M. De Kuyper

De Kuyper appeared, as he always did shiny and translucent at the same tine, sitting in the corner of my room. When he saw the look on my face, he quickly said, "Don't start again."

Everyone can see De Kuyper if they know how and where to look. He is the keeper of memories and everything remembered. Very few know that people don't have memories and that they don't remember anything. What they get is just what De Kuyper gives, according to his unknowable rules and his impenetrable algorithm.

From my many long talks with him, I still have only a vague idea. I know that when you die, all your memories die with you—and then, in that moment only, you get to see everything (ALL).

I always argued that it was too late, and useless, and cruel—bitter, brutal, and callous, but De Kuyper just smiled crookedly and shrugged.

De Kuyper doesn't admit it, but he clearly favors the young over the old. The young get a lot of stuff fast. The old get more stuff from childhood and youth, but not "what they had for breakfast the other day" or "why am I in this room?" When he is too busy and he doesn't get around to everybody in time, he gives a lapsus that some people physically perceive as on the tip of their tongue.

I always thought he liked me, until one day he said he liked no one and hated no one. "You're all the same to me," he said, but he enjoys interacting with the few who could see him and talk to him.

One day I said something (I don't remember what) that upset him and made him sad. He clearly wanted to make up and offered, "C'mon, what do you want to see? August 1961?" When I said, "I don't care," he continued, "How about that goal you scored that put your team in the final?" "We lost the final. Don't remind me. I want to see ALL."

De Kuyper shook his head and told me that I will see it the day I die. 

"But ALL is a lot of stuff. How long do I have to look at it?"

De Kuyper said, "You have an eternity."

I got angry, "And how long is an eternity?"

He looked straight at me, as if I should have known: "Eternity is sometimes as long as one second."

And that's how I got the Painting

See the overprint "5 NOUVEAU FRANCS" on the original 500 Francs bill

I was last in Paris in June 1962, and everybody remembers that horrible summer: cold, windy, and raining almost every day, I rented rooms on a small street off Rue des Écoles, with cobblestones glistening wet—so much so that one day I slipped and hurt my ankle, most painfully but a kind neighbor called an ambulance, and we drove to Salpêtrière on Boulevard de l’Hôpital, assuring me it was the best hospital in Paris—probably in all of France, upon entering the emergency room, I saw Geneviève, the chief nurse, a tall, handsome woman in her mid-forties with dark hair and light-blue eyes who examined me and said that nothing was broken, likely a sprain, and that Monsieur le Docteur would come soon—Dr. Planchette, as we continued a very pleasant conversation, alas often interrupted when she had to do head-nurse stuff, always smiling, saying all would be fine, she told me her family history: her husband, Jean-Jacques, a painter, was born in a house on Rue Malebranche in le cinquième, where they still lived with la grand-mère (82), maman (68), and their son Claude-Pierre (9), who studied violin and the house was big, pleasant with a beautiful wrought-iron gate and a large backyard with three old black walnut trees and where Jean-Jacques kept his studio in the shed and every year in late May, they picked green walnuts for the excellent jam that la grand-mère and maman made using only three ingredients: walnuts, calcium chloride, and sugar (a lot of sugar) and they boiled it down until it was thick and dark  but the fruit still crunchy, they made 40–50 jars, carefully labeled with the year which they took, usually, in early July, to a stand they rented at Les Halles (still there then, until 1973) and the jam sold for 300 francs, upon seeing my face, Geneviève quickly added anciens francs—de Gaulle had stabilized the currency, introducing the franc nouveau, worth 100 old francs but people still spoke in anciens, so a jar went for three francs (about $1.35), just then, a tall, thin gentleman nearing sixty came to my gurney and introduced himself as Docteur Planchette and confirmed the sprain—entorse de la cheville, pas grave—then turned to the orderly holding a bucket with a chalky liquid from which he took soaked bandages to wrap my ankle, and sent the orderly for crutches, telling me to return in two weeks when he would remove the bandages.

Geneviève came by again and said I should come to their house for dinner as her husband picks her up with the car—proudly she added that it was a Citroën 2CV, she said that every Wednesday maman made cassoulet with haricots from Tarbes, l’Occitanie and she always made more than enough and Geneviève smiled as I accepted so I spent the next hour and a half reading day-old newspapers when, at seven, a tall, nice-looking guy—clearly Jean-Jacques—walked in, greeted everyone, kissed Geneviève who said something to him, so he came over smiling, shook my hand, and asked if I needed help to the car and when I asked if we could stop for flowers and a box of candy as a gift he said “Not a problem, I know just the spot” so, about half an hour later, we pushed open the heavy but splendid wrought-iron gate, once inside I met the two ladies and young boy, all very friendly, coming to kiss me on both cheeks (as it was the custom) and we were ushered into the dining room at the back of the house, with a view of the backyard through monumental French doors, the table was set, and light red wine was poured—even for young Claude-Pierre and maman, smiling proudly brought in, from the kitchen, a huge earthenware casserole (they also called it a toupin), which she set in the middle of the table and served us with a grand silver ladle: la grand-mère first, then me (as guest), then Jean-Jacques, Geneviève, Claude-Pierre, and finally herself, the cassoulet was superb—piping hot, dark brown, with chunks of shiny smoked duck, sausages, bacon, and white beans glistening like pearls and we dunked golden crusts of baguette in the thick sauce, a feast for all senses and for a long while  the only sounds were the clinking spoons, the slurping, and satisfied chewing, when finally the meal was crowned by the celebrated green walnut confiture, served in beautiful porcelain dishes and we sat in deep contentment as the table was cleared and coffee appeared, so Claude-Pierre was sent for his violin to “entertain the guest”, he laid down a barely recognizable allegretto of a Mozart sonata, then beamed as we applauded and retired for bed—school tomorrow.

We continued conversing pleasantly while I looked at this handsomely painted landscape of a river bend with trees and houses and when Jean-Jacques saw me looking, he said it was the Seine, just outside Villeneuve-Saint-Georges and asked: “Are you interested in the piece?” and when I said that I was, he named his price, me blinking bewildered—then he laughed and said “anciens,” so I gave him the money and Geneviève brought brown packing paper and twine and made an elegant parcel upon which we moved to the complex choreography of taking leave—my praise for the meal, their appreciation, promises of future visits and they insisted I take a jar of jam—marked in blue ink, Mois de Mai 1961 and they phoned for a taxi, which arrived promptly with the meter already running—850 francs and the driver saying “anciens, tarif de nuit,” he proceeded maneuvering his Peugeot 403 through the empty past-midnight streets of Paris while smoking his pungent Gitanes Brune all the way to my place where I paid him and waved away the change—“c’est pour vous” so I huffed and puffed up the stairs on crutches to my room where I put the painting on the piano, leaning it against the wall and admired it and that's how I got the painting. Yes

LaviniaB5

Of all the girls I ever loved, Lavinia had the most beautiful eyes. She entered my life on a Wednesday slipping into the seat behind me in the auditorium. I turned to look. When Lavinia smiled, I was struck. My heart skipped a beat. The rest of the lecture became a blurr. I kept glancing back making sure she was still there. Finally class was over. I said something silly: "Did anyone tell you how most beautiful your eyes are?" Lavinia smiled again: "I was waiting for you to say it". I walked her home "Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky"‡, She said she studies French Literature, had no idea how she ended up in my Chemistry class. In front of her house we kissed and decided to see each other  every day until forever. "We sat together in the park, as the evening sky grew dark"‡‡. We both loved Dylan (Thomas) and T.S. Elliot and e. e. cummings and agreed that we knew nothing except that "children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew ..."‡‡‡. We weren't together long "Wie lange sind sie schon beisammen? Seit kurzem. Und wann werden sie sich trennen? Bald."‡‡‡‡. Two Tuesdays later I run across the street rushing to catch a bus to meet Lavinia. A car came out of nowhere. I died instantly. Here, where I am now, the rules are strict: time does not exist and I can just watch her. Lavinia lives in Tours, Centre-Val de Loire, France in a house close to Pont Wilson. She teaches Yoga. Her husband owns a factory for water-proof ceramic objects. They have a daughter Michelle (whom she calls Mikki). Mikki is a model and an actress. I visit every Wednesday night. Every Tuesday I weep (or do what crying is here "unde nu sunt lacrimi")‡‡‡‡‡. 

_________________________________________________________________________

‡ T.S. Elliot, Prufrock  

‡‡ R. Zimmerman, A Simple Twist of Faith

‡‡‡ e.e. cummings,[anyone lived in a pretty how town]

‡‡‡‡ "How long have you been together? Short time. And when will you break up? Soon" Brecht, Die Liebenden

‡‡‡‡‡ "Where there are no tears", St. Serafin de Sarov

On Nature, Instincts, Aspirations and Incentives of Doings

We meet every second Tuesday of the month at El Chaveta on Olive to discuss, debate and declare on subjects of common and general interest.

The other day, our subject was "Boyfriend v. Husband"*, which dealt with females in a committed relationship having an external liaison (commonly known as cheating). Before the debate we had a show of hands to "I've cheated" and were satisfied that we have an expert panel. Most of us were familiar with the groundbreaking Sonntag, Cappellacci et al. research that found that about two thirds (sometimes as high as three quarters) of relationships have had cheating and that it is the leading cause  of breakdowns (or breakups). 

We all agreed that males cheat more and are more likely to be repeat, frequent or chronic cheaters while females are more likely to "know" (as they possess female intuition and males are less careful, women are also more likely to go through the pockets, wallets, phones of partners and less likely to accept a perfectly logical and innocent explanation of "lipstick on shirt collar" instead jumping to conclusions, even confronted with the "but I can explain" or "it's not what you think"). We also conceded that males often feel less guilty (as they easier construct justifications and rationalizations) but females are more prone to forgive (as they are naturally wiser and kinder). Everybody concurred that sneaking around and the constant fear of  being found out is stressful and, in time, becomes a burden. It was agreed that there is no such thing as a "first offence pardon", once caught it is either curtains or radical acceptance. We could not agree if cheating weakens or strengthens the relationship, couldn't say if the boyfriend is entitled to be jealous of the husband, nor were we unanimous that a "voluntary reveal" is ever a good idea.

After a spirited deliberation, argumentation and cogitation, we still were at a loss to explain why, if logistics are horrendous and consequences disastrous, so we still do it? Probably closest to an answer is what Ivan Krylov, La Fontaine (and before them Aesop) told us about "The scorpion and the frog" yeah?
______________________________________________________________________________ 

* a  previous session's topic was "Wives v. Girlfriends?"

Of How the Roads lead North (or East)

Walking briskly, she caught up to me on that lovely early morning just outside Salamanca on the road to Zamora. I looked at her and thought I saw true Thracian traits*. 

I had my backpack and she had a bag slung over one shoulder.  I asked: "What's in the bag?" she smiled and said "Binoculars and jewels" so I asked: "And your name is Johanna, right?" She smiled and replied "No, I'm Kalina", that's when I knew she knew I knew. So, as confirmed hard-core Dylan fans, we walked on and talked about subjects of general interest: Chemistry, Physics, and, inevitably, Math. Eventually, we arrived at the controversial topic of the Nabla Operator and it quickly became apparent that we were on opposite sides of the dispute. Kalina firmly believed in the Arrosto-Zwiebelburg solution whereas I trusted the Jackson Lamb interpretation. We took turns quoting arguments that favored only our side, knowing fully well that we wouldn't change each other's minds. It was a friendly debate and we savored it. By this time the sun was quite high in the sky and we started looking for a suitable place for the midday break. We just passed Santiz and there was a huge black oak just at the fork in the road: ideal. I took from my backpack bread, some Manchego, and half a bottle of Rioja. Kalina contributed two great-looking apples. We had a very pleasant lunch. We were commenting on how, these days, so very few people embrace and enjoy our way of traveling per pedes apostolorum. Kalina was just saying she was planning to take the road to the right towards Zamora, I would continue left towards Miranda do Duoro to reach Santiago in a little over a week, when I wondered aloud if we would ever meet again. She said that it depends. "What does it depend on?" She replied, "I'll ask you a question. If you answered 'Yes' we'll meet one more time, if you said 'No' we'll meet twice more". We both laughed and rested a bit longer after which we packed up our stuff, said our goodbyes and went our ways waving at each other until out of sight. 

Suddenly I remembered that Kalina never got around to asking me her question ...  so I guess I'll never know!

________________________________________

* The author uses the tr-tr-tr construction to create the impression of a trepidation movement (n. ed.) 

One Takes Advice from Anywhere of Anything

This is Aina Rakotomanga, the sweetest kid you'll ever want to know. We met, went for coffee, and I asked her if she’d like to be featured in my blog. She said yes and shared her story with me. Her mom was pregnant when they came to Toronto from Madagascar and gave birth to Aina at Mount Sinai Hospital. They rented an apartment in St. Jamestown, where Aina's mom, Linah, cleaned and cooked for people.

More than 95% of women born in Madagascar and their direct female descendants share a curious physical trait: their hips are twice as wide as their shoulders. It’s an unexplained "gene thing." For as long as she can remember, Aina's nickname, was "Hips" and she didn’t mind. She did well in school, went on to study Social Sciences, graduated with a major in Communications, and found a job managing the busy office of a downtown software company.

 

I asked her what skill, talent, or quirky hobby she has that might make for an interesting blog entry, and her answer was intriguing: she can find a downtown public parking spot in under three minutes—every time. It’s uncanny! A TV producer, a sister of a friend, did a segment on Aina, taking her on the Channel 6 camera truck for a few days during peak hours. Following her instructions and directions, they found a public parking spot every time. It was nothing short of a miracle. When the segment aired, the TV station’s switchboard lit up as people called in for details, advice, and to ask for more drives.

Aina went on to create a booklet and a YouTube channel, both called Tips from Hips, and they were both huge successes.

On the Cessation of the Perpetual Toaster

His name was Curtis Loew, but everybody called him Rats. He was born in Famagusta to a local teenage prostitute and a captain in the Soviet Army. He was of medium height and slim build, with a round head and a pointed nose; his hair and sparse mustache were an undefined sandy color. He used to hang out with us at the coffee shop and tell stories of his many girlfriends, how much money he won at www.betterbets.com, and his various schemes (all of them unethical, some of them illegal). Rats was mostly ignored.

One day, he told us that he bought a toaster that stopped working after about two months. When he went back to the store, they told him that Walmart was happy to refund or exchange within thirty days with the original sales bill, but since it was past the date, he could call the 1-800 number on the product box for the one year manufacturer's warranty. There was nothing he could do, so he bought another toaster of the same make and model (on sale for $19.99). He got home, inserted two slices of bread into the new toaster, and another of his schemes suddenly coagulated in his devious mind. He put the old toaster in the new box, taped the sale bill to the box, and marked the calendar three weeks from the current date.

Three weeks later Rats went to customer service and said that the toaster stopped working. The agent checked the bill, looked into the box, and asked if he wanted another toaster or a cash refund. Rats took the money. In the next year and a half, due to the dubious quality of toasters made in that large, industrialized, far-away republic where most toasters come from these days Rats repeated the scheme three times: free toasters, yey! He looked to us for comments. Only George reacted: “They'll catch you, Rats, and they'll punish you bad.”

Rats stopped coming to the coffee shop—not that anybody missed him much. One day, George found a news item on the back pages of The Star and read it to us: “Police were called to 313 Duckworth to find the body of Curtis Loew, 48. The cause of death was determined to be strangulation. It appeared that the power cord of a cheap toaster was used as a weapon. Anybody with information is asked to contact 52 Division.” George said “Didn’t I tell you? They always catch the Rats.”