A New Yorker's Stories

by Philip Gould

  The evening was still early. I went out with the intention to explore the textile market, Arasta Bazaar, a long street with shops on both sides, cheek by jowl, you might say, selling rugs and kilims, tiles from Iznik, hats, jewelry and accessories and so forth: everything a textile collector might dream of. I was sidetracked, you might say, on the way by the jabber of a merchant on the way who sold mostly bad copies of Islamic manuscript illuminations. He suggested the examples inside his shop were of a better quality. The works inside the shop were no better than the examples lined up on the street. We made small talk as the proprietor prepared his own supper on a hot plate. He even offered to share his dinner with me. He said, somehow when I prepare dinner I often find that I am joined by friends. But this dealer was anxious to sell something. He said he didn’t have a sale all day. That was a touching bit of marketing which almost swayed me to look again. I did but I could not bring myself to buy a thing, yet I did not wish to hurt his feelings so half jokingly I said I could not buy anything at the time because the sun was just setting and that I was constrained by personal resolve not buy anything after sunset. So I parted and resumed my original goal of checking the Arasta Bazaar. My steps were leisurely as I started down the long alley of shops until I stepped into one shop. The dealer was restrained and sensing my modest means started showing me small examples of embroidery from Central Asia. He laid out one example after another, as is the manner of rug dealers, until the floor was nearly fully covered. I was hooked: one group of cushion covers from Uzbekistan hand-embroidered with a delicious silk red thread that dominated the field against narrow white borders were too good to be believed. Probably my innocence governed the day. More experienced collectors would have, most likely, been too jaded to get excited but this was my initiation and I sprang for three pieces. While these textiles were being folded and wrapped I had a moment of distraction to look up at a textile hanging from a beam overhead; it was love at first sight. The dealer pulled the fabric down for closer inspection. Only then did I discover that the design I first saw was repeated on the other end. The object in question was, as I was told, a cradle or at any rate a long fabric that could be suspended from both ends to form a loop to hold a cradle, and the type of weaving is called Sumac. Experts are all too familiar with such treasures from Central Asia but now I owned one. I didn’t dare show it but I was ecstatic. The dealer and I talked for a long time after that. His wife and son were away that evening, he explained, so he could indulge himself and me my staying on until nearly nine-thirty.

  Going home in the dark, holding my bag of newly acquired treasures, I was heady and abstracted until I passed the merchant of the fake illuminated pages, still standing in front of his shop. For an instant I thought I was caught in an embarrassing confrontation when he said, “What about you couldn’t make any purchases after sun down?” I held my breath a second and said as straightforwardly as I could that this was not a purchase, only a gift and walked on. (6/3/07)

  THE USO

  After two and a half years of occupation duty in the Marianas as a sergeant in the Marine Corps, I was more than relieved to see that day in 1945 when World War II came to an end. Up until that moment we couldn’t be sure how much longer the war would last. So we all breathed a great sigh of gratefulness. But the triumph of that day called for something special. We could let our guard down, we could relax, we could think about the day when we would be shipped back to the States. But instant repatriation was not so easily come by. Moving thousands of service men and women from around the globe took time and every one had to wait their turn.

  I was so impatient I could not bear the delay. I approached my commanding officer, a colonel and asked for permission to take a leave of absence. The mood was definitely relaxed and the Colonel signed a pass the next day and off I went to the Army airfield on Guam. I approached a couple of pilots as they stood by their planes warming up. I had a choice of traveling to Japan or to the Philippines. The flight to Manila was about to leave and that sealed my decision. In no time flat I boarded the bomber and was shown the Bomb Bay area in the belly of the plane. I sat on my haunches alone in the Bomb Bay for the next four hours, flying over the Pacific Ocean which I could see through the slender opening between the two doors of the Bomb Bay. I thought to myself. “This is where the bombs would be released by the touch of a button.” I was so glad the pilot didn’t get the urge to touch that button.

  I made my way to the capital; bumming rides was no problem as camaraderie was the order of the day. Celebratory elation was felt everywhere. What I saw of Manila was another story. The city lay in ruins. The center of the city was flattened out, bombed to smithereens, nothing remained standing except one building which carried a big flag with three letters: USO. The USO became my home for the next few days. The accommodations were swell; the chow was good and the service even better. The waitresses were pretty young Philippine girls. Conversation led to one thing or another and pretty soon I was invited to go home with one of the waitresses. I found myself on the outskirts of the town where simple wood structures were still standing. The huts were built on polls. The cooking and eating were done on the ground. A makeshift ladder was used to reach the sleeping quarters. I was invited to rest below and to partake of the evening meal. I was received with sweet hospitality by several women of the household.

  On the following days I made my way to Baguio, the summer capital of the country. Baguio is high up in the hills about one hundred and fifty miles north of the Manila where service men could enjoy R & R in a cool area. I was also interested in the native Igorati people and their celebrated wood sculpture. Belgian nuns ran social services in the district and I rode with them on the way back to Manila. I paid a final visit to my Philippine waitress at the USO. We exchanged addresses and bid each other friendly farewells. Months and months later back in the States after I had been discharged from the Marine Corps I received a parcel from the Philippine young lady at the USO: an embroidered white shirt that is the traditional attire for men in that country. Our correspondence went on for many years. (9/1/09)

  PRESQUE ISLE AIRPORT

  My connection to the Presque Isle Airport began two years before I got there. I graduated from high school in June of 1940 and started a college career at night at New York City College. During the day I worked at the NYA office in New York as an artist designing posters. Art was my passion and would be all my life. But at the time getting a job and earning money was paramount. NYA stands for National Youth Administration, one of the many government created entities developed by the Roosevelt Administration to cope with the lingering depression. I learned about the NYA regional center in Maine, at Passamaquoddy, near Eastport, Maine where it would be possible to learn a trade or a marketable skill. I applied and I was accepted for instruction in map making and surveying. In a matter of months a group of us were offered jobs in Presque Isle to work with the US Army Corps of Engineers as Junior Engineering Aides on the Presque Isle Airport. Some of us took inside jobs as draftsmen and others joined surveying crews to work out-of-doors. I found myself working in the open on the runways in the middle of the winter with temperatures twenty below zero. It was so cold everything froze; stakes could not be pounded into the ground. But as a rod man I would run from mark to mark so the transit man could read the elevations. We understood that the airport was undergoing an expansion, making the runways long enough to accommodate large planes: bombers that were destined for England under a rather secret lend-lease program between the US and Great Britain. Presque Isle was as far East as you could go in the States which made the flight over the Atlantic Ocean as short as possible.

  While on the job I was rooming in the home of Mr. and Mrs. deMerchant on a street that now bears their name. I remember I was comfortable living there with a room to myself and with communal meals: we all sat around the same table. Working outside during the winter gave me an enormous appetite and mother deMerchant dished up great and generous breakfasts, and dinners to match my hung
er. I actually gained weight and felt as healthy as I ever would. Father deMerchant found New York boys a little strange; we were two cultures meeting for the first time. The world has changed so much since then. We are used to the effects of globalization and the movement of people all over the earth.

  After Maine I worked as a hydrographer for a short time at the US Naval Base in South Boston. I was on a scow in Boston Harbor when World War II was declared, December 7, 1941. From Boston I went on to Fort Monmouth in New Jersey to work once again with the US Army Corps of Engineers as a surveyor. We worked up and down the East Coast of the United States and then in the same capacity in Hawaii. As soon as I reached twenty-one I was called up (1943) and found myself, pronto, in the United State Marine Corps where I served in the Pacific until the end of the war. Back in the States I attended UCLA and later NYU to complete my undergraduate education. In the summer of 1947 I returned to Maine, to revisit Presque Isle and to spend two wonderful months with Henry and Celia Beaulieu and their family in Portage, Maine.

  I think it is fair to say that I got my start in life in Northern Maine, made a small contribution to the Presque Isle Airport, and in the process found many friends who remain dear to me.

  THE EDIFICATION OF DEFECATION

  The question is how to speak about an indelicate matter in a delicate way. The question arose not very long ago when I started a trip to Guatemala. The plane was scheduled to depart at nine which meant I had to get up at five in the morning and rush through my usual morning eblutions to catch the super shuttle at seven. I had prepared some finger food the night before for the wait at the airport after passing the security check. I knew the meal on the plane would not be served for at least two hours into the flight. In the excitement of meeting the shuttle and getting to the airport on time I neglected my post breakfast visit to the bathroom; too nervous for that.

  Once I got to the airport there was not much time to spare. Passengers were directed to the waiting area and everyone was focused on getting aboard. The Air Bus had one central aisle with three seats to the right and three to the left. I began to relax and in the process felt the need to go. I resisted the message for a while thinking I could outlast the trip of five-and-a-half hours. I resisted for another reason: I was apprehensive about the vibrations of the motors and the unpredictable lurching that occurs in flight. Would I ever relax enough was a nagging concern. The moment came when I felt the need to be decisive. I entered one of the two bathrooms available to second-class passengers and to my pleasant relief neither the roar of the engines nor the vibrations of the plane were intrusive: I was successful. The next concern was with the flushing. Again, the mechanism worked astonishingly well. In a flash and a swish of the suction action everything disappeared: the bathroom was as clean as I had found it. I marveled at the high tech flush and congratulated myself for having had the courage to book my flight with a company from a third world country, namely El Salvador. The country may be small, as small countries go but their aviation sector is the equal to that of any other nation on earth. Besides the schedule of the Grupo Taca is the best in service with the shortest travel time of any airline.

  Once in Guatemala my bathroom problems did not disappear. My contact in Antigua found a home where I could stay. I was obliged to take this room even though it did not have a private bathroom, but a shared one that was accessible only by passing into the open air. At my age I almost always get up in the middle of the night at least once if not twice to visit the urinal. Stepping into the dark, holding on to my room key and navigating the step down and the step up to reach the bathroom door was not an easy affair. Fortunately I had a small flashlight with me so I could at least see in the dark. But after one night I knew this arrangement was untenable. The first thing on my mind the next day was to find another residence with a private loo.

  For a long time Antigua was known for its many Spanish language schools. I’ve heard there are as many as ninety but surely at least seventy. All of them offer the combination of daily lessons and a home stay with a local family. The finances are handled by the schools. Three meals a day are provided for every day except Sundays when families have their homes to themselves and visitors can fend for themselves.

  Another old friend in Antigua directed me to his preferred school, and when I declared my need for a private bathroom, the director of the school proposed his home where those conditions could be met. I accepted on the spot and I thought my next four weeks in Antigua were under control. I had a comfortable room in the director’s house. The director’s wife was a model of a house-mistress: in charge of the cooking, keeping tabs on her three daughters, feeding a pair of loving parakeets, minding the garden and directing the maid, and sometimes chauffeuring the family on special occasions. She was energetic and of good humor all the time. I could sit in the living room, the sala, and use the telephone whenever I needed to. The setup was quite satisfactory except for one thing. I was obliged to follow the routine of the director since he drove me three times a day between home and school. Once at home in the evenings I had very little freedom of movement since the director’s home was located in Jocotenango, a near suburb of Antigua but not near enough to go places after supper. I felt I was missing the opportunity to circulate in Antigua and to get really reacquainted with the place after my last trip some twenty years ago.

  I opted for a room in a home in Antigua walking distance to and from the school. I was enchanted by the fact that the new room had a window, a real window that gave on a back yard and a garden. I wrote a hosanna of praise for a window with natural light flooding in and views of the blue sky and floating clouds without. This was in contrast to the previous room in Jocotenango where all the windows were, in effect, blind. My joy however was short-lived. The first time I laid my head down to rest I was jarred by the cries of a one-year-old baby, the landlady’s grandson: guarding the baby was her principle activity. The child was actually adorable but babies have to cry and when I was a young father any sound from my children was comforting. At a grandfatherly age the same sounds are disturbing. But that was not the major problem at the new home; food was the issue. The meals were meager, especially the suppers. The two evening meals I had there were so negligible I was on the point of jumping up in protest proclaiming the inadequacy of the offering. I thought better of that action. My Spanish was not good enough to explain the matter and English would not serve me at all in this household.

  Two tacos with a smear of frijoles (or refried beans) on one and mashed avocado on the other does not a supper make. Rather than create a scene I knew the only solution was another move.

  Before I move on to my next domicile I would like to share my impressions of the family. The lady of the house was a woman of solid proportions who ruled the roost like a sentinel standing in the kitchen preparing meals, such as they were. Her bearing was something like that of General de Gaulle, always upright with head slightly pulled upward and backward: there was no doubt who was running things. Her husband, on the other hand, comported himself with his head slightly inclined downward. Of the two he was more communicative. I learned from him that the property upon which the house stood was bequeathed to his wife by her father, a fact of life that she apparently could never forget. Proprietary rights were hers and her bearing projected that message loud and clear. The gentleman told me that he was unemployed for a considerable time and that his daughter, who taught in public school, was not paid for over six months so the family was surely hard pressed which explains the frugality at the table. But madam’s controlling nature extended into my room. Every day of my two day stay the woolen blanket on my bed was removed during the day, folded neatly and placed upon a shelf in my room. My slippers were also picked up from my bedside and placed on a foot rack. I had to remake my bed and rearrange my personal things every day. The conversations with the lady consisted of questions that I thought were of no concern to her. She wanted to know, for example, how much money I paid the driver of the tuc-tuc (the three wh
eelers) who drove me to the post office. She also wanted to know if I occupied a room on the first or second floor of my previous residence. And when I asked to use the telephone she made out not to understand my request but then asked to whom I was calling. She looked absolutely dumbfounded when I returned the key to the house as though she did not have the slightest inkling why I would want to move on. It is difficult to imagine how much contretemps could develop in so short a time. The final assault came when a large blanket was hung to dry on the clothesline just a foot from my window blocking the view of the clouds and sky I had so admired. The bathroom in this house was not the issue: it was shared by the entire household, but that fact didn’t interfere with my nighttime visits.

  The fourth and last household that I shared had its problems not the least of which was the situation in the bathroom but at this point in time I decided compromise was in order. The house just a five-minute walk to the language school was also ruled by the lady of the house. She was an educated woman, well informed about the town and on a number of occasions her help was really useful. She used her cell phone to call taxis or even the little three wheelers, the tuc-tucs. High tech had reached the grassroots.

  Meals were generous in the new domicile but served with military precision, that is to say, the hours for breakfast, lunch and supper were declared and the dishes on each occasion were served at the table whether anyone was there or not. I was one of five guests and we had to appear on time or face a cold plate. The rhythm of the house was paramount. We got used to being trained like Pavlovian dogs. Socializing was limited to just the time we needed to eat our meals. The maid gathered the empty dishes and table settings straight away and we, the guests got the message that we should immediately retire to our separate rooms. On several evenings we collectively rebelled and remained seated around the table in conversation for a good half hour more, much to the consternation of the household help. Regimentation was universally resented.