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.