The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club

by Duncan Whitehead

  Elliott Miller took a deep breath as he walked into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. He took the two apple pies that sat on the kitchen counter and put them in the freezer. He would save them to enjoy after Thelma’s funeral. It was kind of both Cindy and Carla, he thought, and he wondered whether maybe, after the funeral, he should ask Carla over for a drink, just the two of them. He, like most of the men in the neighborhood, had always found her attractive, and he would enjoy her company. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He had other, more pressing matters to deal with, and of course it was far too soon after his wife’s death to entertain such ideas.

  Spencer and Gordon would be arriving shortly to assist Elliott in organizing the floral tributes that were expected at the house, the funeral home, and the cemetery. Spencer and Gordon were good men; it didn’t bother Elliott that both of them were gay. As far as he was concerned, they were his flesh and blood. To both Spencer and Gordon, Elliott was their natural father. Thelma’s first husband had died while the boys were only one and three, respectively. Elliott had been the family’s knight in shining armor, and both men still referred to him as “Dad,” even today.

  Thelma’s funeral service would be held at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. Both Spencer and Gordon, as well as Elliott, had prepared eulogies. Thelma would be laid to rest in the family plot in Bonaventure Cemetery, just half a mile from Gordonston.

  What he would do next, Elliott had no idea. The house held so many memories, he had no wish to leave it. Dinner parties, birthdays, family gatherings, Christmases: it had been a home full of fun and laughter. Elliott sat at the kitchen table with his cup of coffee in front of him, Biscuit and Grits at his feet. He closed his eyes to fight back the tears that welled up.

  Elliott had bought the house not long after he had returned from Argentina, just after…well…just after his three books were published. He smiled to himself as he recalled that time many years ago and many miles away: 1974, in Buenos Aires, Argentina. This was a period in his life that had changed everything and opened for him the path that he had taken. Those few months Elliot had spent in South America had such an influence on him that he could only wonder what would his life have been like had it all never happened, had he not met the one man who had changed his life forever.

  It was the selection of wines that kept him coming back to the restaurant week after week. Of course, he enjoyed the food as well. Who would not? There he enjoyed the finest cuts of meat, luscious salads, and the most exquisite and flamboyant deserts—all served by the most attentive waiters he had ever encountered. But above all it was Señor Cardasso’s extensive and revered selection of wines that led Elliott Miller to return to La Casa Verde every Thursday evening. As soon as his work was done and he had faxed his weekly report of the company’s business to the head office in Atlanta, Elliott would lock up his tiny office and prepare himself for his weekly treat of fine dining and even finer wine.

  The young American discovered the quaint little restaurant purely by accident, hidden away among the many small alley-like, cobbled streets that made up the Belgrano district of the city. It would have been easy for anyone who didn’t know the area to lose himself in the labyrinth of crossing lanes, many of them unnamed. If he took the Libertador from where it joins Avenue 9 de Julio, then carried on westward for about two miles, passing the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes and the law faculty building, he’d arrive in the heart of the Italian sector of Buenos Aires. If he were brave enough, or dumb enough, to take a cab through the busy and often hazardous Buenos Aires traffic, then the journey would take only fifteen minutes. However, being a fit, healthy, young man of twenty-eight, Elliott usually walked the two miles to his favorite eatery, his senses always enlivened by the sounds, sights, and smells of the wonderful and vibrant city.

  The heat and humidity, which often left his shirt soaking with his sweat, was at times virtually unbearable, the night air disguising the fact that the Buenos Aires summer evenings could be as intense as the hottest summer day in Georgia. But the heat of Argentina was different. It was far more humid, and where the coastal breezes that blew into Savannah cooled the air, reducing the overall temperature, there were no such breezes emanating from the River Plate, that famous stretch of water that separated Argentina from its neighbor to the north, Uruguay.

  The noises were different too. Although Savannah was also a busy port city, the town itself was not overly crowded. There were open spaces like Forsyth Park, and of course the patchwork of downtown squares where he could walk without feeling crowded. He could forget he was in a city when he strolled through Savannah. By contrast, Buenos Aires was a jostling, lively metropolis, and the noise of the traffic-filled avenues and boulevards would flood Elliott’s ears, the continual sounding of car horns as volatile Latinos fought their way home. This was intermingled with the cacophonous voices of a society notorious for its ability to converse at decibels usually reserved for arguing.

  Elliott was employed as the South American representative for the very well-known and highly successful soft-drink manufacturer based out of Atlanta: Coca-Cola. His job included the overseeing of marketing and sales, and he was the link between the company’s plant in Buenos Aires and the head office. When he’d first heard he had been selected for the position he held, Elliott was delighted. It was a good start: the first rung of the ladder to bigger things.

  Unfortunately, his personal circumstances changed, and he pined to be back in Savannah. He had known Thelma Solomon for years; they’d been classmates in high school, and he had always felt affection for her. She married his good friend Charlie Myers, and Elliott attended the wedding. He was also a guest at their first son’s christening and considered himself a friend to both members of the couple. Charlie had died a year before, though, in a tragic hunting accident. Elliott did what most friends would have done and helped Thelma overcome her grief. He took her bottles of her favorite cola—courtesy of his job; played with her elder son, Spencer; and assisted the young widow with household maintenance.

  Neither Elliott nor Thelma meant to fall in love, but it happened, and he proposed marriage only days before he received word he had been selected to represent the company’s interests thousands of miles south.

  Thelma urged him to take the position; it wouldn’t be forever, she said, and she would wait for him. They announced their engagement in the Savannah Morning News, and he left for Argentina. He wrote to his bride-to-be every day and called her often, urging her to visit. Though he liked his work and the pay was good, it didn’t compensate for being away from the woman he loved. He sent her money and she was grateful, but he knew she needed him home, so they could plan their wedding and begin their new life together. And the boys needed a father. Elliott spent many a sleepless night worrying and hoping that something, maybe a promotion, would come up to enable him to return to Savannah.

  Famed for its Italian architecture, Belgrano was where many Argentines gravitated when it came to selecting a venue for an evening of dining and entertainment. The maze of long, narrow, cobbled streets; dubious lighting; and the sounds of tango announce to visitors that they have finally reached the Belgrano district. Once a poor neighborhood, home to Italian immigrants who arrived in Argentina at the turn of the century, Belgrano had become a prosperous area to which the children of the well-to-do flocked. Every bar, cafeteria, and dance hall was brimming with the youth of Argentina, who were drinking Mate, smoking cigarettes, and discussing the issues that youngsters worldwide seem continually to debate: sex, sport, politics, music, and sex again.

  La Casa Verde—The Green House—was set apart from the main thoroughfares, and unless you knew it well or found it by accident, it would have been hard to tell anyone how to get there. Elliott stumbled on it purely by chance, after becoming lost and disorientated in a maze of crisscrossing cobbled streets, each indistinguishable from the next. The evening he stumbled upon Casa Verde began uneventfully
when, as he headed back home to his rented apartment, he passed by the restaurant’s open windows. His nostrils filled with the aroma of cooking meat and spicy salsa, and his ears rang to the sounds of the chattering diners. He couldn’t help but peer in through the door. He was delighted by what he saw.

  The set tables, covered in red-and-white-checked cloth, with bowls of chimichuri, the piquant Argentine sauce of parsley, garlic, olive oil, black pepper, and salt, positioned centrally, were occupied by chattering and animated porteños. Elliott could also see the parrilla—or “grill”—filled with slabs of meat in various stages of cooking; it was from here that the smells that had lured him closer were originating. It was at this parrilla that the finest butchers and chefs in the whole of Buenos Aires prepared and cooked any cut of meat you could desire.

  But what really caught Elliott’s eye was the vast selection of wines stored horizontally along every wall. There must have been five thousand bottles of wine, maybe even more, waiting, unmoved and dazzling—a beauty to behold for a wine connoisseur such as Elliott. The wine was held in racks that Elliott supposed must have been at least fifteen feet high and fifty feet wide. Before his arrival in South America, wine had held no special interest for Elliott, but as time progressed, wine drinking had become something of a hobby to the young Savannah native. Back home he would have drunk beer with his friends and taken sweet tea with his dinner. He’d never dreamed of ordering wine, nor had he learned to appreciate its taste, texture, vintage, and grape. Now Elliott gradually evolved into a wine snob and would insist on ordering the correct grape and year for the particular dish, all of which made dining out an intellectually stimulating adventure. As soon as he saw the selection of wines housed on the walls of La Casa Verde, he knew that he had to enter. From that day on, Elliott was hooked.

  Every Thursday night was La Casa Verde night. He would deliberately reschedule meetings to avoid any encroachment on his evenings of culinary pleasure. He was a man of routine and would offend clients and staff alike in his determination to maintain his pattern of dining, often leaving work incomplete and causing anxiety at Head Office back in Atlanta, where they were waiting for his weekly report. Every Thursday for six months he took his usual table, conversed with the waiters, soaked up the atmosphere, and engaged Señor Cardasso, the proprietor, in conversations that included wide-ranging topics, from politics to the exploits of Superman.

  Over time Elliott became recognized as a regular to La Casa Verde and was greeted by Miguel, Sergio, Carlos, or any of the other many waiters, dressed in their black trousers and food-stained white shirts, the same way every evening: “Welcome Señor Miller. Your usual table? How was your week? Would you like a menu? A wine list? I am sure not—you know everything to be found there. Please be seated.” This was their standard greeting, and Elliott enjoyed conversing with the men.

  Then, one Thursday in December, during the height of the Argentine summer, because of an unavoidable deadline imposed by the head office, he had to stay late at work. He tried his best to keep his regular date at La Casa Verde, but it was impossible. The head office was demanding that he double-check the production figures he had forwarded the previous week; it seemed production was up, and before they announced record-breaking profits, the company needed Elliott to verify his figures. He was frustrated and returned to his apartment hungry and deflated very late that night. It was of no consequence to Elliott that his figures had been correct and that a large bonus would eventually find its way to his bank account. All that mattered to him was that he had not managed to dine at Señor Cardasso’s fine eatery and would now have to wait another week before he could enjoy the fine wine and great food.

  But the following day Elliott vowed that he would renew his lapsed acquaintance with La Casa Verde. He cancelled a meeting and rearranged several appointments, and for the first time ever, the familiar face of Miguel the waiter greeted him on a Friday night instead of his regular Thursday. Miguel, his typical Latin features enhanced by a black moustache, joked how Señor Cardasso had fretted so, when Elliott, his favorite customer, had not taken his usual seat the previous evening. Elliott laughed at the thought of the waiters and Señor Cardasso frantically trying to ensure his usual table would not be taken by some other diner, bemused by the fact that, though the house full signs were up, a vacant table lay undisturbed.

  Elliott ordered a bottle of Luigi Bosca 1970 Merlot and perused the familiar menu. He opted for the morcilla and a piece of morjella, blood sausage and sweetbreads, to begin his meal, and a rare lomo—the very finest cut of steak—as his main course. The wine he ordered would complement the meal; Elliott was pleased with his choices. Miguel brought Elliott’s food and wine to the table, and Elliott embarked on his evening’s pleasure. It must have been around ten o’clock, while Elliott was midway through his main course, when he walked in.

  Elliott had always assumed that he himself was the most popular and regular diner at La Casa Verde, mainly because of his belief that he was the only foreigner who frequented the restaurant and that he was a generous tipper. However, it seemed he was wrong. Usually, a handshake and a wave from the waiters he knew by name would greet him; this made Elliott feel important and would always ensure a large tip for his evening’s server. However, Elliott had never been personally greeted by Señor Cardasso himself. Granted, the proprietor would sometimes come over to Elliott’s table, and they would talk, but Elliott had never seen him embrace a customer as he did the elderly gentleman who had just entered the restaurant.

  The old man must have been in his late eighties, and that was a generous underestimate. He was bent over with age, supporting himself with an extravagantly carved wooden cane that possessed an ornate ivory handle sparkling with jewels. His hair was gone, and the wrinkles on his face seemed to continue upward to the top of his head. He was short, no more than five feet six, Elliott guessed, probably shrunken by age. He was by far the most dapper octogenarian Elliott had ever seen, clad in an impeccably tailored, three-piece, navy-blue, pinstripe suit with a slight flair at the base of the trouser; the whitest and crispest shirt Elliott had ever seen majestically complemented the suit. His tie was blue, matching exactly the color and shade of the suit. The old man’s shoes were of obviously good-quality leather, and the shine on them was dazzling.

  After Señor Cardasso had embraced the elegantly attired man, he clicked his fingers, and Miguel and Guillermo, probably the best two waiters in the whole restaurant, stopped what they were doing and assisted the old gentleman to his table. Elliott noted that the table was positioned in the most delightful little corner, surrounded by greenery and shielded from the other diners. Elliott stared, mesmerized by the scene. Some of his fellow diners raised their heads and turned to each other, discussing the man’s presence. Perhaps they knew who he was; maybe he was a famous old actor, or maybe, like Elliott, they too had never seen Old Cardasso greet a customer in this way.

  Elliott beckoned Santiago, the youngest and possibly the brightest of the waiters, over to his table with a raise of his hand. “Who is he?” whispered Elliott, tilting his head in the direction of the old man. Santiago nodded, a broad smile engulfing his young face, “Ah…that is Señor Kurtze. He too is a foreigner like you—Swiss I think, or maybe Hungarian. He has been coming here every Friday night to dine for the last thirty years.”

  That still didn’t explain why the old man had received such an elaborate reception. Elliott encouraged Santiago to explain why Cardasso himself had greeted him in the way that he had. “He is a very generous man.” The young waiter smiled, his affection for the older man obvious. “He helps many people. Only last year he paid for me to visit my sick and elderly mother in Chubut. The year before that, he paid for Miguel’s youngest daughter to have an operation that probably saved her life. He has done many good things for the people of the city. The poor and needy turn to him for help. He is a saint, Señor Miller, a true saint.” Elliott saw that Santiago was close to tears.
“And if not for him, there would be no Casa Verde.” Regaining his composure, he continued his narrative. “Many years ago, when I was just a young boy, Señor Cardasso was in serious trouble. His wife left him—ran away with his brother and took all his money. Señor Kurtze, who comes here every Friday, saw Señor Cardasso in trouble and helped him by giving—not lending—him the money to buy the building in which we now sit and stand. You see, the old landlord wanted too much rent, and Señor Cardasso, he almost killed himself. I believe my employer is alive today thanks only to Señor Kurtze.”

  Elliott was astounded. He had never heard of such generosity before. Elliott called Señor Cardasso to his table and insisted that he be introduced to Señor Kurtze as soon as the old man had finished his meal. Señor Cardasso was initially reluctant to disturb his benefactor and favorite customer, but eventually relented to Elliott’s persistent pleas, and as soon as the old man had devoured his last piece of meat, Cardasso took Elliott over to his table.

  Elliott was presented to the old man as a fellow visitor to Buenos Aires, though it was apparent that the old man was no longer a visitor, but a part of the city, at least of the Belgrano District, anyway. The elderly gentleman attempted to rise, but Elliott insisted he remain seated and shook his hand as Señor Kurtze slowly returned to his seat. The two men exchanged pleasantries and discussed the intolerable heat of the country, the state of the nation, and how they were both looking forward to the Soccer World Cup, to be held in Argentina in three years. They spoke, as is customary when two foreigners converse in a neutral country, in the language of the host country. The old man spoke no English, and Elliott didn’t speak Swiss, French, or German, the languages of the mountainous central European country that had been Señor Kurtze’s home—not Hungary, as young Santiago had suggested. Elliott liked the old man immediately; it was good to finally meet someone with whom he could converse without the main topic of conversation being the virtues of a certain soft drink.