a fragment of a memory pounded out one August evening this year ...
I will never do justice to Leopoldo in an afternoon and today I only have 45 minutes or so left of my journey down from London during which to describe him.
He is an overweight man, terribly out of shape. His complexion is pale but his cheeks are rosy, he is almost cherubic in appearance. His hair is often too long, it has not receded and, despite his 56 years, it is a youthful light-brown colour. His eyes are blue. All in all, Leopoldo look more like a Dutchman than an Italian; he is, though, somewhat weirdly proud of his nose!
Leopoldo eats carefully and he never drinks. Before meals he takes a number of pills and he puts at least one or possibly two seltzer-like medicines in glasses of water. After getting to know him better, I learned that his liver was shot and he was awaiting a transplant. That was in the earliest days of our relationship; over time his condition apparently improved and he was removed from the list, his liver judged sufficiently recovered that a transplant was no longer necessary.
After decades of alcohol and bachelorhood, Leopoldo married a Columbian woman, many years his junior. When I first met him, Leopoldo had only wed relatively recently but they had a child, Lucia, who was then only three. He doted on his baby girl and our friendship was sealed when I brought the first of several small toys for him to give her.
Leopoldo is smart; he spent his life building petrochemical projects around the world. He has experienced nearly every possible commercial situation and the memory of them serves him well. He knows what to look for and what risks are most likely in nearly every circumstance.
But, and this is sad, that part of the brain that involves creativity and flexibility no longer works so well for Leopoldo. I suspect that he simply assassinated billions of his brain cells, asphyxiating them with alcohol. The result was a man who could swing from friendly and open to suspicious and close in a matter of moments. His conversation could wander worryingly and he often focused on issues long after they had been resolved. He often seemed befuddled.
Leopoldo’s automobile, the one he had when first we met, was a battered old Lancia only it wasn’t so old, the fact was that Leopoldo was one of the worst drivers in a land of bad or, at least, dangerous drivers and he had simply dinged up the car in a series of minor mishaps, the result being a vehicle that looked as if it had been through the worst of the latest major world conflicts.
I was fortunate to learn of Leopoldo’s appalling driving before actually experiencing it first hand. We agreed to meet in separate cars at a service plaza on the motorway from where he would lead me to a project site we were planning to develop jointly and which I hadn’t yet seen. Coffee was duly drunk and we mounted up. What happened next was simply mind-boggling; after first trying to enter the freeway the wrong way, we eventually found the right way out and proceeded along in a series of stomach churning lunges and pauses. Leopoldo would drive extremely fast, regardless of whatever speed the rest of the traffic was going, apparently intent on ramming whatever vehicle was in front of him. At the last moment he would jam on the brakes and we’d slow down so precipitously that the cars behind nearly had to stop to avoid ending up in our back seats. The first time this happened, I slewed my vehicle into the fast lane to avoid the chaos and ended up with Leopoldo following me for a number of miles until I phoned him to tell him that I thought he ought to lead given that I had no idea where we were going.
The effect of our lunging forward, slamming on the brakes and then accelerating forward again was not only frightening, it was, as I noted, slightly nauseating. Eventually we swung off the highway at some obscure town, the sign to which Leopoldo only noticed from the far lane, some two-hundred yards from the exit. Clearly Leopoldo’s new son is not intended to grow up as an orphan because the manoeuvre was successful. I actually think Leopoldo was surprised when he pulled over at a nearby café to find that I was still behind him. Of course, the surprise may simply have been the sudden recollection of why he was there and who I was.
After another coffee we caromed along a country road. I had a map spread on my passenger seat but only glanced at it occasionally since Leopoldo seemed to be lurching spasmodically but knowledgably forwards. At one bend in the road, Leopoldo chose the simpler alternative of going straight, into a wheat field. His vehicle ploughed along for a bit and then came to a shuddering stop, surrounded by the staff of life. I followed, much slower, and stopped some distance behind him. I rolled the window down and yelled out at him that this didn’t seem to be the way that was marked on my map ....
02 December 2004
Thirteen.
My daughter, Alex, is thirteen. Disconcerting. My little girl has suddenly developed breasts and other accoutrements of womanhood. Her speech has changed as well; she can be dismissive and sarcastic, emotional and unfair, angry and resentful, all within the space of a few minutes conversation. Advice, never very willingly listened to, is now completely unwelcome and, indeed, is something that I rarely offer these days. Hormones, something of which she was, I believe, completely free just months ago, now appear to control her completely. These creatures, hormones, are irreversible; I know, I asked a fellow-suffering doctor friend with two teen-aged girls of his own if there was anything that might stop this maturing process and restore to me my little girl and he shook his head sadly and simply offered me another glass of wine. Once in a while my daughter will permit me to listen to her. Mostly this is when she or, more correctly, her hormones have concocted some fairly ditzy theory about unpopularity (hers) or the long-planned tortures of the educational system which she is being forced to endure at the hands of evil teachers who took up the profession decades before in the sole hope that one day they would have the opportunity to inflict misery upon my daughter.
In those cases where I am permitted to listen, the sheer verbal volume of which my daughter is capable is awesome. She delivers soliloquies that can last thirty minutes and during which she must suck air in via her ears because I swear that she doesn’t stop to take breath.
Mostly I make sympathetic noises about the various injustices that appear to characterise every aspect of her life. This past summer these have ranged from a broken nail – I kid you not – to some rather insightful comments on ‘Animal Farm’. At times it is clear that certain of her teachers redeemed themselves when they saw fit to grant her grades that were unexpectedly good. When the grades were not as good, it was a result of the conspiracy of anti-Alex ‘sleeper’ agent-teachers who had been waiting these past decades for her to be conceived, raised and, almost providentially sent to the very school at which the individual tool-of-evil awaited her arrival.
This past year my daughter attended a uniform-school and was extremely happy when, after incessant lobbying on her part for at least two years, we agreed to move her to a new school whose only policy on dress seems to be that casual (shorts, tee-shirts and those space-aged sport shoe things) is good but sloppy (holey jeans, torn tee-shirts and those footwear things – I don’t mean the slingshots that they wear instead of panties – that we used to call thongs) is better (thankfully sexy seems to be forbidden). Her cousins all excitedly provided advice on her new wardrobe but sometime during the process her hormones intervened and announced, rather insightfully but unhelpfully, that she had merely changed one uniform for another. Her individuality was under severe threat from the need to conform to be cool.
The scope of Alex’s conversation is three-dimensional: she can speak long and she packs a lot of words into small, tight spaces; even more impressive, though, is the scope. She can discuss books, nail polish, John Kerry (‘he’s in what band?’), popular culture and her need for a larger budget at length and without the annoying need for any real feedback. Mostly I just listen, fascinated at the way her mind flits from place to place. The world for her is a great plain over which are scattered opportunities, experiences and things-to-be-discovered without end. I’m jealous and happy for her.
My daughter, Alex, is thirteen. Disconcerting. My little girl has suddenly developed breasts and other accoutrements of womanhood. Her speech has changed as well; she can be dismissive and sarcastic, emotional and unfair, angry and resentful, all within the space of a few minutes conversation. Advice, never very willingly listened to, is now completely unwelcome and, indeed, is something that I rarely offer these days. Hormones, something of which she was, I believe, completely free just months ago, now appear to control her completely. These creatures, hormones, are irreversible; I know, I asked a fellow-suffering doctor friend with two teen-aged girls of his own if there was anything that might stop this maturing process and restore to me my little girl and he shook his head sadly and simply offered me another glass of wine. Once in a while my daughter will permit me to listen to her. Mostly this is when she or, more correctly, her hormones have concocted some fairly ditzy theory about unpopularity (hers) or the long-planned tortures of the educational system which she is being forced to endure at the hands of evil teachers who took up the profession decades before in the sole hope that one day they would have the opportunity to inflict misery upon my daughter.
In those cases where I am permitted to listen, the sheer verbal volume of which my daughter is capable is awesome. She delivers soliloquies that can last thirty minutes and during which she must suck air in via her ears because I swear that she doesn’t stop to take breath.
Mostly I make sympathetic noises about the various injustices that appear to characterise every aspect of her life. This past summer these have ranged from a broken nail – I kid you not – to some rather insightful comments on ‘Animal Farm’. At times it is clear that certain of her teachers redeemed themselves when they saw fit to grant her grades that were unexpectedly good. When the grades were not as good, it was a result of the conspiracy of anti-Alex ‘sleeper’ agent-teachers who had been waiting these past decades for her to be conceived, raised and, almost providentially sent to the very school at which the individual tool-of-evil awaited her arrival.
This past year my daughter attended a uniform-school and was extremely happy when, after incessant lobbying on her part for at least two years, we agreed to move her to a new school whose only policy on dress seems to be that casual (shorts, tee-shirts and those space-aged sport shoe things) is good but sloppy (holey jeans, torn tee-shirts and those footwear things – I don’t mean the slingshots that they wear instead of panties – that we used to call thongs) is better (thankfully sexy seems to be forbidden). Her cousins all excitedly provided advice on her new wardrobe but sometime during the process her hormones intervened and announced, rather insightfully but unhelpfully, that she had merely changed one uniform for another. Her individuality was under severe threat from the need to conform to be cool.
The scope of Alex’s conversation is three-dimensional: she can speak long and she packs a lot of words into small, tight spaces; even more impressive, though, is the scope. She can discuss books, nail polish, John Kerry (‘he’s in what band?’), popular culture and her need for a larger budget at length and without the annoying need for any real feedback. Mostly I just listen, fascinated at the way her mind flits from place to place. The world for her is a great plain over which are scattered opportunities, experiences and things-to-be-discovered without end. I’m jealous and happy for her.
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