Authors: Edgard Telles Ribeiro
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 unfaithful 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?”
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.
I was so ready that I answered point-blank, “No, Eric. Not one bit.” And found myself able to add, “It’s too bad, but that’s how it is.”
He averted his eyes and took a second sip of his drink. A heavy silence followed.
“You know,” he said at last, “for a long time, I thought someone would come. To kill me. Me and my family.” He chuckled, as if belittling his old fears. “For years, I went around armed. I kept a gun and a grenade in every room of the houses we lived in. Then I got over it. No one came. And the world changed.
“Five years ago, when I saw the first tower of the World Trade Center collapse before my eyes, I raised my arms to the TV screen, as though trying to hold it up with my own hands. Then, watching the second tower fall, I had a horribly selfish reaction. I thought,
I’m off the hook
. Who would be interested, now, in settling scores with an old man like me, who took part in prehistoric wars compared to those being waged today? A man who served a CIA that had nothing to do with the current one? Where people knew each other’s first names, and electronics had only just come onto the scene?”
Now that we knew where we stood, the conversation gained in intensity.