Ah, that lunch! Juanito had prepared fresh
fish. Such an understatement! A more accurate way of saying
it would be: Juanito had created a culinary masterpiece. Using
the most elementary tools, in the most primitive way, and
using only his one hand, Juanito presented each of us with
a bone fide gourmets delight. What secrets he employed
to capitalize on the extreme freshness of the catch, and what
ingredients he employed to create the juices in which it swam,
remain his secrets to this day. For he was not forthcoming
about them when the great moment arrived. Taciturn as always,
he shrugged off our blandishments and simply served up more
fish. We were past caring. One refrains from probing favours
from the Gods.
When lunch was over, Juanito took what I
gathered was his customary seat in one of the two great chairs
in the living area. He was asleep in an instant. The others
trooped off to their siesta as well, leaving Flipper and me
to our own resources. It was then that I had my first good
look at the setting of the house. It stood quite alone, overlooking
an azure sea. It stood fairly high above that azure sea, and
just below it and a bit to the left, was a huge outcropping
of very old rock that looked astonishingly like a gigantic,
recumbent dog, as seen from behind. In the far distance, perhaps
three hundred meters off, there were proper ears standing
out of the great stone head with just the right conformation;
there was the main body of the animal, well proportioned relative
to the head and shoulders, and withal very doggy in aspect.
A small, uninhabited island stood further offshore, to the
left, and, on the right, a lovely little cove that promised
privacy so invited me that without half knowing what I was
up to, I set off with Flipper to see it closer up.
It was worth the effort. The water was as
limpid as the sunlight was pure. Gentle melodies hummed through
the branches of the very evergreen pines crowding in close
to the sandy beach at waters edge. I could easily imagine
how wonderful swimming would be in the spring and summertime.
But now the water was bitterly cold. One could easily understand
why Juanito preferred winter fish to summer ones. And one
could easily understand why my new friends, living in a pressurized
urban environment like Paris, would find this refuge so heavenly.
But what I found very hard to understand, was how Madame had
come to invite me to join them in their idyll on such short
acquaintance.
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Juanito
Picture © Harold Liebow 1966
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After all, prior to the farewell gathering
at her apartment, we had never met. And to invite a complete
stranger into the intimacy of this Christmas, in this house,
on this island, seemed a very bold invite, indeed. If I didnt
fit, it would ruin their time. And I was not sure I would
fit. Their life style was attractive in the extreme to me,
but it was not my life style. Their culture and world awareness
was far deeper than mine. Our differences were far greater,
in general, than our similarities. I was a nice Jewish boy
from Brooklyn, very American, notwithstanding I was a maverick,
while they were sophisticated Europeans, steeped in Old World
values. Would it all work out? Or would we all part later
on, a little sadder for the experience than gladder? I looked
at the sea. It was an unbelievably intense blue. I looked
west and could just make out the faintest low lying line of
the mainland. The atmosphere was clear and invigorating. The
midday sun was gently warming me. There was not a manmade
sound to be heard. It was all so incredibly beautiful that
tears formed in my eyes. How had all of it come about? How
had I arrived here into this wonderland of silence, nature,
kindness and new life? I could elaborate the steps. But I
could never understand them. Not even now, forty years later
on.
When the time and sun seemed just right,
we set off on the planned coastal walk to Juanitos house
and family. It had been referred to the day before, as the
long walk. The question which quickly arose in my mind
as I struggled to keep up with the three of them, Madame,
Jacques and Alberto, was, what did they actually mean by the
word, long? And how was I going to keep my self
respect intact if long turned out to be too long
for me? Catherine and the baby had been left home, of course,
and Juanito was already invisible on his way back home in
his row boat, powerfully retracing his earlier heading and
pushing along with his one good arm and a half! But Madame,
Jacques and Alberto seemed to be racing on ahead of me and
Flipper as if it was an international competition. Of course,
they had the advantage of prior knowledge of the terrain,
having made the trip many times before. I had been given to
understand that they would show the way, but not coddle me.
And it became clear, too, that this undertaking was their
way of saying that they felt I might be suitable material
for admission into the club. But that it was to be up to me
to prove it. So I soldiered on. And, in time, I began to find
a rhythm and a confidence which slowly grew until I found
myself able to stay with them, without being obliged to fiercely
concentrate on my progress. This freedom from introspection
came bearing a generous gift. It permitted me to actively
see and wonder at the powerful nature around me.
For, on the one hand, Flipper and I found
ourselves comforted on our right by an unfolding series of
sweet forest glades, and on our left, by giant, unforgiving
rock outcroppings, challenging the might of the sea. It seemed
that it was always that way on the west coast of the island.
The forest, usually of heavy pine stands and dense undergrowth,
would march imperiously and ominously toward the west, toward
the sea. But, just before it was engulfed by that infinity
of water, the forests advance would be abruptly halted
by enormous, rugged, rock ramparts, established millions of
years before. The forest was saved from the sea. The sea was
saved from the forest. It was a personification of that old
conundrum: what happens when an unstoppable force meets an
immovable object? The answer would seem to be that nothing
at all happens. The sea remains serene, bathing itself in
the suns benevolence. And the forest abstains from enlargement,
content to be renewed by the rains which are borne of the
sea.
The path we followed, alas, was untroubled
by any of these philosophical considerations. It seemed to
be doing its best to present us with an extraordinarily ankle-wrenching,
rough passage combined with backbreaking upgrades. It was
beset with stones and boulders, the former loose and lethal,
the latter leaning precariously toward our passage. There
was an inescapable sense of impending danger compounded by
ignorance of where to and how long we were still to go on.
And, though the beauty around us continued to enthral, the
feeling grew that it would be grand for it all to be over.
And then catastrophe struck, as I knew in my gut it would.
Flipper was missing.
He had been with me all the way. In front,
behind, to the side. Always perky and adventuresome. But during
the last few minutes he had been out of sight, off searching
on his own after some interesting doggy matter; and then he
had been unable to make it back to me. Someone or something
was in his way. I knew it intuitively. Because it was not
in his nature to stay on his own. And he had been gone long
enough so that it told me he was not on his own any more.
I called out to the others who immediately came to me. After
explaining the situation, we quickly set up search areas and
spread out, calling him loudly and carefully examining our
territory. All to no avail. Flipper was truly gone. What could
have happened? How could the little dog have come to harm
in this solitary wilderness through which we were walking?
How?
Harold Liebow
haroldliebow@ibizahistoryculture.com
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