The Foreign Correspondent

 

I’m rereading The Foreign Correspondent by Alan Furst.  I’m usually not one to reread books, but with Furst I find myself anxious to submit to the craving.  

I have 12 of his books and by the time I get around to rereading, my memory has faded past the remote details. A wonderful book, read months ago becomes a door with a new coat of paint. Yes, I remember the door, but only bits and pieces of the exquisite details that lie behind it.

Good authors bring great entertainment.  Great authors bring tears and pain and love and joy.  They also teach you how to write. In Furst novels, he has you living and walking through the little known pages of history and feeling the suffering of human struggles.

So, what's the book about? It's 1938 and fascism is bludgining its way across the  face of Europe. Spain is already in flames, with Italy and Germany dipping their toes into the waves of war. Blazing trails for what is to rapidly sally forth. 

Carlo Weisz has been tossed this way and that, ending up as a war correspondent. With Spain's Civil War winding down, and Franco crushing his Republican opponents, Weisz moves on to Paris, only to find terror, intrigue, and various levels of spies.

With Furst, the plot is tense and characters clear cut. Whether you are a history buff, or just a lover of intense intrigue, you will love all of Furst's books, and The Foreign Correspondent is a superb example.

Kleenex In My Pocket

 

 

Kleenex in my pocket

Brushed away the tears.

Scarlet threads of longing

Dress a canopy of fears

Once so bright and sunny

Love now spiced with dread.

As Solomon said long ago

Don’t try to raise the dead

Swim the rolling waves            

Trust the sun will rise

A future for the brave

Bring bouquets of flowers

And smiles your future craves.

Nipples

                  

 

Why the thoughts of woman’s nipples

 

Keep drawing men like bees to honey

 

Leaving thoughts helpless and crippled

 

Turning snowy days to summer

 

Mammals have them, everyone

 

Used for every sort of litters

 

Then why is it each mother’s son

 

Find their racing hearts a twitter?

 

Honest questions make you think

 

Pinks and reds, all viewed in color

 

Brings back times without a blink

 

Calming times embraced by udders 

 

No matter what, I pause to think

 

Through all these years my heart still flutters.

 

 

 

 

The Boy in the Garden

 

I often come to this garden.  I don’t know why.  Well, yes I do, but I seldom talk about it. Way too personal.

 

Anyway, I come.  So relaxing and clouded with long lost memories and mysteries. 

 

The fountain is gone, but the statue remains.  Don’t know why, but I suspect money had something to do with it. Money always seeps in to turn simple harmony and blissful joy into something else.

 

But, wonder of wonders, the statue is still here.  The boy with shells at his feet and a clear face of welcoming joy.  It’s not a smile.  It’s a knowing. A connection.  Do you know what I mean? I don’t blame you if you don’t.  These days, adult lives are burdened with what they can buy, as if that means anything. Things are tinged with money.

 

Ah, well, too much blather. Let me listen to the songs of birds, the rustle of the leaves, the warmth of the sun, my breathing in and out that keeps me knowing I’m alive, a part of the world.

 

The poets knew, the philosophers knew.  Children know. At least the happy ones.

 

As I sit on this bench and marvel at the look on the boy’s face, the statue, I reflect on poems.  You probably don’t want to hear that rant. But, it’s important to me. So here it is.

 

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

 

William Wordsworth knew what the hell he was talking about. Pity you if you don’t.

 

One day, I just heard a voice, or maybe the swaying of the trees. Nope. Not a tree, a boy. A little face appeared from behind a bush. Couldn’t be more than four or five.

 

“Hi,” he said. “Why are you sitting on this bench?” Light brown hair. Blue eyes.  Tan shorts held up by tan suspenders, sewed in at the back, buttoned at the front. A white, short sleeved boy’s polo.

 

A clever boy. Went right to the heart of it.

 

“I like it here.”

 

“Me, too,” he said.

 

“Where are you parents?”

 

He pointed to the garden café, maybe only ten or fifteen yards away.  A woman waved and smiled.   Good parents, keeping a sharp eye.

 

“Why do you come here?” he asked.

 

I looked at him. “To see my brother.  Do you have a brother?”

 

“Where is he?”

 

I pointed to the statue.

 

“I don’t have a brother,” he said, looking hard at the statue, trying his best to understand.  Then he turned back to me and asked an honest question. “Why do you call him your brother?”

 

“When I grew up, I didn’t have a brother. I was lonely.  Have you ever been lonely?”

 

He nodded, eyes downcast as if it shamed him. He looked back at me.  “Not all the time. But I wish I had a brother.”

 

His mind skipped to birds and flowers, asking me questions that I struggled to answer.  I knew the names of the common ones, pointing out a robin-red-breast, a bright red male cardinal, an English sparrow, some lilies and black eyed Susans.

 

“You know a lot,” he said, his voice so serious. “Who taught you?”

 

“My mother and my brother.”

 

“But you didn’t have a brother. Not a real brother.”

 

“Have you ever had a make-believe friend?”

 

He nodded slowly. “I call him Frank.”

 

“Why Frank?” He shrugged. Out of the blue, “Will you be my brother and teach me things?”

 

I did my best to hold back tears that had been held back for years, maybe decades. I remembered the lonely days, the days of longing. I was like the boy. I had talked for hours with the boy-statue, my only friend. It gave me joy. I loved him, needed him.

 

“Why are you crying?”

 

“I still love my brother,” I said, wiping away the streaks running down my cheeks.

 

“Will you be my brother?”

 

“Oh my God, son!” The tears could no longer be held back.

 

“I’ll be your brother and we can both have the boy-statue as another brother,” he said.  His face lit up as if he’d discovered heaven.

 

The boy’s mother approached, short, slim, smiling.  “Is he bothering you?”

 

I quickly wiped my face. “No, no, he’s fine.”  I should have said he’s brought me more joy than I’ve ever had.

 

“Momma, momma, he’s going to be my brother!” His excitement showed eyes as bright as the bright sunshine.

 

She smiled again and put her arm on his shoulder. “What’s that about?”

 

Now the boy is grown. I haven’t seen him in years. But now when I come to the garden to see my brother, I have to wipe away the tears. I can’t help myself, I miss him so, and always will. But the statue is still there and still my brother.

 

 

 

 

 

The French Lady

 

Horras Wheatman was known for picking winners.  Not horses or roulette, but movies and TV shows and the occasional starlet. He could smell success, but in this case, with his sniffer on the blink, he would be forced to listen to Charlie Blankenship explain what he called “The next big thing.” Mr. Blankenship was the friend of a friend of his wife, which made listening to this clash of idiocy mandatory.

 

“Just call me Charlie.”

 

Oh yes.  And what else should I call you.  But Horras didn’t say that.  How could he? His wife insisted and on and on and so forth.

 

Horras had been through this churning of the stomach many times and knew how to think about other things like flowers and breasts while appearing to concentrate. He leaned back, fingers touching his lips like a church steeple, his brown tweed suit, with a white shirt under his one tone darker brown vest, set off with a fashionable, but subdued blue and pale-yellow tie.  He and Mr. Blankenship had already gone through the formalities, of greetings, handshakes and an offer to take a seat.

 

“So, Mr. ….I mean Charlie…tell me about this screen play…”

 

“It’s a sure winner,” Charlie broke in.

 

“Perhaps you could favor me with a hint.” Sarcasm past his visitor like a mud slide.

 

Charlie’s smile faded only a bit. “Yes, of course. You see, it’s a love story.  Well, not exactly a love story. A sort of love story that begins in London…”

 

“Allow me to interrupt. The characters are English?”

 

“No. See that’s the twist. The man is American, but the woman is French.”

 

“Go on.” He sighed, meaning go on and shoot yourself.

 

“What’s taken them to London is that they have both dropped out of art school…shall I read you a few scenes of how they met?”

 

“By all means.” And by that I mean shoot yourself again, just to be sure.

 

“Picture the both of them walking across the bridge…”

 

“Which bridge?”

 

“Well, I haven’t decided. Does it really matter?”

 

“The Tower Bridge, the Millennium Bridge, the Westminster Bridge.  Pick one.” Patience picked up a rifle and cocked it.

 

“The one that Shakespeare wrote about.  The Shakespeare Bridge?”

 

“Tough to cling to that thought, the Shakespeare Bridge being In Los Angles.”

 

“Well, anyway, the man…”

 

“What’s the man’s name?”

 

“I don’t know. No one knows. He’s without a name.”

 

“No name, yes?”

 

“Well, he’s forgotten his name because he doesn’t know who his father is and his mother has dementia and works for the CIA.  She’s still stalking the person who killed President Truman. It’s the only way she can get her memory back.”

 

“Truman was never assassinated.”

 

“I’m getting to that. See, she goes back in time to solve the puzzle.”

 

“What puzzle?”

 

“Why her son didn’t finish Med School.”

 

“I thought he dropped out of art school.”

 

“I have lots of other films in mind.”

 

“Such as…”

 

“Diapers for Waldo, Pale Muffins, Customers in Purgatory, and my favorite, The Magician Does Tricks.”

 

“Tell me about the last one.”

 

“The plot is a magician turning transvestites into football quarterbacks.”

 

What team? I want to place a bet. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

 

“One more…. A Cardinal Error. See the New Pope is a lesbian who has the Sistine Chapel painted blue and pink to be more inclusive.”

 

“Have you thought of instead of a lesbian, the new pope is the ghost of Mussolini? And by the way, have you been to the Vatican?  If not, go and we’ll speak again when you wander back.” 

 

With Charlie gone, hopefully forever, Horras sighed. He pushed a button and another wantabee came in and sat down without being asked.  This one was a woman, the daughter of a friend of his wife.  She crossed her long legs as soon as she sat. Horras swallowed hard. Tall. Slender. Blonde. French. Her English was perfectly French. Lots of z’s, and lots of common French phrases tossed in to prove it. “Jen-say-pah. Naturalment. D’a corde. Merci.”Twisting Horras’ libido into knots.

 

A beautiful voice and the way she sat and ran a hand across her skirt made Horras have to refrain from biting his tongue. My God!  This one was better than any starlet! 

 

She offered a wonderful, mair-ve-use, story about a little less than nothing.

 

“So what do you zink?”

 

I really like your dress and would you run your palm across your skirt just one more time?  And pull it up a little higher? But, of course he didn’t say any like that.

 

“I think your story about a beautiful older woman, a carpenter who becomes Robespierre’s mistress, and having his child just before he lost his head, has real possibilities. Suppose we chat about it over dinner. I know a lovely little restaurant in Bordeaux.”

 

She smiled coyly. “I louf Bordeaux, en particulier (especially) in zee Spring.”

 

She left with a smile, walked two blocks, went into a very nice coffee shop and took a seat across from a man with a movie star face, dressed as suited a lawyer.

 

“So, did he buy it?”

 

Her French accent had quickly led her from France to Iowa. “Swallowed it like a hungry fish and damn near swallowed me too.”

 

“Did you get it recorded”. 

 

She nodded and smiled. “His wife is going to love this.”

 

“You sure as hell made my job easier!”  

 

“So, does that mean you’re taking me to dinner?”

 

He smiled.  “Not in Bordeaux.”

 

Trivialities

  

Trivial, yes, in truth it’s waste of days and time and so,

We babble on, I wonder why, I blink my eye and although 

Baby powder’s so much cheaper at the grocer on the corner

Yes, of course, but don’t mind me, I am just a natural yawner.

 

Tell me won’t you, once again, why the Johnsons got divorced.

Yes, I’ve heard, but carry on, and fill in all details, of course.

Is it true that he’s a pig, a dreadful swine in every way?

I head it all from Charlene Chase, who meets for coffee everyday.

 

The doctor calls it canker sore, and claims it goes away quite soon

Read directions line by line, still it’s sore and almost noon.

Margaret had terrific moles, such unsightly little beasts

They’re black and sprouting hairs; she should cover them at least.

 

Yes, it’s how it comes and goes and clutters up my day

Listening to this and that and everything thing they say.

Such rude and selfish folks they are, hogging all the time,

With their ailments, and complaints, they leave no time for mine. 

 

 

 

 

French Stew by the Careless Cook

Is this stew really French?  Well, kinda.  I started with what is a French stew, Navarin d’agneau, stewed lamb. But for various reasons, lamb doesn’t suit my tastebuds, so I used pork.  Yes, even the Careless Cook has some peculiarities, even if they are so few you’d barely notice. 

 

But, as my three faithful readers already know and expect, the Careless Cook views a recipe as just a mild suggestion. And besides, in this case I’d guess every French wifey and grandmother (femme et grand-mére) has a cherished recipe, handed down from the last time France won a war.  

 

But in between defeats, one would have to say, they have done well with memorable cuisine.  Which takes me back to the first time I had Fruit de Mer and a snail had the misfortune to try to crawl off my plate. Ever heard a snail scream? Then there’s my stories about the combination of French wine and French women, but I know you’d rather get on to the magnificent recipe.  Me too. Let bygones be bygones.

 

French Stew by the Careless Cook

 

Ingredients

 

2.2 lbs, or so, pork shoulder, fat trimmed, cut in 2-inch cubes
1 tsp salt

2 tbsps sugar
½ tsp ground black pepper
1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

Herbs if you want. I did not use any.
3 carrots peeled and sliced on a diagonal
1 large onion, peeled and sliced in chunks
3 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced
1 and a half cups red wine
4 cups chicken or vegetable stock. I used vegetable stock.
About 12 - 20 small new potatoes. I used a small bag full.
3 medium golden beets, peeled and cut into fairly large chunks
Jar of pearl onions, drained
2 tbsp butter
A good slosh of olive oil

 

Set the oven to 350 deg.

 

Puttin’ it Together

 

Put olive oil in a Dutch oven (or any large pot with a top) and toss in the chunks of meat. Turn up the heat. Stir until the meat is deeply browned.

 

Toss in the chunks of onions and garlic. Stir until onions are translucent. 

 

Add the salt.

 

Pour in the stock and stir a bit.

 

Add the sugar, potatoes, carrots, beets, and butter.

 

As the potatoes, add the red wine and the pearl onions. 

 

Bring to a boil, cover the Dutch oven and plop it in the oven. Set your timer for an hour and a half.

 

I served the stew with a baguette and a bottle of red wine! No French women were available. Had to settle for the wine.

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