mi Alma, Amor Mío, Hola Flaca, Guapa, Hola Mi Reina, Mi Rey , Mi Princesa, Hola Gorda, Hola Bocha, Hola La Gringa, Hola Mami, Hola Cheeee ,…and the affectionate swears Hola Boludo, Hola Boluda, all these Holas seem to me to make every greeting in English with no embrace seem pale and shallow.
Then also we don’t kiss on the cheek in the United States to greet the way women will in Argentina, and men greet each other with kissing and hugging each other in the Argentine tradition with no lack of confidence. The affectionate side of the Argentine character belies the razor-sharp sarcasm of the language and the habitual melancholy. Until now I haven’t even attempted to record some of the examples of the infamous Argentine artistry of the nickname. This would result in a longer piece of writing than I fear you may have time for today, dear readers.
It was during these years that there was the onset of the long goodbye. To explain more exactly the nature of the long goodbye perhaps it would be best to start with the architecture of the house. I will point out also how much we like to talk in Argentina. The art of conversation is paramount and is practically a national pastime.
From the street if you entered the house by the big heavy wood front doors because Ada or Raúl came to open for you, they would greet you warmly, and lead you up the marble stairs into the foyer and take your coat and any belongings you might like them to and place them on the 13th century monastery table. Then they would take your coat to hang it in the mud room where the dog leashes were kept along with the saddles, bridles, general tack and riding boots, riding hats, crops, horse blankets, picnic baskets, butterfly nets, as well as Wellington boots in all sizes, and the cart Ada the housekeeper used to go to market on Wednesdays.
They would lead you through the dark front salon with its tall windows letting no light in, as the heavy metal persianas were always clapped down to the pavement in front quite shut to protect the house from the mayhem in the street, and from shattering the glass when bombs went off in the neighborhood.
One night at the height of the night, Maman sat in the library clutching me, her cigarette in one hand, her drink in the other, clinging tight to me in her terror, and making a high-pitched shriek every time we heard the nearby loud explosions and a succession of them for several hours only blocks away. Every time she would start crying loudly and her long pink nails made marks on my arms, cigarette ash spilling everywhere, yet she just kept holding me closer so that I almost couldn’t breathe. She was saying through tears over and over,
~ Oh Mon Dieu Mignon! Qu’est-ce qu’on va faire?
~ Mais ça va Maman ça va aller. Calme toi, calme toi…
There was nothing I could manage to say to calm her. Ever since her childhood she was equally as terrified of thunderstorms as she was of explosions.
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When you followed Ada or Raul on through the rooms the house would be dark and the furniture sometimes covered in white linen draped cloth until you came to the library where the chandeliers began, then the next great room, the music room as we called it, where all the household guitars from the finest Porteño luthiers were perched carefully on chairs, and the music sheet stands held scores open to the last pages practiced, then the formal dining room, with its ubiquitous austere portraits of Gordon and Vandergrift men imposed, and finally through the French doors, you reached the walled city garden with its trees and tiny lawn, its Jacaranda trees standing strong.
Imagine then that you must retrace your steps in order to take your leave and go home, and the long goodbye which back in the day had taken half an hour, starting in the great room, as you would progress slowly towards the salon, passing through the library with its tall shelves showing collections of bound books, to the foyer, on towards the front steps and finally down the staircase to the front door and the street would now take anywhere from one to two hours. Sometimes Maman would raise an eyebrow or shoot me a look that meant, enough polite conversation~ let’s move this along!
Back then in the 1970s in the house on Calle Juncal in the Barrio Norte and all over the Capital Federal, that is in the city of Buenos Aires, its citizens said goodbye with long close abrazos and hugs, and there were many more sweet and sober kisses bestowed than just the one kiss on the cheek sometimes, and with a lot more sentimentality and genuine feeling than ever before. People said goodbye from the heart, meaning they lived to see one another again. People who might be going only a few blocks away sighed heavily, took good measure of you and hugged you hard, as it was a gamble every time you went anywhere.
~ Bueno, Boluda my friends and I would say~Nos vemos, hasta pronto y cuidate vos!
We would say a long goodbye at every gathering and no matter how casual it was never trivial. We said goodbye as if we were seeing each other for the last time, and sometimes, we were.
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I was unbearably moved by the long goodbye. I have evolved similar traditions when dealing with my middle son, who spends most of his time in Ukraine. No harsh words, no negative news--just delightful happenings along the branches of the family and sweet endearments.
Easily your best work among your earlier excellent work, Pandora. Sensitive, told with exquisite, artful frankness, to the point that I felt myself handing over my coat to Raul in the Foyer and the smell of Mamam’s and your step-father’s “particulares” in my nostrils. Touching and sadly enticing for readers.
Bravo