Authors: Edgard Telles Ribeiro
“Don’t tell me, Colonel.”
“The Caped Crusader had a second hidden agenda. Even hotter than the nuclear reactors.”
“Nuclear reactors?” I asked innocently.
The colonel tried to backpedal, but it was too late. He’d already said too much. He hung on to the studio like someone
clinging to a life raft. “He was up to no good in that studio with the little girls. And he photographed his exploits. The girls playing with themselves. Or with him, two, three, at a time … Until one of the mothers informed the police. Then we had to intervene. The girl was twelve years old.”
“You personally?”
“
Me?
… Oh, no. I didn’t even know him in those days. I only found out about this much later. Years after returning from Montevideo, that’s how secret it was. No. The orders came from above, from the highest level.”
“Who would have thought … and the nuclear reactors … in Vienna, you …”
“What nuclear reactors?” How to go back? He tried to sideline the issue.
“Eric is the one who knows about that.”
Cutting him slack, I said, “The man who always knew it all.” Given his silence, I resorted to the past. “During one of our conversations in Vienna, you said that —”
But the colonel was no fool. He dealt with my persistence by taking refuge in his recent sorrow. “Eric’s phone call really got to me. I’d forgotten that he too had lost his wife. My daughter had to prompt me. My dear Betty …” Another pause. And finally, the seed of an idea, perhaps to free himself of my questions, without being rude to the teddy-bear guy. “Incidentally …”
Given all I’d learned in Vienna about conversation with the colonel, I simply continued to nurse my warm beer.
“… He’s your neighbor.”
“Eric Friedkin?
My neighbor?
”
“Yes. Didn’t you say you’re stationed in LA? For the second time? So you must know the area pretty well. He lives near San Diego. It’s less than two hours on the freeway. Right on the border with Mexico. The other side of Tijuana. Dreadful place Tijuana is, by the way.”
“Who would have thought,” I couldn’t help but murmur. I was truly surprised. Eric Friedkin … at my disposal, if I so desired. Served up on the finest tray — one provided by a mutual friend. It was the kind of news that generates both curiosity and unease.
The waiter approached with the check. The colonel firmly prevented my taking care of it. “Your money is no good here!” he exclaimed, grabbing the bill.
Returning to the subject that now seemed to be thrilling him — and troubling me: “I’m going to send an e-mail introducing you to him as someone I trust. You’ll enjoy talking with Eric. And he with you. Eric is nothing like a typical CIA agent these days. On the contrary, he’s become an old dinosaur, just like me. Not that he’s changed in his way of thinking, he hasn’t changed in that respect. But he’s mellowed, lost his edge.” His eyes beamed, overtaken by a childlike enchantment, as if seeking forgiveness in the past. “Yes, Eric’s mind is the same, I can tell from his e-mails. And from Nancy’s comments. A true relic these days. Still sharp as a tack, of course. But stopped in time.” The comments weren’t exactly promising. On the other hand …?
The colonel was now carefully reviewing the check, moving his lips as he tallied the figures lit by the table lamp. Once the inspection was over, he deposited a few coins on the plate and asked, “Who else can afford not to change with the times? Only Eric.”
In my parents’ time, a man in his sixties was considered old. Yet the adjective could hardly be applied to the individual who greeted me in my office — though he was close to eighty. The man who shook my hand seemed to have no shortage of energy.
That was my first impression of Eric Friedkin. Partly because of his gaze and bearing, and largely because of his physique, probably the result of a daily exercise regimen. His expression, moreover, conveyed both calm and aloofness, a curious combination that in no way diminished the sincerity of his smile. His suntan, in turn, suggested a retirement spent on three-mast sailboats, perhaps traveling distant seas. And his crew cut, which had upset Marina years before in Washington, had ended up going with the whole look quite naturally.
Like Colonel João Vaz, he was tall. But in contrast to his friend, he had no fat on him. He entered my office and crossed directly to my desk with the composure of someone who, if required, would proceed with the same stride out over the horizon, unfazed by the window and whatever might be awaiting him some forty floors below. Also unlike his former companion — who had soon taken on the persona of a trained bear in my view — he couldn’t be compared to any tamed animal.
“Delighted to meet you,” he said, as I welcomed him.
He could have sat in a chair in front of me or shared the sofa a few steps away. Still smiling, he waited for me to indicate my
preference. I chose the sofa. As we sat side by side, the secretary who had showed him in returned with coffee.
“Brazilian coffee!” he exclaimed in the same jovial tone. “At least I hope so …”
I apologized for having kept him waiting while I was trying to finish a report about to be sent off to Brasilia. I added that I hadn’t expected him to arrive so soon after his call.
“I phoned from the lobby,” Eric told me in a hushed voice, as if sharing a secret. The line could have meant
so you couldn’t escape
. Or illustrated how spontaneous he was.
He must have registered something of my surprise, for he went on to explain. “Once a month, I take the San Diego Freeway and come have lunch with my friends in Los Angeles. Old colleagues from work, all retired like me. And your building is one of my favorite places to park: there’s always space. From there to making the call was just one short step.”
After a brief pause, he continued. “Besides, yesterday I got a new e-mail from our mutual friend. João …” His pronunciation had been midway between
João
and
John
, slightly more toward the latter.
“He wanted to know if we’d been in touch yet. The fellow seems eager to have us get together. Which is quite typical of him …”
We laughed a little, me without knowing just why, him in honor of old times in Montevideo.
Good old João
, his look seemed to say.
As expected, we went on to talk about the colonel. I described how I’d met him in Vienna and mentioned what had led us to become friends in a city that had at first seemed hostile to us — at night and in the wintertime, at least. I indicated that we’d gotten together since then and emphasized our recent dinner in Ipanema, trying to fill in the gaps with details about his recently deceased wife, his daughter and grandchildren. Especially —
“Ernestinho!” he cut in. “Ernestinho Vaz! In honor of one of João’s former bosses. Ernesto …”
He’d set the ball up so I could spike it. Since I said nothing, he himself returned with a deflated “… Geisel.”
In the meantime, I took a sip of my coffee, allowing the former military president to beat a hasty retreat so we could resume our pleasant conversation without his shadow looming over us. Eric didn’t blink but registered what had happened. I appreciated his tact. And began to pay closer attention to him.
I noted that he seemed at ease, looking around him with satisfaction, lingering over the paintings, prints, and posters from previous years of the São Paulo Art Biennial. Then he concentrated on the windows. Seated where he was, he couldn’t see much other than the blue sky. Even so, he found a way to express his admiration.
“The thirty-eighth floor! You’ve got a beautiful view from up here. Buildings this tall are becoming common in the area. Before, there were only the ones in Century City, and a few miles away, in Westwood. Other than downtown, of course. But the smog there tends to be unbearable.” He knew the city well, even though he visited only on occasion.
“When I lived here the first time,” I remarked, “more than thirty years ago, our consulate was on Wilshire, only farther down, across from the old LA County Museum.”
“I know the building you’re talking about,” he exclaimed happily, as if there were something curious and unexpected about this new coincidence. “I usually park my car there too. It’s called the Mutual …”
“… Benefit Life Building,” I completed.
We laughed again. Ernesto Geisel, no. The Mutual Benefit Life Building, yes. We were groping our way in utter darkness but without being anxious or fearful of one another.
I glanced at my watch. Marina’s old question about Max came to mind: “
Did you ever manage to find out anything
…
anything more concrete about him?
”
“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.