“Do you have plans for lunch?” I asked. “With your friends …?”
“I didn’t call anyone. In fact, we rarely do. Because the time and place never change. We show up there the last Friday of each month and meet in the bar. Sometimes we end up at a table for ten or twelve. Other times, there are only seven or eight of us. Some of the fellows bring their wives, if we know them or they happen to have been in the same line of work. There are those who never bring their spouses. Or are widowers, as I am now. It varies a lot. And that’s part of the charm. Of course, over time the circle has been getting smaller. But no one dwells on that …”
He got back to my question. “That said, I would be happy to join you for lunch. As long as it’s on me.”
“Absolutely not,” I replied good-humoredly. “We’re on Brazilian turf at the consulate, don’t forget. I’m the one who calls the shots here. Do you like Italian food?”
Following his positive response, I said, “There’s an Italian place nearby, on the other side of La Cienega. It’s usually terrific. And it has an excellent salad bar,” I added, paying tribute to his physical fitness.
I then asked my secretary to book us a table. Eric seemed visibly pleased at the prospect of good pasta.
Later, in the packed elevator, we kept to ourselves. Like Max (and Colonel Vaz), Eric was a good head taller than I was. In the States, everyone was at least a head taller than me.
The restaurant was called Caffe La Strada. Our entire building went there, for a beer or a quick bite. The place saw a good crowd at night too, and had live music: a trio on piano, bass, and drums.
It was across the street. Side by side, we waited for the light. The sun was out, it was Friday, the weekend forecast looked pleasant. I almost regretted that our outing was so short since it’s rare to saunter along the sidewalks of Los Angeles, a city where they say there are more cars than people. We were in no hurry. One rushes toward the future, not the past.
“So you belong to the growing species of adopted Californians, then,” Eric remarked, chuckling.
He was strolling with his hands in his pants pockets, his partially open beige blazer revealing a long-sleeved white shirt. His shoes were suede. He could have been a retired TV producer. Or a respected member of the Mob. All he needed in the second case were dark glasses and a chain around his neck. He was already sporting a thick gold pinkie ring.
“Yes,” I replied. “I lived here from 1973 to 1976.” In another time, another life, I thought to myself. “It was my first post,” I added. “I liked the city so much that I came back. Three decades later.”
“Is that so?” he asked, intrigued. “Foreigners usually prefer San Francisco. They find it charming, more inviting. Easier to get the hang of.”
“It was definitely hard at first,” I acknowledged. “Took me a while to get used to the freeway system. The city seemed to have dozens of centers rather than just one. But I learned. Later, when I started taking night classes at UCLA, I made a few friends. Then things got easier.”
“What did you study?” he inquired amiably. He was asking the obvious questions and seemed to be having fun in the process. All along, though, he appeared to be showing genuine interest in my answers.
“Film,” I replied.
“Film?!” he exclaimed in surprise. “That’s unusual. For a diplomat.”
“I’m not your usual diplomat.”
In the meantime, we had arrived at La Strada. One of the waiters, Alberto, a generally sullen fellow (but who had become a friend of mine as a result of our shared passion for soccer), greeted us at the entrance. As part of his routine, he pointed to a few sidewalk tables, beneath umbrellas. But we preferred to be inside.
“Very nice,” Eric murmured as we entered the dimly lit dining room. The place was small but tastefully decorated. A Neapolitan song could be heard between snippets of conversation here and there. A few good tables remained open, including one in a corner reserved for us.
The owner stepped out from behind the counter and made his way over to us.
“Il signore Giovanni,” I said, introducing him to Eric, who shook his hand.
“Eric Friedkin,” he said in turn. “My Brazilian friend spoke of your restaurant in glowing terms.”
Giovanni showed gratitude for the kindness, alluding to close ties between Italy and Brazil. As Alberto came over to let us know the day’s specials, all I could think was, I’m done for, we’re already friends.
At odds and annoyed with myself, I sought refuge behind the menu. It wouldn’t be easy to steer the conversation, I kept thinking, as I wavered between lasagna and spaghetti carbonara. I heaved a sigh, as if something on the menu were giving me trouble.
Eric then sighed himself. I imagine, in his case, from the variety of choices he was facing. After a certain age, I’ve been coming to realize, the ideal menu is limited to five dishes. Clouds hung over our gastronomic adventure. But I had no reason to complain. Worst case, we’d eat well and say goodbye after small talk. Nothing wrong with that.
Eric wanted to know if the portions were large. He explained that he didn’t usually eat much at lunchtime. And pointed to the salad bar I’d mentioned. We decided to go with salad and split the lasagna. That way we’d have room for dessert. At Alberto’s recommendation, we placed that order too: cannoli Sicilian style for Eric, tiramisu for me. Followed by two espressos, decaf for him. So much for that.
Or almost. “Any wine?” I asked in my capacity as host.
“No, thank you, I have a long drive back home. But I’ll gladly have a bourbon before the meal. And a Diet Coke with the lasagna.” I ordered a glass of red wine.
Alberto gestured to me. He had something to tell me but didn’t know if he should approach. With my eyes, I encouraged him to speak up. The more interruptions, the better. Alberto then availed himself of the arrival of bread, oil, and olives to exchange two or three lines with me in Italian, a language I speak poorly but understand well.
Once he moved away, I whispered toward Eric, “Soccer …”
“I could tell,” he replied, adding, “I spent many years in South America. It was impossible to survive, back then …”
To this day, I don’t know whether his pause was intentional.
“… without knowing something about soccer.”
Balls, bullets …, I thought to myself.
“They were wonderful years,” he went on, now seeming to be in an introspective mood, after putting a few olives on his plate and passing me the bread. “Complicated, full of challenges. And, as is always the case, full of rewards too.”
For now, he was sounding me out. Using a philosophical tone, which might turn melancholy or light — depending on how I weighed in. The bridge between us had been built by someone he trusted and was therefore solid. But the reference to my film studies and time spent as a student during such a turbulent period in California had possibly shaken his convictions. He slipped along this particular flank like a soldier crawling beneath a barbed-wire fence.
“Tell me a bit about your experience at UCLA in the seventies. Must have been a fascinating time.”
Depending on what choice I made, I might focus on the end of the Vietnam War, which I’d watched day after day on TV, disaster after disaster, body bag after body bag; perhaps mention the Watergate saga, which I’d also followed with my friends and neighbors, celebrating Nixon’s resignation by popping open bottles of champagne.
These were topics Eric too had followed, only from the other side of the electric fence that separated us — given that he was already a prominent figure at the CIA at the time. During those same years, in Montevideo, he had met Colonel João Vaz — and Max — in the secret capacity of station chief of his agency.
Were I to go in that direction, I would expose myself straightaway, as well as my personal beliefs — and then pay the price of watching our conversation die out. On the other hand, I could very well present myself under the guise of a bureaucrat without in any way being unfaithfu
l to the truth. I was a diplomat, after all, trained to observe political scenarios in other countries — without judging them. What are the duties of a consulate if not lending assistance to its nationals, granting visas, legalizing documents, and, beyond that, fulfilling tasks in commercial and cultural promotion — two areas that had been under my purview in the seventies?
What I couldn’t do, however, was hesitate. My guest had already eaten three of his four olives. That’s when I had an inspiration and decided to answer his question indirectly, letting him reach his own conclusions. I described an incident that had happened to me, one that left a deep impression for the intensity with which it had unfolded. Something Eric would interpret his own way, bringing me into his fold or not. Without either selling my soul to the devil or suppressing the mortification the episode had caused me. All I had to do was leave out a few details.
The incident, to describe it in full, had taken place at a Joan Baez concert. I’d been obsessed with the singer-songwriter since my teens. Besides being beautiful, pure, innocent, and sensitive (to my young eyes and romantic spirit), she’d launched another of my idols — Bob Dylan — to fame. Her wonderfully lyrical yet simple music had roots in old English, Irish, and American folk songs. Back then, however, protest themes were prominent in her repertoire. The outdoor concert was held at an improvised amphitheater on the UCLA green. And there I was, ecstatic amid the crowd, living one of my dreams.
At some point, to thunderous applause, Joan Baez got to ranting against military coup leaders. And there were plenty of them back then. Setting aside her guitar, she suddenly called out, “Is there anyone here tonight from Greece?” Several arms shot up, with clenched fists. Roars against the Greek colonels and cheers for democracy followed, added to chants and booing of the brutes.
“How about Chile? Anyone here tonight from Chile?” Again, arms and fists were raised. There were shouts against Pinochet, cheers for Allende. “And Argentina?” she yelled. More fists, jeers, and cries of death to the gorillas. She then made one last call: “How about Brazil? Anyone here tonight from Brazil?” I remember having raised my arm with enthusiasm. And catching sight of another dozen amid the crowd. We were celebrated too, getting our own share of cheers, vivas, and applause. We felt noble in our outrage.
When the music started up again, several people came to hug me and offer their boundless solidarity. They wanted to know if I needed assistance of any kind. A priest offered to help rescue, with a private plane, any relative of mine who might be hiding out in the Amazon jungle. A young woman gave me half her hot dog and the dregs of a bottle of warm beer. A guy handed me a lit joint (“keep it,” he insisted) that I felt obliged to take two hits off, choking and coughing. I thanked them all, moved by so many gestures of friendship and selflessness, feeling loved by this sea of humans.
I passed the joint along but rather than getting swallowed up by the crowd, it kept making its way back, which led me to take a few more drags. The pot, which seemed to be first-rate, made life seem impossibly beautiful. In my mind Joan Baez and Joan of Arc blended into one and the same muse. And that muse, part artist, part warrior, was singing to one troubadour soldier alone — me.
Everything had gone along splendidly until the couple sitting beside me, after much conferring, as if hatching a plan between them, asked if I needed a job. Given my state of euphoria, I replied no, that I had a job, thanks very much. Not satisfied to leave well enough alone, I felt compelled to inform them that I worked at the Brazilian consulate.
“At the Brazilian consulate?” the couple replied in a single voice, completely bewildered.
“Yes!” I confirmed happily, my eyes glued on Joan of Arc, who was winking at me just then. “At the Brazilian consulate!” I repeated with pride.
“For the gorillas’ government?” the two persisted as though stunned.
“Yes!” I repeated, not paying attention to what they were saying, worshipping my muse.
Their bewilderment turned into disgust, as if I’d just escaped from a leper colony with the explicit goal of infecting everyone around me. In a matter of seconds the news spread like wildfire, with shouts of “Informer! We have an informer here!” I was shoved multiple times and kicked at least twice, then grabbed by the collar and shaken mercilessly. Until a security guard turned up and got me out of there.
More than the pain and dismay, it was the looks of hate and contempt that astounded me. Pushed along by the security guard, a big guy who kept his hands squarely on my shoulders, I forced my way through the people I came up against. With every few steps the anger around me subsided, because the groups I was now passing didn’t know exactly what had happened, among other reasons because they were all stoned.
I had yet to recover my peace of mind, however, and struggled to explain to the guard, who kept ordering, “Go on, man, go on, don’t stop and don’t look back,” that while working in business and culture, I’d kept a wide berth between me and the Brazilian military. “Just shut up and walk, man, just walk!” he barked.
The snubs directed at me seemed not just unfair but incomprehensible, feelings exacerbated by the pot I’d smoked. After all, how many of my Brazilian idols’ concerts had I been to in Brazil without anyone’s requiring an ideological affidavit from me? Was the only form of protest to take up arms and rob banks or kidnap ambassadors? And what about the young UCLA students around me? Had they done anything beyond their political masturbating to be able to sleep peacefully at night?
In describing the scene to Eric, I chose my facts and images carefully. I left out the crowd’s exuberant chanting and cries of protest against the generals and eliminated the pot from the scene. I concentrated on my elation at having the opportunity to see a live performance by an artist I’d admired for years — and knew only from recordings. And on the bad vibes that had set in around me when, responding to a casual question by the people sitting next to me, I was almost lynched by an army of justice seekers.
When I was done, Eric tipped back what was left of his bourbon and made a single comment, which I took as favorable since it seemed to strengthen my credibility. “California wasn’t exactly a reliable state back then. Between then and now, those kids learned their lesson. Today, some of those guys who almost lynched you probably own the building where you work.”
Maybe …, I thought to myself, as our lasagna arrived.
Sealing our first trace of complicity with an affectionate pat on my back, Eric proposed, “What do you say we visit the salad bar? That will give our pasta time to cool.”
He leaned over my shoulder and confessed, “I liked Joan Baez a lot too.” Then he added, “My daughter stole all my records of hers. They were small, forty-fives. Remember those?”
46
Eric Friedkin didn’t live in San Diego proper but a half hour away, in the town of La Jolla, which the locals casually, even nonchalantly, referred to as “a seaside resort community.” It was justifiably proud of its beach nestled into cliffs intersected by canyons — a setting that made the community’s property value one of the highest in the country.
The Eric Friedkin I saw there looked quite different from the man I’d had lunch with three weeks earlier in LA. He was sporting Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and Docksiders without socks. He walked over to my car as I was parking. Before even greeting me, however, he’d cast a stern look at the blazer I was wearing. His first words, upon shaking my hand, while I was still in the process of locking the car, were aimed at this particular part of my outfit. “Let’s ditch that jacket right away or the neighbors will think you’re with the Mafia, which is serious stuff around here.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the joke, recalling that I’d associated him with the Italian underworld at our earlier meeting.
“No Jews, or members of the Mob, in our neighborhood …” The additional comment made me cringe.
He went on to talk about his home. “You have no idea what trouble my wife and I had buying this house, the way the community
here is so closed. And that was back in the eighties, if you can believe it. Despite our having been introduced by mutual friends, the realtor looked rather suspiciously at the ‘public servant’ I scribbled under ‘employment’ on the form.”
He remembered his role as host in due time. “What would you like to drink? Would you prefer to stay inside or should we go out to the pool? I have a nice table with a big umbrella.”
“I’ll have a vodka tonic with a twist of lime. The pool sounds like a good idea. Let’s sit out there.”
With that, we crossed the room and headed toward the back of the house, first making a stop at the bar, where I sat on a stool while Eric fixed our drinks.
“A vodka tonic … wise choice, wise choice,” he murmured to himself.
The kitchen was right behind the bar, separated from the living room by a counter. Talking all the while and now alluding to our lunch (“I really liked that Italian restaurant and already went back, with a few friends, last Friday night”), he headed to the refrigerator and returned with a bottle of vodka, which he placed in an ice bucket.
“Tall glass?” he asked. On seeing me nod, he indicated, “I’m going to join you in the vodka, only I’m going to have mine straight. And note that I usually only drink —”
“Bourbon.”
“Did Vaz tell you? He’d never drunk bourbon before, but he ended up liking it. A good guy, our Vaz …”
When it came down to it, we had nothing in common, Eric and I, other than a Brazilian colonel for whom we both had a soft spot. Except for that, what connected us had yet to be defined, stemming as it did from a feeling of unease rooted in distrust. I had just driven almost two hours to his house, in what would likely be a fruitless pursuit of answers to questions I might not even be able to formulate. I had no clue to his motives for inviting me. But the one aspect of human nature that always thrills me is its unpredictability. And Eric Friedkin was about to toast me with a fine example of this trait, so rare these days.
“You don’t really like me at all, do you?” he asked serenely, taking a first sip of his vodka.
His Own Man Page 24
