The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club

by Duncan Whitehead

  “So, Señor Miller, what is your business in Argentina?” Señor Kurtze asked, wiping his mouth with his cloth napkin and leaning back in his chair. His manners and ability to listen to all Elliott said, despite Elliott’s less than fluent Spanish, in no way comparable to Señor Kurtze’s, had endeared him to Elliott almost immediately.

  “I am the South American representative of Coca-Cola,” replied Elliott, trying not to sound too pompous or self-important, “I have been in Argentina for just under eight months now. I have an apartment downtown, in Recoleta, a close walk from my offices,” he added as he took another sip of the Chardonnay that Señor Kurtze had insisted he try. He had to agree it was the most refreshing white wine he had ever tasted. The old man clicked his fingers, and almost instantly Cardasso himself had appeared at their table with a fresh bottle and two clean glasses.

  “I am from Savannah, Georgia, on the American East Coast,” continued Elliott. “I’m not sure how long I have left here. My fiancée back in Savannah wants me home, but I am trying to convince her to join me here. I love Argentina, but it’s hard for me. She’s a young widow, and her two boys need a father. Maybe, though, I can convince her to come for a vacation.”

  Señor Kurtze nodded his agreement, “You should, my boy. Forget Paris, I have been there, many years ago, but this is the real city of romance and love. You must bring—what is her name?”

  “Thelma,” Elliott replied.

  “Bring Thelma over, and I shall be your host. You could stay with me. I have a large house with many rooms and staff. You must be my guests, your fiancée and you. I have a car and driver, and I would be honored to have you stay.”

  Elliott thanked his new friend for the offer of his home and promised he would try to convince Thelma to come and visit, to see for herself this amazing country.

  “And you, sir,” Elliott probed, as he raised his glass of wine to his lips, “what brought you to this land of vast contrasts?” Señor Kurtze smiled. It was the kind of smile reserved for those who had seen all of life’s rich and diversified tapestries. It was the smile of knowledge, the smile of experience, the knowing smile that only the special among the aged can produce. Mr. Kurtze looked at his watch and nodded. “Mine is a long story, Señor Miller, a very long story indeed. I think before I begin, we should order another bottle of wine. This time it must be a wine of your choice.” Elliott chose a Luigi Bosca, and once again Cardasso appeared immediately when the old man clicked his fingers. The restaurant owner uncorked the bottle and poured a glass for each of them before bowing and returning to whence he came. Once the wine was poured, Señor Kurtze began his story.

  Señor Kurtze had arrived with his young wife in Buenos Aires just before the end of the last war. Fearful that the Russian advances westward would not stop at Berlin, he left his homeland never to return. He was a wealthy man when he left Europe, and on his arrival in South America, he immediately invested in property and land. His investments paid off, and he and his wife lived comfortably in the same large home that he lived in now. Tragically, his young bride had died during childbirth, along with his unborn son, soon after his arrival in Argentina. He had been devastated. She was the only woman he had ever loved, and he would have done anything for her. Consumed by grief, he saw no reason to return to Europe and couldn’t bear to be parted from her grave, which he tended every day with freshly cut flowers. He had a niece, of whom he was fond, but had lost contact with all his family after the war. Elliott could sense the angst in the old man’s voice as he explained how he had no trace of his relatives.

  His great passion, the old man informed Elliott, was telling children’s stories. He would spend hours creating characters and placing them in adventures set in his homeland. The children of the neighborhood would flock to listen to the old man with the strange accent and his amazing tales of witches, wizards, magical forests, and dragons. He told Elliott he had always possessed a passion for the arts, had painted as a young man and dabbled with play writing. His future, though, had not lain in the arts, and he sometimes regretted the fact that he had not devoted more time to his painting.

  Elliott asked him about the generous deeds he had done for the people of Buenos Aires and what had motivated him to be so kind, especially to those who weren’t even his own countrymen. His answer was humbling.

  “We are all countrymen,” he had said, “countrymen of God.” He had no one to share his wealth with and felt that God would want him to do what he could to help others. Elliott wondered whether the old man was trying to atone for something or was just a good man. Either way, Elliott had warmed to his new friend and knew that he was in the presence of a special and charismatic person.

  When the old man finished speaking, Elliott noticed that hours had passed, and it was now late. Elliott insisted that he walk his new friend to his home, a short distance from La Casa Verde. Elliott was truly amazed by its size. It had to be the grandest house he had ever seen, even grander than the Mercer House and the other great houses of Savannah that overlooked the squares he missed so much. Elliott bade his new friend goodnight and arranged to meet him again the following Friday at La Casa Verde, where they would dine together and converse further.

  Elliott decided that in the future he would forsake his usual Thursday evening visits to La Casa Verde and instead would now spend his Fridays enthralled by the stories of Señor Kurtze. They ate and drank, and Elliott would listen to the old man’s tales, meant for children but so wonderfully and masterfully told that even a grown man couldn’t help but be mesmerized. Elliott asked the old man if he’d ever had one of his stories published. Señor Kurtze replied that he had once been published, many years ago, but unfortunately the only copy of that work he had was printed in German. Anyway, it was not on the subject of children’s stories, of which they spoke now, and he was embarrassed by it. He said it was not much and that it was best forgotten.

  Not all of their Friday evenings were spent with Elliott spellbound by Kurtze’s tales of magic and adventure. Kurtze would often tell Elliott of his fears for Argentina and the rest of the world, how the spread of communism had to be stopped. Often, as Elliot walked him to the door of his magnificent home, Señor Kurtze would stop and join in the discussions of the disillusioned young men they could hear arguing in the street and through open bar windows. The young and volatile youths would contend that the only way forward for Argentina, and indeed the whole of South America, was a switch to the left and the advent of communism.

  The old man would put his view across so passionately, so eloquently, that many of the youths would immediately change their opinion. Elliott had never met anyone like Kurtze. He had a magnetism that was awe inspiring. How he cursed that damn wall that split a country in two, dividing families and friends! He said that one day, we would all see how wrong the Marxists had been, and that Stalin, Castro, and the like preached the politics of evil. One day soon, he predicted, the wall would come tumbling down, and the world would see that the communist ideal could never last. He called it a corrupt and dangerous system and was sure that history would prove him right. Elliott thought it amazing to see the old man lecture. He ignored those who heckled him, dismissing their arguments with a flick of the wrist. He was confident and possessed an air of authority that made people listen to what he had to say. He almost hypnotized the crowds that gathered around to hear him speak.

  Often, after one of the old man’s tirades against communism, the youths would applaud, and bystanders, curious about what was happening, would join in the debate, agreeing with what the old man had said and listening intently as Señor Kurtze, though weak in body, rose up and convinced others that the way forward was definitely not by the route of the Red. Those preaching the socialist manifesto and viewpoint were always silenced, and when Elliott and Señor Kurtze returned to the bars, they would be welcomed with open arms. Elliott noticed that the proponents of communism were nowhere to be seen. It was as if the old man
were cleansing his beloved Belgrano of those determined to cause trouble for the rest. Elliott often imagined that the would-be revolutionaries were now practicing their rehearsed speeches in some other neighborhood, afraid to return and once again be shouted down and outmatched by a man old enough to be their grandfather.

  Elliott looked forward to his Friday evenings all week. It was as if he’d known the old man all his life, and now, looking back as he sat at his kitchen table with Biscuit and Grits at his feet, he could see now that he, like everyone else who had met Kurtze, had become entranced by the old man.

  Thelma had never been to Argentina or met Señor Kurtze, and Elliott wiped a tear from his eye as he remembered his happy time there. Of course, Thelma had the boys from her first marriage, and there was no way she could come. He knew eventually he would have to leave South America and that if he wanted Thelma, he would also eventually have to forsake his career.

  Biscuit barked and Elliott’s reverie abated as he remembered that he had not fed the dogs yet that morning. He opened a can of their favorite dog food and filled their bowls. He watched as the two poodles, one white, one chocolate, devoured their breakfast. Thelma had loved those dogs, and he was sure they were grieving too. He took a deep breath and returned to his memories.…

  Elliott, knowing that the old man was unique, would often stare into Kurtze’s wise old eyes and wish that he had known his own grandfather. He imagined that his grandfather would have been just like Señor Kurtze: wise, kind, and above all, understanding. The old man encouraged Elliott to listen to the music of Wagner and urged him to pursue a career in politics one day, at any level. He told Elliott he saw potential in him and encouraged him to stand up for what he believed in, telling him that just one voice could change the hearts and minds of many. It was a lesson Elliott had never forgotten, and in some ways, it was thanks to his old friend that he ran for city council over thirty years later.

  As Friday evening once again passed all too quickly, Señor Kurtze turned to Elliott as the younger man led him up the steps to the front door of his lavish home. He told Elliott that if his own son had lived, he would have wished him to be like Elliott. He again mentioned his niece, whom he missed greatly. He had no idea of what had become of her, he said, and this was one of his greatest regrets in life. Once again Elliott felt the anguish in the old man’s voice as he told the young American that the only family he had now was Elliott. Elliott fought back tears and wished the frail, old man a good night. He turned to watch as Señor Kurtze safely entered his building. Elliott did not know then that this would be the last time he would ever see his friend.

  Elliott returned to his apartment; it was late and he was tired, but that still didn’t stop him from recording the evening’s events in his diary. He also wrote a letter to his beloved Thelma. Every Friday night, after his evening spent with his old friend, he carried out the same ritual. He would memorize the stories that the old man had told him and translate them into English. Elliott would then type them out, rather crudely, and enclose them with his weekly letter to his fiancée. When the letters arrived in Savannah, Thelma would read the stories to her boys, Spencer and Gordon, who loved to hear the tales of wizards, witches, fairies, and magical forests. It was the highlight of the boys’ week for their mother to receive the weekly dispatches from Elliott who, though he was far away, would be home soon.

  The following Friday, Elliott arrived, as he always did, at La Casa Verde at eight o’clock sharp. He immediately noticed that the waiters had deviated from their usual attire. Each man wore a black band of cloth wrapped around his left arm. Elliott’s first thought was that Señor Cardasso had finally succumbed to his diet of red wine and red meat and that his heart had finally failed, but as he entered the restaurant, he saw that Señor Cardasso was there, alive and well, though looking somewhat subdued.

  “Señor Miller!” cried Cardasso as Elliott entered La Casa Verde. Elliott was confused by the scene, and his expression showed that confusion. Cardasso, though, was eager to explain. “We have been looking for you everywhere.” The restaurant owner was in an emotional state and clutched Elliott’s hands tightly. “I even called at the American Embassy, but they told me that they had no address for you.” Elliott pleaded with him to slow down. Over the past months Elliott’s Spanish had improved considerably, thanks to the patience of his mentor, Señor Kurtze, but not sufficiently enough to grasp the meaning of what the obviously agitated and deeply upset man before him was trying to say.

  “I am so sorry, Señor Miller,” he said, as the pace of his voice slowed, “but our friend, our great friend, Señor Kurtze is dead. He died yesterday in his sleep and was buried next to his wife and unborn child earlier today.”

  Elliott felt his legs buckle and a wave of despair engulf him. His heart sank to the pit of his stomach. How could this be? How could such a man, a man of so much vitality, be gone? A man with so much love and generosity that a whole neighborhood would mourn his loss? Cardasso had done his best to find Elliott and tell him the news of his friend’s death. Cardasso knew that Señor Kurtze would have wanted Elliott to be at his funeral and that Elliott would be heartbroken not to be able to say his final farewells.

  The funeral, according to Cardasso, had been a lavish and extremely well-attended affair. The old man’s coffin was carried by a horse-drawn carriage, and over two hundred mourners followed the slow procession to the cemetery. The streets of Belgrano were lined with those wanting to acknowledge and pay their last respects to the man who had been the area’s benefactor for so long. Shopkeepers and bar owners closed their doors as a mark of respect to the old man, and women, some who had not even met him, but only heard of his charity, wore black and wept. Even members of the ruling Nationalist Party made appearances at this foreigner’s graveside. The head of the Dirección de Inteligencia Nacional, the Argentine secret police force, laid a wreath at the old man’s headstone. Years later, Elliott would read how this man who laid the wreath at the kind and loving Señor Kurtze’s grave had been accused of being involved in Argentina’s so-called Dirty War, in which thousands of political dissidents were forced to jump out of airplanes far out over the Atlantic Ocean, leaving no trace of their passing. Without any dead bodies, the government could deny they had been killed. The victims became known as “the disappeared.”

  Elliott decided he couldn’t eat after hearing the news of his friend’s death, and despite Cardasso’s wishes that he remain as his guest and drink a toast to their Swiss friend, Elliott declined and returned, saddened, to his apartment. That Friday night he wept as a child would weep for a father who was leaving on a long journey and might never return. Even though he had known the old man for just three months, Elliott felt as if he had known him all his life.

  Elliott penned a letter to Thelma, informing her of the tragic news. Suddenly, he felt the need to be home, back to his fiancée in Savannah, close to those he loved, and not alone thousands of miles away. Though his job paid well, it had meant separation and delay of his marriage to the only woman he had ever loved. The truth was that if it had not been for Señor Kurtze, he would have left Argentina and his job months ago. Maybe now—now that he had nothing to stay for—it was time for him to go home.

  It would be hard, though, with no job and a family to support. Elliott worried, lying awake that night, the sound of the buzzing traffic filling his room. But the old man had shown him the importance of family. Señor Kurtze had told him how he regretted losing touch with his only sister’s daughter, his only living relation. He confessed he had no idea where she was, and he warned Elliott never to make the same mistake. Elliott closed his eyes. He had a decision to make.

  Elliott Miller didn’t return to La Casa Verde for a several weeks. He felt that the memories of Kurtze would be overwhelming. When he did eventually return, he reverted to his former schedule of Thursday evenings, out of respect for the memory of his old friend and their special Friday evenings togethe
r.

  Cardasso hugged and embraced him like an old friend when he returned to La Casa Verde. It appeared that the affection for Elliott’s former dining partner had somehow been transferred to him. As he finished his main course of roasted pork, Elliott noticed an old woman who seemed vaguely familiar, dressed head to toe in black and talking with Cardasso. The stout restaurateur was nodding and touching her hand, and she was holding a package. He bade her farewell after handing her a bottle of his finest white wine; then he approached Elliott’s table, clutching the package the old lady had given him.

  “Señor Miller, that old lady was the housekeeper of Señor Kurtze. She said that he had instructed her that on the event of his death, this package should be sent to La Casa Verde and delivered to the young American who became his great friend.” Cardasso handed Elliott the carefully wrapped package, to which was attached a note. Elliott thanked Cardasso. His throat tightened as emotion welled up inside him. He took a deep breath and read the note that accompanied the package:

  My Dear Friend,

  Of all the people I have met, you were the only one who I feel could have really understood me. Thank you for making my last days on earth as pleasurable as they were. I knew I was dying and that my time had come. Maybe my time had come many years before, but I just never knew it. I am writing this note as I lie on my bed, before I begin my endless sleep. I have had an eventful life, and my head is full of memories. I wish you happiness for your future and luck in your marriage. Your new wife will be a fortunate lady, as will her sons, to have such a man as you in their lives. Never forget me, my dear friend, and raise a glass in my honor when you next dine at our table. You may find the gift difficult to read, though I am sure you could have it translated. It was the only thing I ever had published. Do not judge me for what I was then, but for what I am now. Goodbye, my friend, and good luck.