That Christmas visit to the family on the
west coast of the island has remained vividly alive in my mind all these
many years. It happened in 1965, but it might as well have been
yesterday. I remember with a unique mixture of pleasure and nostalgia
the beginning of a friendship that has grown richly in depth and
understanding through the years. It is a friendship which now includes
a Sandra who has fought her way through the inscrutable maze of French
medical training to become a full fledged psychoanalyst holding a senior
post in a major hospital. It includes her still stunning mother,
Catherine, who has become one of France’s most celebrated singers of
antique vocal music, and finally it very much includes Madame herself.
Recently the two of us sat together in
her same wonderful house watching the infantile antics of Sandra’s baby
boy, a sturdy fellow with a strong will of his own. But always while
laughing. |t was good to sit there together and reminisce about the old
times, when Sandra herself, sporting a tutu, would dance for us to her
mother’s lilting songs, at the age of three. Jacques and Juanito, alas,
are no longer with us, and Alberto felt obliged to return to his
tortured country, Columbia. But the family is virile and still
growing. And Madame, at last, volunteered to me that I had been correct
in wondering why I had been invited, on such slight acquaintance, to the
full house guest intimacy of their family life, that Christmas. What
she had really meant was for me to come by and see them, of an
afternoon. I had misconstrued her meaning entirely: I thought to have
been invited for the whole holiday. But such was their delicacy that my
mistake was absorbed with no pain to me. It was turned into an
adventure for all of us. An adventure that birthed a lasting and loving
friendship. It wasn’t until 37 years later that I learned I hadn’t been
really invited to stay with them. And even then, the information was
given with restraint and a soft smile.
But I am wandering from my story.
Flipper needed attention. He needed to be seen by a vet. And so the
visit to the west coast of the island, perforce, had to come to an end.
The vet was in Ibiza town, on the east coast. Since an arrangement had
been made with our new friend, the taxi driver, to pick up the family
when the time came for them to return to Paris, I was free to drive
myself and Flipper back to Ibiza town. It was time to say good-bye. At
least for this Christmas. Baby Sandra could not contain herself when
she realized that she would be separated from Flipper. I had half a
mind to let her have him for her own, but the problems inherent in such
a gesture proved to be just too much for all of us. There was the
little grey dog’s addiction to me to be considered. The little fellow
had been with me for almost twelve years. It would be a wrenching
dislocation for him to find himself with a new mistress instead of an
old master. And, in the end, I found I could not bring myself to give
him up. It would be a wrenching dislocation for me, as well. Besides,
Sandra would have to learn, somewhere along the line, that loving alone
was not in itself a license to acquire. At age three, it was a tough
lesson, but she learned it well. She gave him one long, last hug as we
were about to leave. Then she ran straight into the house. I didn’t
see her again until two years later. She had become a big girl by
then. Baby Sandra was no more.
And so it was. I drove the Renault up
that lonely, car-killing access road again, if it could be called a
road. Flipper lay beside me in his usual place, but was far below his
usual form. His head lay pillowed in an old hat of mine. From time to
time he would half raise himself to look up at me. Then he would fall
back and pass into what seemed to be sleep, but what I knew to be
prolonged exhaustion. The real trouble, I had discovered, was in the
condition of his little paws. Their pads had been seriously abused by
sharp stone and contamination. I had carefully and gently washed his
feet before we left, but the damage had been done. Infection had set in
and with it, an elevated body temperature. He was, after all, an urban
fellow with urban paws, i.e., softer ones than those of country bred
dogs. He had suddenly, and for a protracted time, been exposed to a
harsh and entirely foreign, foot environment. His pads had been unable
to withstand the bruising to which they had been exposed. He was a very
tired, very old, very ill Flipper. For the first time in his life the
joy had gone out of living. It was a sad Flipper, indeed. And an even
sadder Harold.
When I had made about half the distance
through the brooding pine forest of that awful winding road, I saw two
people hiking along, using walking sticks. They were youngish, of
middle height, carrying what appeared to be small, worn, leather bags
strapped to their backs, and wearing the kind of clothes and the
standard island straw hats which immediately identified them as being a
country couple. They had stepped to the side of the track when they
first heard the car’s engine noise, and turned to look at it. At the
last moment, just as I was about to move slowly past them, the young man
of the couple raised his hand, palm facing towards me. There was no
mistaking it. Despite he was asking for a lift as a favour, his gesture
could only be taken for a command; ‘Stop’. He had not used what I had
come to think of as the international sign language request for a
hitch. He had not clenched his fist and stuck his thumb straight up in
the air. So what was it all about? I soon found out.
I stopped the little Renault and through
my open window I said, in English, “Want a lift?” There was a rising
inflection in my tone which didn’t need English to be understood, and
the young man and his companion, a lovely girl, both shook their heads
affirmatively and energetically. I somehow knew they were going a long
way by the swiftness of their reply and by the emphatic way in which
they both said ‘Si’. Somehow we made room in the back seat for both of
them. We had to move a lot of my stuff to do it. But in the end it was
all right, if a bit tight. Some of my photo gear ended up in their
laps. And so did their hats. But they laughed about it and I laughed
about it and I felt they grew more and more grateful to me for the
trouble I was taking to accommodate them. When at last we were all
sitting comfortably, I put the little car into gear and we were off.
Flipper, in the meantime, had not even raised his head. Ordinarily he
would have been actively greeting our unexpected passengers, barking a
staccato welcome. But now the only sign he made of being with us at
all, was a low whimper which escaped him from time to time. I touched
his nose. It was dry and hot. His body temperature was rising. It was
becoming urgent to find a vet, and soon.
It was just at that point that the young
man, having heard Flipper’s whimper and seen me testing his nose, leaned
forward, and, looking over the back of the front seat, actually saw
Flipper. He knew, without being told, that the dog was not well. And
he said three magic words; “Conozco un Veterinario!” I
know a vet! As it turned out what he really meant was that the Vet in
Ibiza town was his cousin. And so we would be able to go directly to
the doctor without delay, once arrived. The coincidence of having given
a lift to Ibicencans who could expedite a meeting with the man, whom, at
that moment, I most urgently wanted to see in the world, was of such a
unique quality that it brought to mind that old fable of the stone in
the middle of the road. Under the stone was a fortune in gold. It was
free for the taking by any passer-by who would move the stone out of
the way. But many passed and few had any feeling for the common
good. So the gold remained unclaimed until one passer-by, fearing for
the safety of others, moved the stone and found the treasure. Somehow,
without meaning to, I had found gold on that awful access road leading
to, and away from, Madam’s house by the sea, on the west coast of the
island. Now it was Eastward Ho! And on to a vet for Flipper. |