Lady in Red

I’m packing my bags once more. Every time I pack I think of mother. I would love to have her nearby, or even on the phone, to ask her, “Does this go with this?” or “What do you think of this dress for the dinner with so and so?” She loved dressing up, and dressing us up when we were kids. Everything that had anything to do with style was her realm… fragrances, fine fabrics, fur trimmings, little delicate watches, pearl earrings… Still today, after so many years of missing her, I turn my head if I get a whiff of her fragrance in the street or on the subway—Alfred Sung, Flora, L’Eau par Kenzo in her latter years; earlier, and her all-time favorite, Arpège de Lanvin.

Mom was a sparkling, dashing lady. She studied Literature in college and almost graduated, but decided to get married before getting there, and when a child—yours truly—arrived on the scene nine months on the dot after the wedding, her studies took forever the back seat, which is a euphemism for what really happened. Both were so young, in their early twenties. I’ve seen the black and white photos of my parents' wedding—she looks young and scared, and skin-and-bones thin. At age 21, he's just a kid. She wasn’t particularly pretty in those days, but her delicate white skin and fine bone structure offered a contrast to her translucent blue eyes. Everything about her was elegant and fragile. Her hands, accustomed to playing the piano, were soft and cold to the touch. She kept her nails neatly filed and manicured—Revlon’s Cherries-in-the-Snow and Wine with Everything were her preferred hues. She had silky blond hair that curled gently around her face. My brothers and I loved to touch it and roll it up on our fingers, which had a calming, soothing effect. 

I remember everything about her. Miriam Dolores Fernández de Polito. My beautiful, charming, petite mother. I remember her in the kitchen, her “coin preferé” in the house. She had picked the tiles, among other finishes for the house that was built in the early ‘80’s. The kitchen, at the core of the house, had red tiles on the floor, a red granite countertop, and a backsplash of white tiles with a row of hand-decorated Spanish-style majolicas with a single hunter green, white, and vermillion flower. She’d stand there with her coffee, her cigarette sitting on the side of the countertop or resting casually between her fingers. She knew smoking was bad for her, but she was too stubborn, or too proud to quit. It was her rebellion, in a community and a family that was so close-knit and so “by the book”. 

She was not “by the book”—she was everything but. Mostly, her rebellion was an intellectual one. She read Baudelaire and Borges, Ortega y Gasset and Pio Baroja, Hemingway and Cortázar. She was supposed to cook and entertain, keep an impeccable home and impeccable kids. And she loved all that. She loved to be the perfect mom and wife more than anything else. But she made time for her things—her garden outside the house and her neat planters in the patio, her knitting projects, and, once in a while, her afternoons of rendez-vous with her beloved piano.

Mom had taken piano lessons from a very early age. Her professor, Maestro Alsina, was, after her father Ramón, one of two men she admired and looked up to. He had taught her for almost two decades, and although he passed away too soon after I was born, I have seen his picture among mother's most prized possessions. Carlos Alsina had studied the piano in Spain; he had been a disciple at the Academy of Enrique Granados, a revered musician and the author of the famous La maja y el ruiseñor, among other pieces known as Goyescas. The Maestro passed on to mother his knowledge of the piano and his love for Albéniz, Manuel de Falla, Pablo Casals, and other great masters. She played passionately, on her Kohner upright which I inherited. When she played, everything else disappeared from her radar. She held her breath and half-closed her eyes in an absent stare. We could be playing right next to her, chasing the dog, or up to other mischief—she didn't care, she carried on playing.

Father loved hearing her play, and he also loved it when she played at parties and for friends. She made him proud, and she pleased him by playing his favorites—mostly Argentine folklore pieces, such as Coronación del Folklore, Adiós alma mía, among other tangos, zambas, and songs. These tunes are to these days the backdrop of so many memories—and they are a treasure that I can conjure up anytime I want, thanks to her insistence that I learn to play the piano myself. Sometimes she would light a cigarette, or bring a cup of coffee and set it at the end of the instrument. But then she would focus back on the music and the cigarette would just sit there and consume itself. In my teen years, when I was a music student myself, she would hear me playing and occasionally sit with me at the piano. Of course, she knew her skills were superior to mine, so she'd play her own pieces, never tried to play mine. 

She also loved to sing and dance. I remember her dancing and laughing with us in the living room, she'd hold her arms up and swing to the beat--we'd sing along the new pop tunes, sometimes in Portuguese or English. She loved languages. She had learned French as a child, and she died with the unfulfilled dream of walking the streets of Paris, Rome and Madrid. When I got married and emigrated to the U.S. in the late 80's, she set out to study English. She knew she'd be visiting us in New York at some point, and she loved this new challenge. She learned quite a bit—but her pronunciation was funny, a bit weird, as she had a French accent in English! She did indeed visit me in New York, twice, when Nico was born in 1989 and then with father, in 1993, shortly after Sofia's birth. When I was expecting my first child, mother came a month prior to the expected due date. We both spent a precious month in the "dulce espera". We knitted, prepared the layette, and wondered who would the baby look like. I had known the sex of the baby since earlier in the pregnancy, but she had asked me to keep that information to myself. Imagine the challenge! I had to keep referring to the baby as "him or her", although I'm sure she must have known. Would "he or she" inherit my husband's blue eyes? Would "he or she" be blond or brunette? Would he like to play soccer? Woops! Of course only if it was a "he". Or play the piano? We didn't know... one thing was for sure, "he or she" would be loved, adored by this young grandma. When Nicolas was born, we marveled together at the miracle of the tiny feet, the tiny and chubby fingers, the fragile head with just a wisp of blond hair—all "his" own.

Mama, you taught me almost everything I know—from doing my own manicure to singing and laughing, to cooking and ironing and other equally "important" house chores. You taught me to love, with that immense love that wrapped everything in your protective veil. You taught us to love life, to embrace its challenges and relish the good moments. Once you told Gabriel that life is like a string of stars, each one shining in its own perfection, and one should dwell only on these moments, leave the rest of the stuff behind... No point in time is perfect, devoid of shadows or darkness. But if we stay the course, and just look at the bright moments, life can be like a glittering night sky. 

The year Mother passed, after a brief but courageous fight with cancer, was the most difficult time of my life. I was 36 years-old, and Niky and I were moving to Santo Domingo. I was an absolute wreck—I was mad, I couldn't be consoled. Everything reminded me of her, and sometimes it was so painful, I couldn't even breathe. I couldn't shake the sight of her thin body, her sunken eyes and her swollen, painful stomach. Some days I just went through the motions, in automatic pilot. One day, a few months after our arrival in the island, we had been invited to a cocktail party at the Country Club. Niky was trying hard to cheer me up. I put on a nice dress and painted my nails red—not my usual or favorite color, but I thought it would look nice for the occasion. I put on my best jewelry, mother's pearl earrings and a matching ring in the shape of a chalice. I had a glass of champagne at the reception and tried to enjoy myself. On the way back, in the car, I looked at my hands and realized—they looked just like mother's, with that ring on my fourth finger and Cherries-in-the-Snow bright red manicure. I cried silent tears that washed my sorrow. 

My heart still mourns every day for her. Every day I see something at home, or in my own reflection in the mirror, that reminds me of her. She's present in my nieces' light blue eyes and in her passion for everything clean and impeccable, in my brother Miguel's cascading laughter, in my daughter's chin, in the mischief in her eyes, in her love of everything Français. She's present in Gabriel's duraznos en almibar, in Granados' Suite Iberia, in a stranger's cigarette smoke. She anointed Nicolas, her beloved grandson, with her adoring stories and tall tales. He still loves to hear a good story. She knitted baby booties, sweaters and mantillas for my children that were passed down to Jero, Lola, Joaquina and Benjamín, the grandchildren born after she passed. She's at once my pride, my inspiration, queen of my memories, angel of music and joy.

We love you, mamá. Last year, on March 29, you would have turned 70. Gabriel and I wondered what you'd look like if you were still with us. We agreed that you'd be a tough little lady, always elegant, you wouldn't have lost your sophistication. You'd be a wonderful grandma. Your garden would be so green and your trees so tall. We'd try to make you proud everyday. We'd share with you our troubles and tribulations. On the other hand, with the years the sadness has lifted its veil and we remember fondly and selectively, just the good things. You shine forever in our memory, mamá, like the brightest of stars in a night sky. 

Crafted with love

Many of my childhood memories are associated with cold winters, rainy days and afternoons spent indoors. I close my eyes and can feel the coarse wool of the sweaters, hand-knit by mom or grandma; I can feel the cuffs of my undershirt wet and cold—we were made to wash our hands often, and just as often water crept up the sleeve and wet my white cotton camiseta. We wore layers of clothing to keep us warm. Sweaters were made to last and grow with us, and they were handed down from one sibling to the other. These knit fashions, and visions of mom’s outfits and dresses punctuate the years in my foggy memories. In the seventies it was fashionable to dress siblings with identical pieces; so mom would knit two red sweaters, one size 8 for me, one size 4 for Gabriel. This meant that I would wear a sweater for a couple of years, then mine would pass down to Gabriel—and effectively he would be wearing a red sweater for four years. No wonder I remember them so vividly!

Mom loved this tradition, it went on for years. We had matching sets of yellow mohair sweaters with brown rhomboidal patterns at the cuff and hemlines, matching marine blue vests in soft “cashmilon” with red and white patterns; matching “gym” outfits that mom proudly crafted on her Knittax machine in blue “vanlon”. These equipitos de gimnasia were definitely made to last… practically indestructible, we wore them to extinction and then they were handed down to younger cousins. I didn’t like these particular outfits because their tight elastic bands left ridges carved on my wrists.

When mom mastered the Knittax machine she could craft every thing she wanted for us on this mechanical wonder. I remember the lacy knee-high white socks she made for me to wear with a red velvet dress and black ballerina shoes—this was the “dressed-up” outfit. Another white shirt and underwear to match the lacy socks. Mom would stay up late at night to finish her projects. It was sort of an addiction for her. She had set up her workshop in the garage which functioned as a family room, and from our bedrooms we could hear the cart of the machine going rhythmically back and forth on the machine, softly purring its way across and swallowing yarn grrrr, rrrr, rrrr, rrrr…. The garment would emerge from under the cart as if by magic. Every part of the process was a ritual; mom brought home the yarn in bulk and we helped her to roll it up into neat balls. Grandma Lola teased her because her tightly rolled yarn balls looked like ostrich eggs. “You’ve laid an egg”—she would say, and they’d laugh together. 

They spent entire afternoons in this endeavor. They talked and talked, laughed, and talked some more. They consulted with each other about their projects. They took breaks to bake cookies—grandma’s bollitos—or toast tortitas to serve with mate. If there wasn’t anything else to munch, grandma would carve the dough from the inside of a baguette and fill it with butter and sugar, then split the loaf down the middle for Gabriel and I to share. Gabriel and I had our chocolate milk and made our homework to the tune of their voices.

Gabriel was mischievous, I was obedient—or so they say. Truth be told, he was much younger, and probably got bored after a half hour of sitting down quietly to draw or work on a coloring book. One day we were particularly busy. Mom was helping me with homework, we had to put book covers on all my new notebooks and create title pages for all of them, las carátulas. Mom was copying illustrations from her embroidery magazines onto my notebook—a mama duck with her three ducklings—and I would meticulously color the illustrations. Gabriel was bored. And he was probably a bit jealous too. The scissors were there, right at hand. He quietly took them, hid under the table and came up with an idea of a project for himself. But he was so quiet… so mom knew he must be up to no good. She called out to him: “Gabriel!”. We heard criss, criss, crisss… then he emerged from under the table, proudly brandishing the weapon. He saw her horrified gesture as she took her hands to her face, and didn’t even wait for her to ask “What are you doing?”…he answered “¡Nada!” The tablecloth was neatly fringed all around the table. I think what followed could nowadays be characterized as child abuse, but back then was normal discipline measures in the shape of a slap or two on his bare buttocks.

Poor Gabrielito! He regularly got disciplined and my mom would go to the bathroom and cry a few tears herself afterwards. Gabriel would scream in protest. But grandma was there to console him. Lola’s warm chest was our best refuge. She would sit us on her lap and roll us to sleep. She had D-cups and I swear cuddling there was the best that could happen to you, it was so comforting. Especially if you had just had a crying fit or a tantrum.

I remember a beautiful red sweater that mom hand-knitted for Gabriel. She finished this project on time for him to wear it for my cousin Mirna’s quinceañera party. My cousin’s birthday was in July, the coldest month of the year in Mendoza, and she celebrated it with a lunch at a restaurant in town, across from Plaza España. Gabriel was about eleven. Mom wanted him to wear the new red sweater. But he had a mind of his own, and he didn’t want to put it on, as the itchy mohair was uncomfortable. He took it off. Mom got nervous. She asked him to put it back on. He took it back off and, when mom was not looking, tore out the buttons one by one. It was a daring act of defiance. I don’t remember how this ended up—probably with my brother being punished for life or some other impossible-to-keep threat. It wasn’t pretty.

In 1973 mom was expecting. Mom and Lola set out to plan el ajuar—the layette. They kept busy. They skipped their siesta to work on their beloved projects—and as if they were fairies casting their spells, the baby booties, tiny dresses, socks, turtlenecks, scarves, gloves and hats rolled out of their hands and into a huge box they had prepared for that purpose. The box was covered in striped blue fabric and had a solid blue top with embroidered flowers. They were so proud. Tiny Miguel arrived to that loving nest with enough bibs and mantitas for an entire nursery.

Where these the best years of my life? It’s hard to say without getting in trouble with the people that came later into it. But they were definitely right up there with the best. Hot chocolate, warm hand-knit sweaters and cold winter afternoons still conjure that magic time that is all but gone. The smell of freshly pressed cotton and linen has a hint of the scent of grandma’s chest. Many years after mom and grandma passed, I treasure some old knitting magazines, and a long box of tricot needles. It’s a box covered in striped blue fabric, and there are flowers embroidered on its solid blue top.

The Escargot Harvest

Sometimes, the smallest thing can trigger a whole string of memories. They are there, as indelible as black ink. Held in place by the countless retelling at random parties and family get-togethers. Just the other day, we were having paella with our friends. The shells in my plate reminded me of the scene in “Pretty Woman” when Julia Roberts is trying to hold the escargot with the special pliers when swoosh the “slippery little sucker” goes flying… I free-associated this to the story of the escargot my family harvested in Mar del Plata.

My brother Gabriel must have been three; I was six or seven. I remember the doll that I got for Reyes Magos, the Epiphany of the Three Kings, which for us is the holiday when kids get gifts from the Three Kings, usually the best gifts in the year. I agonized over which name I should give my doll, which was a male baby in a blue overall. I remember naming it Pablo—I didn’t know anybody named Pablo back then, and thought it was the warmest name for a chubby baby in a blue hooded overall. We were on vacation in San Bernardo with my grandma Lolá, my aunt and my parents. The adults had befriended another family at the beach (oh! so this was something that was normal!!). It was a rainy, or perhaps just cloudy day, and the new acquaintances had invited us to go on a picnic to el Bosque de Peralta Ramos. Someone made up a silly rhyme which went something like this: “Adónde vamos?/Al Bosque de Peralta Ramos” (Where are we going?/We go the Bosque Peralta Ramos). I was mispronouncing “Peralta Ramos” and it sounded more like “peral pa’ ramos”, which was quite funny (a pear tree for branches).

We arrived at el Bosque and started getting the stuff out of the trunk to start the picnic. We were equipped with a few styrofoam ice-boxes, they were the rave back then, styrofoam was a revolutionary thing. We had folding chairs and tables, bottles of Coca-Cola and Crush, the popular orange soda of the 60’s. We set the tables and started taking out the banquet… cheese, various salamis and a whole big round mortadella, loaves of bread, olives, and some cans of patefua and Criollitas was the typical fare at picnics like these—I don’t remember what we were having this particular day... Then, someone yelled out… “Look! There’s a snail!” We were in fact camping in an eucalyptus grove, which was a natural habitat for these creatures. “There’s another one!”, mom yelled. Someone had the idea of harvesting them… but where would we collect them? In the styrofoam boxes! We emptied the boxes of all their contents… and filled them up to the brim with snails. At the end of the day we loaded them in the trunk and took them back to our rental apartments. My grandma had to “purge” the snails for a couple of days by feeding them quartered apples and carrots.

Gabriel and I were fascinated. We loved to play with them; they were perfectly innocent live gummy creatures. We held them in our hands and waited patiently for them to crawl out of the shell. They stretched their bodies and their anthenae-like eyes… If we touched them, they immediately retreated back into their little caves. The little critters loved crawling out of the boxes. The morning after we woke up to find them scattered all over the apartment. As you can imagine, this provided a fantastic entertainment for us for a while. We loved to harvest them again, especially the ones that had climbed up all the way to the ceiling. We had to climb on top of the fridge to get the “slippery little suckers”.

I love telling this story every time there’s a snail in my plate; it turns out “escargot” make a delicious tale as well as a meal… if you like them, let me know and I can look up my grandma Lola’s recipe.

This happened around the time when my brother gave us the biggest scare—one of them, as he seemed to have had a penchant for finding dangerous situations and escaping unscathed. A blond boy with his straight hair falling over his forehead in long bangs, deep green eyes and a stare that could freeze a burglar in his steps. In the various pictures I’ve seen, he’s always occupied with something in his hands—perhaps examining intently, “fixing” a broken car wheel, or torturing some unsuspecting insect. Invariably there’s a deep frown and his lips are tightly pressed. You could say he was an intense boy. Adorable, angelically blond, a perfect disguise for the hyper-active little devil inside.

The apartment we had rented that summer in San Bernardo was on a high-rise, ocean-front tower. We were on the sixth or seventh floor, and the windows of the master bedroom opened wide to the beach view, the Atlantic stretching far and wide. The windowsill was waist-high for an adult, but Gabriel wanted to take a peek, so he pushed a chair and managed to climb up. Lola, our grandma, was in her early fifties. It was a nice evening, and she was getting ready to take us out to dinner, or perhaps for a walk outside. She was sitting on the bed with her back to the window, she looked in her mirror while putting on mascara and lipstick—her sole beauty staples. She didn’t realize the window had been left open, and was calmly talking to Gabriel about the barquitos and the wandering light of the lighthouse far in the distance. Gabriel was asking about this and that, and then he referred to something downstairs by the park, perhaps the swings…and this question gave her a jolt—he couldn’t have seen this with the windows closed. She turned around and saw him leaning over, dangerously, with half of his little body outside and his arms stretched out. There was nothing for him to hold on to. She didn’t scream. She didn’t even speak… Very slowly, she walked toward him and grabbed him by the waist.  Then she closed the window, her complexion turned pale as a paper,  and sat down on the bed to cry and pray.

Lolá loved us so much. She was the soul of our family, back then. In my eyes, she was a powerful tornado of a woman. A petite lady, she wore her brunette hair in high up-dos that added a couple of inches and made her seem a bit taller. She seemed to know it all, it seemed to me--all the recipes, all the remedies, all the ways to skin a cat… She baked the best bollitos—hand-made pastries made of flour and fat . She was charming, admired by everyone. I was always in awe of the things that she produced—sweets and home-made gnocchi from her kitchen, incredibly delicious marmalades of every kind imaginable. Once she made a tiny little brown cape with real fur trimming for my dolls.  She must have thought I wasn’t looking… but of course, I was. 

Hanging Pictures

Hanging Pictures—by Miriam Fabiancic

I finish hanging the paintings in my new home, and the whole place magically becomes mine. It’s that simple. They are old paintings we’ve collected in our many destinations, where we’ve lived and where we’ve traveled. Some used to be in the living room in New York, and after the move end up in the master bedroom. It doesn’t matter. The paintings go up—and all of a sudden, it’s home. We just hanged a whole bunch of them this weekend in our new apartment in Caracas.

The beautiful, colorful, eclectic pieces by the artist from Tucuman, which we got in the 90’s while visiting that most wonderfully scented province in Northern Argentina—nicknamed “El jardín de la República” (the Garden of the Republic). Nick and I were sightseeing; across from the main square which was infused with the scent of orange blossoms, when we found a magnificent old mansion, occupied by a bank, a classic example of Spanish Plateresco architecture.  We went in to admire the fountain, the back patio and the wrought iron windows. Beyond the back patio, there was a sign advertising the show of a graduating fine artist opening that same evening. We peeked through the glass at the interior of the gallery and saw some rather large-scale abstract mixed-media pieces, in the most varied palette—one was mostly white with some urban landscape sketching in pale reds, grays and blues. Another was mostly turquoise green with the same dream-like bridges hanging from nowhere to nowhere… yet another evoked city lights from the distance. And the most daring one, with reeds parting in what seemed like a big divide of sorts. We decided to go back that night to the show’s opening.

There were just a few people and one of them was the thin, wispy young woman whose work was being featured. She was shy. My husband took me aside, asked me which ones I liked the most, and cautioned me to say nothing—as if this was easy for me. He proceeded to negotiate the purchase of five paintings. We brought our booty back home rolled in neat cardboard cilinders.  We were living in Caracas back then. I had the pictures framed here, and the frames costed an arm and a leg… much more than we had paid for the art. The artists’ name was Cristina Aguilera. If she’s still out there, I should send her this story. Perhaps it would mean something to her… to know that her paintings have been witness to our lives. In Caracas, in Santo Domingo, in New York… and now they are providing the backdrop to this new chapter… again in Caracas.

I have since become a bit of an artist myself—if only an aspiring one.  I’ve only framed two or three oils-on-canvas. Two of them feature vases with flowers, which I find quite sensual and intriguing. The other one is a mysterious, darker oil I’ve christened “Amsterdam Café”. I’ve always been fascinated by the atmosphere in a café. Especially if it’s a beautiful café like this Grand Café in the Netherlands which I copied from a postcard. The scene is a classic “contraluz”, a dimly lit restaurant, with scattered tables, some of them occupied by some lonely souls, and random couples talking. It’s a quiet room. The window in the back is the sole source of light except for the art-decó lamps which are at center-stage.

Today I also hanged the two black-and-white photographs of Nick and I when we were little. Nick’s portrait is a small two-by-five. In the picture, he is about four years-old. There’s a car tire and the boy with the cutest smile in the world, who is playing with a couple of tools on the wheel. You can see the mischief in his smile and his eyes. I can imagine the scene, perhaps his father had a flat and was changing the tire with young Nick running around and “helping” him. I wonder if papa took the picture or if one of the aunts was nearby watching, perhaps looking after the boy. I wonder whose camera it was, and who might have been the object of that adorable smile.

Mine is a beach scene. The portrait is twice as large as Nick's. I was also three or four. I am sitting on the sand in a bikini, and quite fashionably, I have a neat white cardigan buttoned up at the neckline. My chubby belly is exposed. I have a scarf on my head tied back in perfect 60’s fashion. A bucket full of sand sits by my thighs. I know this picture was taken in Mar del Plata. I close my eyes and can still feel the cold sand beneath me, the texture of it in my fingers. I am holding a small shovel. What a joy it was to play in the sand… I must have been a handfull. I heard my mom tell how I got lost in the crowd one afternoon. I was collecting sticks for a sandcastle. I took a turn behind the reclining umbrella, and suddenly I was lost. An agonizing half-hour later, I appeared straddled on a stranger’s shoulders, while people clapped to attract attention.

We were both happy kids.

I know it’s silly, but the paintings, the photos, the knick-knacks, and the books that I’ve collected through the years sort of hold the keys to our story. Each painting, each photo, each memento has something to tell. I intend to be just a funnel for those stories here… before I forget them, or better yet, before more stories accumulate and the old ones fall to the bottom of the barrel and get lost forever.