Canadada

‘Johnny WIseguy’ - Film Treatment / NO RIGHTS ASSIGNED - 2008

In 1925, two young Italian men are standing at the railing of a ship observing the shipping harbour of their new homeland, Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. Vito Patrino, a short and stocky well-turned out Sicilian with a tightly trimmed moustache and Rocco Francesco, a tall hefty muscular Calabrian labourer, couldn’t be more unalike. And yet, standing at the railing together they both intuitively know they have a common destiny. Their future lies somewhere beyond that well-sheltered harbour within that small provincial town of anglo-saxon gentility.

Within three short years, in the midst of a debilitating and ‘dry’ nation-wide depression, they settle onto Railway Street in the north end of the growing town. They begin a lucrative bootlegging business and open their first ‘speakeasy’, or ‘ski’, catering to the very clientele who will never let them enter into the established echelons of Canadian society. Their partnership is based on Vito’s suave and jocular debonair conniving, and Rocco’s silent brute force. If Vito can’t sweet-talk their way forward, Rocco uses physical intimidation, known as ‘bending a penny’. On their own street they soon become the respected ‘patrons’ of other incoming immigrant Italian families.

They keep the peace. There has always existed a uneasy alliance between the Sicilians and the Calabrian’s in the New World - based on a centuries old allegiance to the dominant italian brotherhoods of crime, the Sicilian ‘La Cosa Nostra’ (also known as ‘Our Thing’) and the Calabrian’s ‘Ndrangheta or ‘Honored Society’. These two ambitious men put aside this age-old village distinction and forge a ‘New World’ friendship.

Over the next 10 years they continue to build their mini empire expanding through the back-rooms of the city - gambling, loan sharking and arranging organized auto-theft. Vito is the obvious brains, Rocco is the mute brawn. Vito is the first to marry, he selects a demure and quiet daughter of a well-known ‘consigliere’ baker, Rosie, and soon has a young family of three boisterous boys, Johnny, Frank and Carlos, followed by a young and beautiful daughter, Maria. Rocco marries later to an attractive but ‘well-known’ shipyard floosy, Teresa, and has two sturdy boys, Pat and Angelo. The children all grow up together on the same street heavily influenced by their fathers’ nefarious activities and soon become integrated into their way of life of petty crime on the ‘wrong side of the tracks’.

Vito’s boys are typical teenagers of the 1930’s with certain weaknesses. The outstanding and favourite son is Johnny. The eldest boy, he has his fathers drive and smarts. Unfortunately he is also, in earlier life, a sickly child and develops a bad case of TB. His younger and only sister looks after him while his mother works at the bakery, taking him to and fro the Sanitarium - feeding, bathing and caring for him when he lies too weak at home. His younger brothers carouse the streets under the ‘protection’ of Pat Francesco. By the time Maria has grown into a beautiful virginal teenager, she and Johnny’s bond is inseparable. As he regains his strength and swagger, he protects her from unwanted advances and shelters her from the worst of his father’s and ‘Uncle Rocco’s’ bloody back-alley dealings. Meanwhile, Rocco’s boys are growing up too and bad boy Pat develops a healthy crush on young Maria. She snubs him, considering him a vile brute just like his menacing father. Johnny tells him to leave Maria alone. Pat dares to call him a ‘weakling’ and ‘a mama’s boy’. They fight, and Johnny, cheating by wielding a tire rod, beats him up. Pat backs down, but his young manly pride is deeply wounded. He realizes that he will never ever ‘get respect’ from Johnny Patrino, regardless of the long standing partnership of their fathers. A subtle rivalry is established between these two boys amongst their peers.

When World War II breaks out and Mussolini declares war, the fathers, Vito Patrino and Rocco Francesco, as ‘italians’, are picked up and interned in a northern camp. Johnny and Pat instantly become the de facto ‘head of the families’ looking after their fathers’ business for a few years. Johnny wins at everything because of his sleight of hand and bullsh*t smarts, whereas the morose bully Pat is often shunned. Johnny develops into a credible even likeable small-town hood and at 18, after dropping out from school, manages to successfully perform his first major heist. He breaks into a jewelry store and steals over 10G worth of gemstones. He gives the finest to Maria and his mother, the rest he gives and sells to his father’s dubious loyal clientele.

His moxie does not go unnoticed and soon he is being courted, then ‘made’, into the notorious Sicilan Poppalino’s family and their ‘La Cosa Nostra’ of Buffalo. He moves up in the underworld, even by-passing his father’s ‘reliable’ businesses. Soon he is drug running to Buffalo using Hamilton harbour as a spring board for his international link to the ‘French Connection’. He uses incoming immigrants as fronts for heroin deliveries, and uses the family taxi cab business to run the drugs to the border.

The local Francesco’s boys meanwhile become increasingly jealous and envious of Johnny’s rising star. Angelo Francesco, Pat’s younger brother, Angelo, approaches Johnny and asks for a ‘break’ to enter into the Buffalo linked drug trafficking deal. Johnny gives him a minor but critical role in the transactions. Angelo accidentally screws up, miscalculating a ‘drop’, and is quickly picked up under surveillance. In a plea bargain with the RCMP he says he’s ‘trafficking’ for Johnny. The FBI link up with the RCMP for the sting, and Johnny is rounded up with other high profile drug lords from the United States, including Don Poppalino. He is extradited south to stand trial escorted by local police officer Jim McWaters and is thrown into Sing Sing Prison for 5 years in the mid 60’s.

There, his TB flares up and he becomes very ill. Maria border crosses often, taking fresh baked goods that are poked and prodded at by the guards, and keeps him up to date on the activities back home.

Angelo Francesco is let out after serving only 6 months and soon enters into a crime spree with Pat, his brother, to take over Johnny’s ‘abandoned’ territory. They live and play hard: cocaine, babes, booty and guns. They run havoc on the city.

Johnny learns from Maria that his father dies mysteriously. Johnny has his suspicions. Maria stays at home to look after their grieving mother. Frank, Johnny’s younger brother, visits him in prison and tells him that the Francescos are also moving into the Montreal and Toronto markets, aligning with notorious and deadly bikers, extending their loan sharking activities into brutal extortion, and pulling down insurance scams through arson. Frank then tells him that Pat is using Johnny’s name to expand his own empire.

In a rage Johnny wants Pat dead, but knows too that he is in no position to exact proper revenge. Johnny tells Frank to ‘infiltrate’ the Francesco camp. So, Frank approaches Pat, and demands an ‘alliance’ in exchange for Angelo’s future protection from Johnny. Pat realizes he has no option but to take Frank ‘in’. He knows Johnny has the right to exact revenge, his only hope is to treat Johnny’s brother ‘with respect’ within his own organization. Pat also sees that Frank’s association legitimately gives the Patrino name a compliment to his burgeoning muscle. Soon they are both rackateering and running gambling and crap games all across Ontario from Niagara Falls to Windsor, from Ottawa to Thunder Bay.

Frank brings in his younger brother, Carlos, to drive their cadillac. Carlos is a drunk boastful ne’er-do -well. As Johnny’s time in prison comes up for parole in the late 60’s, Pat knows that there will be trouble. Frank assures him all will go well as long as Pat gives Johnny his long past ‘due’, Johnny wants 80 percent of the total take over the past 5 years. Pat has no intention of paying Johnny anything. His old ‘pride’ wound smarts. He double-crosses Frank into believing that he has a ‘sweet deal’ for Johnny when he comes out. He sets up the ‘Baker’ fraud and has Frank convince Johnny to act as the front man. Johnny somewhat naively welcomes his ‘brothers new business’. Pat then rats on them to the controlling Louis Lombardi Montreal crime syndicate.

Johnny tries to explain to the syndicate that he didn’t know he was set up, and Louis quietly queries “You don’t know you were set up by your own brother?” Johnny angrily, but respectfully, says that Pat has double-crossed them both, but he can’t nail him. Louis listens quietly and tells him that it is time to ‘clean house’.

Johnny orders Frank and Carlos to look after their family interests, and leave out the Francescos. Frank reluctantly leaves Pat’s organization, and refocuses on the Johnny Patrino’s Hamilton operations. Johnny and he set up the King vending machine scam. Frank sweet-talks and muscles placement into resorts and racetracks. An average ‘untaxed’ daily take is 12,000G.

Meanwhile, the Montreal syndicate under the heat from the Feds for the ‘Baker’ fraud, tell Johnny he has to take the ‘official’ rap to ward off further ‘extortion’ investigation. Johnny takes the fall again, is picked up by police officer Jim McWaters, and sits in prison in Canada for another 7 years in the mid 1970’s.

During this time, Johnny quietly arranges to have Angelo Francesco ‘hit’ from prison. An unknown gunman slays Angelo outside a fast-food Chinese restaurant in Burlington. Pat aware that their longing standing simmering feud has finally turned to open war begins to calculate another sting in time for Johnny’s release in 1982. He pressures Larry Grafstein, an independent Toronto bookie, to get protection from ‘The Enforcer’. Larry won’t have anything to do with it. Pat has him roughed up in plain sight on Yonge Street, and makes sure that the message is clear, that this was ‘Johnny’s order’, even though Johnny is still in prison.

The authorities and the press come down hard on his brothers and sister. As a result of the negative media frenzy, his mother dies of a heart-attack outside her home. Maria and Frank visit Johnny in prison and give him the bad news. Johnny is shook up about his mother’s death, and in the solitude of his cell comes to the realization that he has failed to protect his family. He feels his father’s shame. He vows to revenge his mother’s honor.

However, on his release, he is heavily hounded by both the press and Jim McWaters who are convinced that he will strike again. The police wire-tap his business, Frank’s car, and public phone booths around Railway Street. They try desperately to finger him with a new charge. To avoid the ever increasing ‘heat’, he quietly goes first to his parents gravesite at the Holy Sepulchre in Burlington with Maria, then he travels north and goes fishing for a month at a remote hunt camp. McWaters follows and waits, watching Johnny sit in the boat alone for hours on end. Nothing happens. Johnny catches two large pike.

On this return, he gathers his brothers and sister together and tells them that they must make a change. They must live ‘respectfully’. He makes clear he is willing to ‘let go’ of his vendetta with Pat Francesco for the sake of peace. Johnny also makes clear he can’t and won’t spend any more time in prison. Maria agrees, the TB would kill him. His brothers agree to his face, but continue on maintaining their petty crime business in the community. The local Italian families continue to look up to Johnny for advise, assistance, protection and loans. They fear the Francescos.

Try as he might, Johnny just cannot escape his past life of crime. He becomes the unwilling protective ‘Don’, while Frank continues to run the family ‘business’. Carlos, the druggie-drunk, tired of Johnny’s request for ‘quiet’, has continual run-ins with Jim McWaters. He picks fist fights with the hovering press photographer Peter Wilson, he gets embroiled with a ‘Francesco’ hooker who later turns lying informer on “her pimp” Frank. Johnny has to continually scold him, and bail him out.

The press and the police keep up the pressure: police are everywhere and they ‘crack-down’ hard. The mobsters get increasingly paranoid as the psychological ‘squeeze’ intimidation that they know so well is used on them during the 1980’s.

Maria, meanwhile, tries to introduce an aging Johnny to one of her ‘ respectable’ girlfriends, Caterina, at the Silver Lock Club. She hopes that he can finally get married and settled down, but the constant surveillance pressure proves to be too much for the camera-shy would-be bride. Then, in a timely raid by Jim McWaters, the long standing mob watering hole, the Silver Lock Club, gets closed down on a minor technicality for operating without a proper license.

In a rare burst of public pent-up anger and frustration, Johnny obscenely swears at and shoves the ever pestering camera man, Peter Wilson, accusing him of “fascist racism”. He is instantly arrested. Released on conditional discharge, he is given restrictive boundaries about his ‘new territory’. Unable to ever leave the city limits again, Carlos, his now drug-wasted younger brother-driver, has to stop the car and walk across the street to get his Chinese take-out in Burlington. The cops constantly follow and harass the family. Frank is picked up for ‘prostitution’, another unforgivable blemish on the ‘good’ family name.

On Frank’s release, Johnny, with a heavy heart, sends him to Mexico where he mysteriously disappears. Likewise, after a long night of drugs and drinking instigated by the Francescos, Carlos dies, somewhat predictably, in a ‘mysterious car accident’.

With his brothers gone, Johnny eventually slides into a slovenly and secluded life of ‘retirement’. He plays chess in his apartment alone, coughing, surrounded by weeks old newspapers. He slowly fades from the limelight, a tired and broken old man. Maria continues to look after him: bringing fresh food, airing out his joint, mothering him. The press and the police gradually lose interest and back off from he and his now apparent ‘has been’ mafia family.

On his 77th birthday, in 1997, the old Don goes down to Railway Street on Sunday to visit his parents home. A crowd gathers, young and old pay tribute to the well feared and much loved ‘patron’ as he shuffles slowly down the street patting children on the head. A lone gunman approaches from nowhere and brutally shoots him four times in the heart in front of the honoring crowd. In the news again the police and the press converge all over the quiet backwater street as the headlines flare up ‘Who shot notorious local gangster Johnny Wiseguy?’ No one knows who would pull the trigger on the ‘retired’ mobster.

Only Maria knows for certain who killed her beloved brother.

In the privacy of her parents bedroom, she carefully pins up her graying hair, puts on her ruby red lipstick, then she slowly loads her small handgun and puts it firmly into her purse. Maria is finally going to ‘pay respect’ to Pat Francesco and give that pig bastard what he truly deserves.

The End.

The above ’story’ is loosely based on the known Mafia connections of Southern Ontario, Canada. Names and some dates have been ‘changed’ to protect the ‘innocent’. Otherwise, them IS the FACTS m’am….

A KLM airplane crashes on a deserted tropical island. Food supplies are dwindling; fresh water is in short supply. There are eight survivors: a mid-career American pilot, a middle-aged female accountant from New York, an elderly male industrialist from Cologne, a young female ‘information technologist’ from Chicago, a terrorist from Ireland, a slow-witted flat-footed farmer from Iowa, a young girl-child of fourteen, and a gay Canadian artist, Adam. If they ration the food and water, they’ll make it as a group for two more weeks. For one week they continue along forming survival strategies.

The pilot attempts to fix the broken radio, he builds fires to attract attention. The young female ‘information technologist’ attempts to assist him. They discover a common bond: they had attended the same community college back in the 80’s.

The industrialist, in conjunction with the accountant, attempts to persuade the others of their ‘rewards’ if they are protected. They brush their teeth at night, and comb their hair in the morning.

The terrorist makes a careful calculation of all supplies and counts his bullets. He has six.

The slow-witted, flat-footed farmer seems to spend more time away from the group, wandering the island. Occasionally he brings back nuts and berries that he has collected. He goes fishing, and manages to augment the meager food supply by an additional three days.

The young girl helps as best she can but her attention wanders in pursuit of the brightly coloured butterflies.

The gay Canadian artist, Adam, builds an alternative shelter, jimmies up a rain-catcher, mends torn clothing and cracks stupid jokes when the situation is really looking hopeless.

What happens?

The pilot overpowers the terrorist when he tries to use the gun on the supply-sneaking industrialist. The pilot now has the gun. The ‘IT’ girl clings to him for protection. The accountant counts the nuts and says they have one day left for all, and maybe four days left for two. The pilot says he is the only one who can fix the radio. He holds the hand of the ‘IT’ girl. The industrialist promises to contact all their families and give them money, if he makes it. Meanwhile, the terrorist steals the remaining food supplies and disappears into the island. When this is discovered, the farmer goes in slow pursuit, but returns empty-handed, except that he had found some ripe coconuts. They gain another day. The young girl studies the marine life at low tide, watching the creature’s habits. That night, while all are asleep, the artist gently removes the gun from the pilot. He takes a pillow from the plane and quietly goes around and kills the pilot, the ‘IT’ girl, the accountant and the industrialist, and then he shoots himself.

The next morning, the farmer and the girl-child, after burying the dead, leave the plane, and start to build a new life on the island in the shell created by the artist. Two weeks later, the starving terrorist in a fit of madness tries to steal their growing supplies. The slow-witted, flat-footed farmer shoots him dead with the last bullet.

Five years later, they have two children, with another on the way. The first born, a boy, is named after the plane, KLM; and the second, a girl, is named after the artist, Adam. Eventually KLM mates with Adam’s first daughter, whose father is her grandfather, the slow-witted, flat-footed farmer.

Go on, say it ain’t so. Say it ain’t so.

*‘Point of View Initial Pubic Offering’ was composed long before the current proliferation of game-show ‘Reality’ T.V. programs like Survivor I &II & III & IV & V & VI etc., Temptation Island, Pioneer Quest, The Bachelor, Joe Millionaire and The Mole. The distinct difference is that these highly financed, heavily edited ‘Reality shows’ offer exorbitant amounts of hard cash to the participants and to the ‘winner’. These highly simulated life and death situations are so far removed from ‘Reality’ that it hardly seems worth mentioning except for the fact that Reality itself is under such heavy assault by the current global manufacturers of info-entertainment. Our imaginations, and by extension, our legitimate capacity and capability TO SURVIVE is being dangerously undermined by these profit oriented manipulators of fact and fiction. Everything is now so jumbled up that the Real is Unreal, and the Unreal is Real.

Language collapses when words no longer hold any meaning. For us to lose the gift of honest communication is tantamount to losing an essential survival tool. Life without cash is feasible, but life without MEANING is joyless, brutal and futile. Mark your words.

dawn
spring warmth gentle sweeps in
off the timidity of the rising tide
swirling into my presence, my dreams
arousing me, awakening me

the sweeping on the earth
by the motion of the wind
leaves the sand shifted -
it is something like the impression
you leave on me -
tingling with mild sensations

the lush warmth of Life
murmurs in my ear
settling softness sensuously upon my torso
and I crave a slow eternity
of this spring warmth
and you

always you -

Written in 1973, the sentiment in this poem is as true today as it was when first scripted. The Earth gives us everything that makes Life Worth Living, and yes, Love endures ALL things. Happy ‘Earth Day’ people. Love your planet.

(’Salt Cellars’ © ‘canadadaPHOTOGRAPHY.blogspot.com’)

Katherine Snoden knew that tonight would be all important. The dinner party would be the final testing ground for her last-ditched effort to snag a new husband. Everything had to be just perfect. She knew that he, like most men, would finally fall in love with her if she just could get to him through his stomach.

She awoke early, 7:30 am, and rang the bell. Maria arrived within ten minutes with a complete breakfast tray and the morning paper. Katherine could smell the hot freshly ground coffee, and she could see from the corner of her sleepy eye a perfectly poached egg on toast beside a mixed melon fruit bowl. Maria placed the tray on the side table. The silver spoon was polished and the inherited Staffordshire bone china gleamed. As Maria opened the drapes to let in the long risen sun, Katherine pulled herself up in the bed and motioned for the servant girl to place the tray in her lap. As Maria plumped up the bed cushions around her, Katherine began her planning.

“Maria, Mr. Haverall will be coming for dinner tonight. There will be six other guests as well for cocktails at 6:30. We will use the front room and the formal diningroom. We will eat precisely at 8 PM. I want your very best.”

“Si Madame.” Maria pulled the bedspread taut so that Madame could spread out the paper later. Katherine asked, “What do you think we should have? “

“Well Madame, I’ve noticed that when Mr. Haverall comes he always jokes how he is getting so very fat on your good food. So perhaps it would be best to offer a little less butter and a bit more green.”

“Good idea, but I insist we have a very sweet dessert to top it off, perhaps one of your delightful peach parfaits, and maybe toss in a few of your glorious meringues.”

“Very good Madame.”

“Remember Maria, tonight is very important. I want the very best.”

“Si Madame.”

Maria returned to the kitchen and considered what she had to do for the rest of what promised to be a very long day. She wished Madame would think to give her a bit more warning. These impromptu dinner parties were most demanding and irrevocably disturbed the efficient pattern of Maria’s other never-ending household duties. The furnace man was going to be coming at some point today, and the gardeners would be arriving at any moment. Maria glanced at the clock in the kitchen, sighed, and then sat down at the kitchen table with her list. First, she had to shop at the market, then she had to clean and lay out the silver, pull down the good china, sweep and re-set the fireplaces, and re-stock the drink tray. She would have to start cooking at noon. She would take her about two hours to prepare all the dishes, and she decided to add another hour to make one of her very special spinach and honey spanikopitas for the middle course between the main and dessert.

She prepared the menu. To start, they would have a chilled carrot, coriander and squash soup. This would be followed by a mixed endive and wild leek salad with a mild tarragon and artichoke heart dressing. The main course would be a medium-rare roast leg of lamb rolled in fresh chopped garlic, basil and peppercorns. Two side vegetables of green beans and baby turnips would compliment the platter of roasted new potatoes. Then she would offer her ever crowd-pleasing spanikopita. The meal would finish with the peach parfait, lime sherbet and her hand-size whipped meringues. There was also the wine to tend to: she would need a light crisp Chardonnay for the soup and salad, a full-bodied Bordeaux for the lamb and spanikopita. A delicate liqueur would be required to perfume the dessert - perhaps a drop or two of Drambuie. To make enough for eight adults she guesstimated an expense of near $60 per head, or $480. Two weeks wages. Madame would, she knew, reimburse her later including a small bonus.

Maria slipped on her coat and headscarf after letting in the furnace man. Mr. Bannerol had known her as long as she had been in service to Madame, near 9 years now, and she knew he could be trusted alone in the basement. Madame wouldn’t even know he was there. As Maria hurried down the back garden walk to the bus station, she saw Clarence arrive with his two sons to begin the garden work for the day. She veered off the path and had a quick and pleasant conversation with the kind old man, reminding him to pay particular attention to the front walk shrubbery, the topiary vegetation needed trimming and there were some dandelion weeds sneaking up through the paving stones. As he tipped his hat to her on her way, his handsome young son Daniel sent her a playful wink, ‘Don’t worry Maria, everything will be picture perfect. We’ll even save some of those pesky dandelions for one of your famous salads!’ Maria smiled and went along her way, glancing at her watch.

By 5:30 pm she was more or less finished, except for one item. She had had a momentary disaster mid-day. She had gotten sidetracked from the pastry-making for the spanikopita when she had to tend to the unexpected arrival of the window cleaner. She lost almost three-quarters of an hour assisting him to unlatch and re-latch the windows from inside. He had tried to coax her into washing the interior panes but she knew that he had been hired to do both sides. She was kind, but firm. She had other work to do. When she had returned to the kitchen the pastry ball on the marble had dried out considerably, and in haste, she poured in far too much water to rework it. She then had to add additional ingredients to balance out the recipe. Now with far more dough than she needed, she broke off half, wrapping it tight in plastic wrap and popped it into the large freezer in the basement. Mr. Bannerol was still clattering around in there, making the final adjustment to the humidifier under a flashlight. He was covered in soot now from head to toe. Both were busy and had barely time for a friendly word. He said only, “The furnace should be replaced, Maria.” And Maria said “Someday” as she closed the lid of the freezer. She told him to let himself out when he was finished for the day. He nodded and kept working. Maria scurried back upstairs, where she laid out a large white linen sheet over the pine kitchen table, she then began to spread and stretch the dough. The elasticity was perfect and within half an hour the entire tabletop was covered in a gossamer thin layer of philo-like pastry. She carefully brushed on the butter, salt, olive oil and warm honey marinade then loosely added the cooked spinach and cottage cheese. Lifting the edges of the sheet she curled the pastry in on itself at the edges, then gently lifted the sheet higher, watching as the pastry slowly rolled towards the center of the table. She dragged the sheet towards her so that the rest rolled further on. The final 6 inches she rolled up by hand. Then, she carefully lifted the table length elongated roll, laying the tip of one end onto a baking sheet. Slowly she wound the roll round and round into a tight spiral. The entire pan was covered with the stuffed pastry. No sooner was she done than the doorbell rang.

Maria jumped as she looked up at the clock. 6:30 pm. She had no time to change into her clean outfit and she was covered in debris from the kitchen. Even her hair had a slight ethereal flour glow. Madame would be furious. Maria grabbed her overcoat and slipped it on over her apron. She put on her gloves and arranged the scarf over her head as she rushed to the front door.

Mr. Haverall arrived with four of the other guests. Maria took their coats and apologized to them all as she showed them into the front room where Madame was waiting beside the burning fire. She curtseyed quickly to Madame, explaining that she had just slipped out to the pharmacists for Madame’s medication. Madame dismissed her abruptly and led the small group to the drink tray. Fortunately Maria had remembered to put out the ice.

She hurried back to the kitchen, throwing off her coat, scarf and gloves and opened up the oven door. She prodded the roast with the thermometer. Almost done. She slid in the spanikopita tray onto the lower shelf beside the potatoes and then hurried to her cramped back quarters to change into a clean outfit for serving. She barely had time to run a brush through her hair when the bell rang again. As she zoomed to the front door, she passed through the diningroom, tossing a quick eye over the table. Everything was ready. Only the candles had to be lit.

At 7:55, Maria lit the candles and lighted the diningroom fireplace. She crossed the hall and announced to Madame, “Dinner is served.” With that, she returned to the kitchen to bring in the large soup tureen for the sideboard. The guests were seated and Maria served up the first course. Dinner continued on without incident.

By midnight all the guests had gone. A gently inebriated Katherine sat by the fire embers having another nightcap thinking about the splendid evening, then slowly she made her way over to the kitchen to find Maria still washing the crystal dessert glasses at the sink. ” I think that was another one of my successful soirees, don’t you Maria? Everything was perfect and delicious. The spanikopita was a special treat. That was a good idea. Mr. Haverall had two large pieces. The only problem was your attire Maria. I will not have my guests received in an overcoat.” She scrunched her face into a disapproving frown for effect.

Maria placed the last of the 32 squeaky-clean crystal goblets onto the dish rack. “Si Madame.”

Mr. Haverall and the widow Katherine Snodon were married in early June in a lavish ceremony at Christ Church Cathedral, followed by a memorable reception for five hundred guests at their fashionable club. For two weeks thereafter they honeymooned in Tuscany and dined in five-star restaurants daily, in and around Siena.

Maria had the time off while they were away. At the beginning of the first week she took the bus up to visit her grand old mother in the Richmond Hill Nursing Home. As she lifted up one of her mother’s bony arthritic hands she was jolted by the memory of her mother making mammoth spanikopitas for their large family of ten. Her mother squeezed Maria’s fingers gently and said, it was time for another family reunion. Maria squeezed back that fine ancient old hand, and said, “Si, Mama.”

‘Andre Bresson Montage Portrait’ 2007 by CanadadaPHOTOGRAPHY.blogspot.com

Ever since I can remember, I have had a writing box. Most writers do.

This box is a compost heap of peripatetic ideas and sideswiped observations. Something will catch a writer’s fancy and it will get jotted down, then, later, tossed into the box. Stubby pencil bit scratches on found paper or full-length manuscripts of fluttering folios, half composed computer compositions or verdant wet pen epistles: all go into the box. There, the ideas will sit for a time to germinate. Two days or two decades per item is not an uncommon gestation period for these ‘seeds’. Ideas vary.

When I return later to view my young shoots, I frequently find that some have not taken root (pithy but pointless), or that others must be zealously weeded out (verbose ravings). Often I see the formation of a healthy new bud (a single word reverberates). There may well be new growth struggling on an old growth idea (polite licking aka politicking.) Then I will feverishly prune-edit, cultivate-rewrite and otherwise happily tend to my quixotic word garden.

The stories and poems that follow are all items from the box. They cover a period of over thirty years and reflect the interests and critical obsessions of a maturing young woman who now stands as a mid-career artist in Southern Ontario, Canada, at the start of the twenty-first century.

Some tales began long ago (and far away) and have only recently come to final fruition. Some have grafted onto others creating startling new hybrids. And some, I know, to a seasoned and urban urbane editor, may still need some heavy pruning. However, I have included a few of these scraggly ‘wild ones’ because they radiate an exploratory and experimental ‘colour‘. I find they have their own rare merit and honest beauty.

They are, I hope, as much a delight to your senses in their singularity as they are to me. You will see certain features repeated in pattern. You will hear certain words repeated in different contexts. You may wonder why-on-earth I choose a particular tale to share with you. I can only say to you that my writing box is a living ‘words-in-progress’: one thought or idea shapes and pollinates another.

The stories you read today will be gone tomorrow. They will certainly have grown into something else overnight. Soon, I know, you will artfully re-arrange them amongst your own personal perceptions and muddy memories.

My final hope is that you may pluck a tale or two that has some pressing and passionate zing for you. Perhaps you will then cross-pollinate, re-cultivate and find again the sweet joy of a few of these wonderfully warbling words.

…

So, let’s start at the beginning. In my late teens, circa 1970, when thrust from the gentle rural countryside of South-western Ontario into the heady cosmopolitan environment of the University of Toronto, I was instantly beguiled by the rhetorical possibilities of language. I had always known there was emotive logic and persuasive argument, but to learn that ‘rhetoric’ was a studied and applied linguistic ‘science’ was both eye-opening and liberating. I desired to truly understand what differentiates the written words of lawyers, say, from those of journalists, or writers of fiction, or playwrights and poets. It seemed that politics and commerce constantly erupted in all these arenas and subsequently shaped the tone of language. I discovered that words often have a different shade of meaning according to their different roots of usage. Playing with language became an obsessive preoccupation.

Integral to these musings was an emerging sexual persona of multiple dimensions. I increasingly understood that men and women do see the world very differently, and that they use different ‘language’ to express these views. I wanted to explore these ‘voices’ too.

After graduating with a four year Lit & Philosophy degree in the mid-70’s, and dusty too from several continental sojourns, I settled down to the onerous task of ‘working for a living from dawn to dusk’. I naturally gravitated towards entry level jobs that dealt with words. Most positions allowed me to perceive, enter and evaluate what I increasingly considered to be a loosely federated Advertising Empire that dominated North America, physically and psychically. Within this web, we think and become what we watch and consume. The connecting link is ‘sales’ generated by advertising writing. Punchy slogans and riveting sound bites seduce even the most wary, wry and witty.

During the frantic decade of the 80’s, my mind was ever racing forward to find that which endures beyond the hype. I hit many walls, bounced back, bruised but brighter.

Suddenly the 90’s were upon us and all seemed intensely focused on the emerging cyber mania and its electric and electrifying McLuhan offspring: the internet. Writing, and even reading, took on new dimensions as the lines increasingly blurred between the Real and the Un-Real. Television and Photography increasingly replaced the Word. Vision dominated. Language, especially the written word, became the cheap side-kick. Spit as needed. Speed and the surreal (surly real?) became gods. We, in North America, still wanted everything - our body urges and our emotional needs - instantaneously gratified with no thought to consequence, personally or globally.

In the middle of the 90’s, the explosive Bre-X gold fraud scandal was one of many that had severe economic repercussions around the world. Canada fell from grace in the global business community. Ordinary investors lost faith and trust. Dot and telecom technology stocks soon followed, collapsing overnight. Insider trading scandals and continued corporate accounting fraud rattled the cages of commerce. Enron became a household word.

And then Dolly, the sheep, was cloned.

Yet, it seemed to me, that even then, underlining this hurly-burly consumption and destruction were certain immutable Truths.

The Earth revolves around the Sun. This fact is unlikely to change anytime soon.

I found towards the end of the 90’s I was exploring and writing like a psychic geologist - looking for noteworthy nuggets to pass along.

Something marvelous seemed to occur when we tipped into the twenty-first century. All the dilapidated debris of the previous millenium momentarily disappeared and there was this unexpected gush of fresh expectation, a sincere feeling of hope for our global future. We seemed to be on the right path, moving in the right direction.

And yet, today, only at the beginning of the eighth year of this bold and now very bloody decade, we seem to have lost not only our footing but our moral centre. World war, and the unpredictable and continuous threat of ‘terrorism’, hang over us like a noxious threatening nuclear cloud. Outrageous atrocities - man’s inhumanity to man - unimagined a year ago - are now routinely reported in the mass media. We watch global events unfold on television. Men fight territorial squabbles over precious natural resources. All are shoving, pushing and grabbing. Camps of ‘Us’ and ‘Them’ are everywhere. And yet - are these the real stories? The enduring stories?

As a woman on the planet, I don’t think so. We don’t need to self-destruct.

Words of real power are needed now. We must rediscover the precious preciseness of words, and then use these ‘word tools’ wisely, honestly, carefully.

To that end, to ‘sharpen my pen and strengthen my voice’, I entered the Humber School of Writers Graduate Program in the spring of 2004, and, for the next six months, was most fortunate to understudy with the two-time Giller Prize winner, M.G.Vassanji: a seasoned, worldly writer. We worked slowly back and forth through many of these evolving stories. Some he liked, some he didn’t. His periodic question marks - ‘???’ - in the columns of my manuscript made me re-think my structures, my use of styles and my expostulatory intentions. His attentive and thoughtful reading has helped me to refine my essential reason for writing. He has also helped me further define my future responsibility as a writing artist.

This can probably best be summed up in this way: I am a Caretaker.

In many ways, it is the oldest story in the book.

Today, it seems this story must be told again and again, in every language, in every medium and with every voice. We are all Caretakers.

As a writing artist, I have bent down and planted my thoughts in a variety of different ‘voices’ to reflect these times. I pass them on to you - wherever you may be - on this, our gorgeous ancient planet.

Cross-pollinate, re-cultivate, find again the sweet joy of words.

And then, please, care take …

Canadada

NB: CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW, not the above post header.

You will be redirected to …

http://canadadaPHOTOGRAPHY.blogspot.com

Thanks.

When I was a tiny tot

With no cares of my own

Out in pa’s fishing boat

For hours we’d oft roam

Once we were out there fishing

(‘Twas that sunny time of the year)

Near Smitty’s long rocky island

We cast our rods near

Now waiting is something

You quite often do

When fishing for bass

Your minnow to chew

A miracle, a moment

Is all it will take

When a bass will jump up

And strike your fresh bait

It was early that morning

When to our utter surprise

Smoke from the near pine tops

We saw slowly arise

We approached Smitty’s island

Looking for others before

But no boats could we see

Drawn up on the shore

The closer we got

The thicker the smoke

The treetops were smoldering

Beneath a black overcoat

We pulled up to the shoreline

Our rods all entangled

And gazed through the underbrush

To see much maimed and mangled

We anchored up the bow

And stepped off of the boat

(My brother was eager -

His boots, they got soaked)

We clambered brave inland

Not sure what we’d find

Dad’s sure foot went before us

Behind him we climbed

Then sudden, and frightening

There rose up before us

The sharp talons of Hades

Fierce, fiery and focused

My father fast held me -

“Quick! Run for the pail!

The minnows toss over -

And watch for that nail !”

As I ran to the water

My mind, I admit,

Did think of his thoughtfulness

At a time such as this

I pulled up that bucket

And dumped out the fish

With care for that nail

The latch I unhitched

I ran quick through the forest

As fast as I could

The bucket a’clanging against

Those charred smoky woods

I called to my father

Lost now in the gloom

“Where are you, dear Daddy?”

“Here love! Come quick! And come soon!”

In a small clearing I found him

My brother and he

Fast digging a ditch

On bent hand and knee

He grabbed that old bucket

And started to scrape

At that rocky terrain

A shallow fire wall to make

The heat was infernal

The flames flew askance

As that fire slow approached us

We had only one chance

I dove to the ground

And yanked back that wet moss

To get to the bedrock

Or soon all would be lost

The hell fire was upon us

Backed by a wild wicked wind

The flames were a’swirlin’

Like Hades proud children

Up to our barrier

They licked and they scratched

My brave father threw wet moss

To crush their broad backs

The beasts roared mean and mighty

At this foe come up anew

We just kept on a’hurlin’

That wet moss of dew

Slowly those crazed creatures

Backed down their assault

And the woods were saved for tomorrow

By our stellar efforts

As the smoke finally cleared

From our nose and our eyes

Our hopes were lift up

By yet another surprise

There stood Smitty’s small cabin

Amidst the fallen debris

Bright white like a beacon

But how could this be?

Dad grinned ever so slowly

Through his mud spattered visage

“Nature sure works strange miracles -

Like catching fresh bass!”

Jenny Holzer said it best

“Men won’t protect you anymore.”

Dead on sister.

As long as men are incapable

of understanding and appreciating

the non-remunerative care-giving role

good women quietly perform

in a civilized stable society

there will be no evolution of the species.

…

I don’t need a computer, modem, Sega toy

Jaguar or Gulfstream IV to know my own Self worth.

The industrial military corporate monolith

is repeatedly rabidly raping Mother Earth. Fact.

We can not freely breathe the air

or joyously drink the fresh water

or gratefully eat the planets’ bountiful food harvest

without mortal fear of chemical and poisonous

pollution and contamination

…

What ya gonna do next?

Poke out my eyes, tear out my tongue?

Because I can clearly SEE and TASTE

what TECHNO-PROGRESS has supposedly done for me?

Gonna bind my legs, tie my hands?

Gag me? Put another camera on me?

Just to make you feel all STRONG and POWERFUL?

MASTERS of the UNIVERSE?

Shame. Shame. Shame.

… … …

Where are the MEN among you?

… … …

All those little boys are lost in T.V.

Lost in Disneyland, golfing with Goofy, mimicking Mickey

Playing Rupaul with large overstuffed synthetic boobs

Pouting on ‘new economy’ cyber profit

Cruising concrete with cell phones stuck to their chins.

Sick, I tell you, it’s really sick

… … …

What WOMAN would want you?

… … …

(Published 2002 - but as true today as it was when written … )

lush with mulching underbrush
fills the nose with fragrant musk
broken trees where mosses grow
remind us all that Life goes slow

white paint patch guides us on our way
though in the woods we often stray
jack-in-the-pulpit a keen delight
pulls us on from sight to sight

robins, wrens and morning doves
fiddlehead, fern and pink foxglove
water sparkles and streams ignite
as golden wiggles turn luminous white

O’mighty rocks of old millenium
caressed by roots of the dainty trillium
our host, the trail, provides the key
a festive feast for all the senses be!

‘Dear Michael, I thought you might be interested to know what happened to ‘Snow White in Cuba’. After your gentle dismissal, I thought, well, all right, I’ll bury this one for a time. With one exception. I sent a copy down to my friend, Hans, in Cuba. Yes, the one I stayed with at the embassy. Within 5 days I received a private diplomatic courier pouch that had RUSH RUSH embossed all over it. Inside was a letter from Hans. He told me to categorically destroy all copies of the manuscript, he said it was dangerous. He also told me that his appointment at the Dutch embassy had almost expired and that he would be leaving within the month for Belgium to a new position at the U.N. He included a forwarding address. Two weeks later I received a small parcel, in it was a note from Luis, our mutual Cuban friend, the playwright, remember? He wrote that Hans had had an ‘unfortunate accident’ and was dead. He did not elaborate. Wrapped in a sheet of Russian newspaper was the brujo’s shell and my copy to Hans of the original story, it had been edited at one point with a broad black pen. By whom or why I don’t know. I thought you might like to look at it again. See attached. Best wishes, Sonja’.

‘Snow White in Cuba’

I’ve been back almost five weeks, and I am still as confused as I was when I went down. It’s hard to put your finger on Cuba. Exactly. Harder still to put down the disquiet it arouses in your own breast. I am not wrestling with Cuban political policies exactly, no, I am wrestling with the East-West, North-South, Black-White, Rich-Poor, Communist-Capitalist dialogues that ping pong incessantly throughout my pea brain.

What began as a simple visit to a friend who works as a trade commissioner for the Dutch Embassy turned into a complex lesson about the domineering power of all media. This was compounded by the discovery of my own blindness with what I had previously considered to be a relatively sophisticated personal perception of ‘Our World Today’. I stood in the middle of the Point of View mind field while Mine, Yours, His, Hers, Theirs, Ours, Us and Them exploded all around me.

For example, I am Canadian. What I discovered in Cuba is that to declare oneself Canadian is tantamount to declaring a political opinion reflecting our nation’s mythology, our past and current history in the international trade arena as well as our prevailing military ideology. Associations, connections, accusations, assumptions - in short, an ocean of ideas flows around that simple word - Canadian. In much the way they flow around the words Soviet or Jew. I found I was defending, explaining, provoking, protecting, attacking and questioning my own understanding of what it means to be Canadian as well as what it means to claim to be Canadian in this world of today. That’s quite a lot to handle when one is on vacation. But that is the point, it is impossible to go to Cuba and not ask yourself some pretty serious questions by the time you finally leave.

I offer to you, the reader, some of my experiences:

Getting There:

I had to wait 3 months for proper accreditation from the Toronto Cuban Consulate before I was able to go. After filling out the proper papers in December, I waited and waited for something to happen before my flight departure in early February. I phoned the office periodically and was told to wait - a telex would be coming soon. The problem, I was told, was that I needed special clearance because I was traveling alone rather than with a chartered supervised group. So, reassured, I purchased by airline ticket and waited some more.

A week before departure I started getting nervous, I called again. I was told to wait. I was told that nothing could be done. Proper papers had to come from the Cuban Foreign Affairs office in Havana. They needed proof in Toronto from Cuba that I had indeed been invited to visit. In desperation, I pulled out letters from Hans and even underlined the invitation and dates. This was not good enough. They took photocopies of his letters.

Finally, I phoned Hans directly and asked him what I ought to do. He said follow orders. He then sent a personal diplomatic note to the Foreign Affairs Office in Ottawa expressly requesting my arrival. Two days before I was to fly the visa clearance came through. The dour woman who I had been dealing with up until this time suddenly transformed into a bubbling smiling island guide. As I signed off yet more papers, she insisted that I go to the beaches. We looked at a map of the island together and she pencil marked several locations that she thought I might enjoy. She wished me a pleasant trip as she escorted me to the door, and I was off. But already the first question had be raised - what had that been all about? I was a simple tourist paying a simple visit to an old friend. My mind began to buzz with political black flies - who are they trying to protect, them or me? Am I considered a political threat because I am self-employed and therefore first cousin to those “damn imperialist Yankees”? Does it have something to do with the fact that I am a chica traveling alone and staying with a diplomat? Or, are they just so hopelessly bureaucratic that this was considered normal by their efficiency standards? I had no answer. I could only speculate. I was interested in Hans’s opinion and looked forward to meeting up with him again.

Arrival:

With the tense East-West dialogue already poisoning my perception, my first view of that spectacular Caribbean island from the air was undermined by my own suspicious mind. I found I was fervently looking out for evidence of communist military activity. As we zoomed in low over the palm trees I could have sworn I had seen camouflaged military turrets. Now, this might well have been true, but so what? The military is a fact of life in most countries. It is only Canada that has a rather low-profile ‘defence’ army. Then, while disembarking from the plane at the airport in Veradero, we tourists were met by a phalanx of heavily armed military personnel who glumly filed us through their custom procedures to the smiling faces of an assortment of tour guides and group directors. Again, my suspicious mind unduly reacted to a seemingly routine function of an international airport: security. In any case, I had arrived.

I asked one of the tour guides how much it would cost to get a cab from the airport to Havana. Without batting an eye he told me that it would be 40 dollars U.S. for the hour and a half ride. I asked him how much it would be in the nations currency - pesos. He shook his head, and said, “Dollars only.” If there is anything that puts my back up it is someone taking me for a dumb tourist who doesn’t know the value of money. I refused. And in no time made an arrangement with one of the tour buses to drop me at the bus depot in the small seaside town of Veradero. Fortunately, I knew a smattering of Spanish and after some preliminary fumbling discovered that the cost from Veradero to Havana was a mere 3 pesos and 50 centavos - or the equivalent of 3 dollars and 50 cents CDN. However, there were problems. Not only was there a two to three hour delay (which is common), one had to reserve a seat at least one day in advance of departure. So, just when I was about to give up and call my man in Havana, a checkered shirt, blue-jean Cuban cowboy came over. “Taxi, Missus?” I asked how much. “For you, 10 dollars U.S” As I hopped into the 1956 Bel-Air with reptilian fire engine red tail fins and picture perfect body chrome, I wondered again if I shouldn’t be a little more cautious. How did I know that I wasn’t going to get clonked on the head, pilfered, and raped? As we took off in the direction of what I presumed to be Havana I reassessed my situation. If the laws are as strict as they seem to be about foreigners entering this country then surely he wouldn’t try anything rash. My arrival was documented, my stay was documented and my money had been counted and declared. And yet, as we sped along the freeway, I realized that it didn’t really matter. These decisions are made on gut reactions, they are made on the instincts of human trust. And sure enough, within no time at all we were swapping life stories. He told me that he had been a lawyer before the Revolution but that he now made three times as much being an independent cab driver for tourists. (He flashed a great smile.) He explained that for a small monthly fee, he maintained his car license and worked for the betterment of the state, and at the same time he enjoyed a modicum of personal freedom around the island. He could travel unrestricted.

The drive was supposed to take an hour and a half: it took four hours. The cabby, amused by the inquisitive gal from the North, decided to show me the sights. We stopped at least five times en route to climb up hillsides and embankments to look at breathtaking vistas. Long expanses of undeveloped beachfront extended as far as the eye could see, In the interior, lush green cultivated fields patch-worked up to an impenetrable jungle wall. The earth was ruby red. Storefronts were colourful and primitive, meaning that most of their assembly had been done by hand, not machine. No neon or advertisers hype hid the obvious.

At one point we settled into a small modern bunker cafeteria for beer, beefsteak and rice. In hushed tones, my friend pointed to a group of white faces behind me. “Those are Soviet engineers.” My curiosity sparked, I turned and stared. They naturally stared right back. I looked at them and found I was thinking - aha! - so this is the Enemy. We smiled at each other. Meanwhile, a group of Cubans at the next table starting chatting with the cabby, and in no time at all they had joined our small table. We bought each other beers and the day continued. When it was finally time to go, I offered to pay the bill. But my new found friend insisted, no, it was his treat. “This is my country, and you are our guest.” The bill was the equivalent of 28 dollars U.S. I argued, this was too generous. He held up his hand to stop me, “Please, it is no concern for you, I invited you and I will pay for you. It has been my pleasure.” My mind wondered again - is this Cuban machismo mentality? But no, he was just being one hell of a nice guy. So we continued on.

As we approached Havana, I finally got the idea of how the cabby makes so much money. He knew that I had American cash dollars, he explained that for a Cuban to exchange money on the black market was as good as a three month prison term or longer. Only state officials, hotels and banks were allowed to trade the foreign currency. He explained that the U.S. dollars in the pockets of the government strengthened the purchasing power of the state in the world economic market. Cuban pesos meant nothing, they were worthless. U.S. dollars in Cuba meant luxury. Dollars could buy products in the tourist oriented retail stores that most Cubans were not allowed in. Again, pesos were useless. Finally, would I change 40 bucks? The going rate was one for one, this I knew, so I did. While speeding down the highway we furtively slipped bills across the vinyl seat of the car. He put his finger to his lips, you must not tell anyone, even the person with whom you are staying. Verboten. I realized that I had just become an accomplice to a state crime. And yet, I could see no real harm in it. I knew it would give him purchasing power. The world works on a principle of privilege, those who have and those who haven’t, supply and demand. Marxism and Free Market Capitalism leapt into the worrisome cavity of my mind - I don’t really know what these words mean, only that I, as a Canadian, am supposed to be on the side of the Big C. This struck me as silly: it made me realize that I too am a prisoner of a political economic system that I don’t understand. To trade money with this cabby was a bold attempt, in a symbolic way, of bridging that gap of ignorance. I think. Anyway, as he deposited me at the Dutch Embassy and shook hands with the doorman that he had known for years, he winked at me and held again his finger to his lips, sshh.

A representative from the embassy drove me up to the home where I was staying. A beautiful split-level home with a pool and a staff of three sat nestled in a protected (or was it guarded?) suburb just outside of the city. The homes in the area were, even by North American standards, luxurious. State owned today, they are rented to the diplomatic corps, fully staffed. Diplomats are given special privileges. They exist completely isolated from the people of the country. This I learned the first evening there.

Once settled, washed and unpacked, Hans, my friend, had arranged a small private dinner party at the house. With the dinner table full of guests and conversation, I decided to leave a portion of the meat that was on my plate - I had had enough. I was full. The cook came into the room to clear the table between courses and deliberately missed picking up my dish. Finally the host indicated to her that I was finished. She mumbled something and still would not take my plate. A Dutch guest who was sitting to my side remarked that by not finishing the meal I was insulting her. I picked up my fork and was about to dutifully gorge when this same guest whisked the remaining piece of meat from my plate and gave it to the drooling dog at his side. The Cuban guests at the table gasped in shock. We had both unwittingly committed a major faux pas. Meat, I later learned, is heavily rationed in Cuba: it is unthinkable to feed the precious foodstuff to dogs. Within hours of my arrival, I had demonstrated my spoilt Western lifestyle where food is not only abundant but expendable. We waste a great deal.

Tourista:

Each morning I dropped my friend off to work at the embassy and then had the unprecedented luxury of a private car in Cuba. One visible sign of the way things once were, and the way things now are different, was made clear to me as I filled up with gas at a petrol station. At the front pump was a 1987 Lada, and at the back pump was a 1955 Buick. One dominant economy had neatly replaced another. Cubans, like everyone else in the world, had to get their cars from somewhere. Also, like everyone else in the world, it is obviously more than a question of price. I was driving a V.W., a European diplomat’s car, though it had been imported and manufactured in Mexico. It said so on the inside of the door.

I decided to be systematic in my tourist approach to Havana. I thought it best to begin at the outskirts for my tourist spying and then move into the core where the distinctions of people would be camouflaged by high-rises and general commercial activity. Sure enough, I came across a gold mine - the agromercado or agricultural market - the equivalent of the St.Lawrence Market in Toronto. Except that there are many differences. The most striking is the behaviour of the shoppers. As in Poland, as in Russia, there are line-ups. Long line-ups. Line-ups for the purchase of one item. It was not a question of a consumer going to the shelves and picking up what they wanted from a multiple of choices and then going to the check-out, no, one had to speak to the solo sales attendant who retrieved the requested item from the poorly stocked shelves. Coupons, rations and long conversations were exchanged while a backlog of 40-50 people patiently waited for their turn. It would drive the efficiency minded North American shopper crazy. In terms of produce, the meat, mostly chicken, was rationed, and the vegetables were anything but fresh. Green peppers, though in abundance, were rotting. However, the prices were hard to beat. Adjacent to the food stalls, Russian 35mm cameras were selling for the equivalent of 30 U.S. dollars. Russian shoes were selling for 2 dollars, and Russian labour garments were selling for 6-8 dollars. Wandering around I tried to figure out why this system was the way it was. One thing was certain, the quality of our lives is taken for granted in Canada. The food procedures of canning, preservation and distribution is something I take as par for the course. As Canadians, we not only have the luxury of quantity but we have the luxury of quality. I began to wonder how it is that we can have so much fresh global produce at our consumer disposal. And at whose expense?

After leaving the market I drove around the Havana port area and was by this time not surprised to see Soviet freighters. Heavy industry bellowed out black smoke. The stench was unbearable. But I wrestled with reason; pollution can not be priority when a nation is still trying to adequately feed its people.

Into the centre of the city, I whizzed around the tourist sites: the Museum of Revolution, the Fine Art Museum, the Hotel district, the Cathedral and the old quarter. Of all the sights the most arresting by far was the Museum of Fine Art. Again, I was shocked to discover how insular and ‘white’ my perspective was. Gallery after gallery within the museum focused on the history of the people of the island. Arawak Indians, African, Mixed Mulatto, Spanish, British and everything in between populated the often gruesome historical paintings, and the contemporary works were vividly mythic and otherworldly. The islands’ bloody history came to life. My limited exposure to the pantheon of dead white male European artists made me naively expect that all I would see would be ‘primitive’ works. Yet their visual arts traditions were easily as creative and distinctive as any European or Asian culture. I vowed then and there to make a more concerted effort to witness, examine and investigate the so-called ‘third world’ art and literature that I had ignored, quite innocently, for so long.

Back on the street, I bought a copy of the local paper with my pesos - The Gramma. The official organ of the Communist Party, all the material therein extolled the virtues of the actual and intended plans of the Party. The sport page wrote about a fencing tournament happening in Bucharest. Printed in black and red ink on coarse newsprint stock, the issue was 8 pages long.

I also bought copies of other available literature on the street - Soviet Woman (with a ridiculous picture of a Soviet dame standing on a snow-covered mountain smiling benignly at the camera) and the Soviet Union (with an equally benign photograph of two Cosmonauts grinning at their Cuban brothers.) Both magazines were in Spanish. Their equivalent in Canada would be watered down versions of Life magazine, circa 1950. It gave new meaning to the idea of Free Press. I had no idea what the Cubans thought of this material, but they, like me, were buying it with pesos.

I was to have lunch with a Canadian woman who worked for the short wave radio station - Radio Havana. While waiting for her in the waiting room, I started conversing with the black secretary. I had brought a copy of Chatelaine all the way from Canada for my intended lunch companion. I let the secretary have a look. Her eyes boggled. She oo’d and ah’d the advertisements for kitchenware and ladies clothing. In no time, she had a chorus of four other women looking over her shoulder. It did at one point occur to me that this was not the place to be circulating what would be cited as subversive literature. Yet, I could tell they were so obviously enjoying it. Here was a chance for them to see the outside world. But I also saw how this grossly material world could be seen as repugnant by the authorities. At one point, one of the girls pointed at the stove in an advertisement that was selling kitchen floor tile and exclaimed in Spanish how beautiful and modern it was. Startled, I realized that I hadn’t even seen the stove. To me, the stove was visually taken for granted: it was the written copy that made, no, forced me to look at the floor. The Cubans, on the other hand, got the full impact of the contrived picture. No kitchen that I went into in Cuba looked even remotely like the one represented in that Canadian magazine.

The woman from the radio station and I had lunch in the park. We had never met before, but had mutual acquaintances. While I pleasantly complained about the heat, she began to give me verbal bulletins about the continual media misrepresentation of Cubans abroad. She said all U.S. press reports were reactionary and written by imperialist supporters. The CIA, she charged, had developed a mosquito capable of destroying children with its bites. The CIA had placed this venomous creature first in Haiti and now, in Cuba. She claimed, too, that the CIA had invented herpes, aids, and other social diseases to ward off, kill off, unwanted social mores not only in Cuba, but also in America. And finally, she explained, the reason that no one knows where Castro lives is that he is in constant threat of his life by CIA endorsed assassination attempts. As I unwrapped my sandwich, I tried to decide if I was pleased or not at my own political naiveté. She did seem to be over-reacting to my mind. But I did not live there. I was not “informed”. I was a young tourist, and I only have a vague media induced recollection of the Bay of Pigs incident. Her understanding of the political climate was based on her appraisal of the situation today. She was an intelligent journalist, albeit a socialist one. Whatever that meant.

After lunch, I decided to walk on the seaside boulevard, the Malecon. On several occasions I had to stop to ask directions to get there. I pulled out the weathered Esso map that I had been given at the house and politely asked how I should get from A to B. What amazed me was that no-one looked at the map and when they did it was with great intent and obvious difficulty. Most of the people I asked were middle-aged shopkeepers: and it occurred to me that perhaps they couldn’t read or write - again, a media recollection of Castro’s education schema surfaced from the depths of my memory. I could not understand how anyone could be illiterate and run a business. But they did. They could add and subtract.

Likewise, people were always fascinated by my felt-tipped pen. I was asked several times if I had another one, or if I would be interested in selling the one I had. Pencils, I was told, are the norm in Cuba. One for Each Man, Woman and Child.

Once on the Malecon, I wandered along the boulevard looking at the architecture. Faded hand-painted Spanish colonial buildings with crumbling porticos bordered onto the four-lane roadway. Renovations were in progress. Workers perched precariously on rickety wood scaffolding with no work boots or helmets. I sat down on the wall by the sea to watch them work. Within minutes two young men approached me. They could not have been more than fifteen. “Do you speak English?” Yes, I answered in Spanish. And away we went. We spoke of schooling systems, what someone my age earns, if women work as much as men, when someone is allowed to leave home, and what kind of car I owned. At no time did they provoke or molest me. And yet it seems that they had done something wrong by speaking with me. A police officer came over to us, excused himself to me, asked to see the boy’s papers, and he then promptly spirited them away. I watched in wonderment as he escorted the fellows across the street to his parked car.

Another officer got out, again they looked at the boy’s papers, they looked back at me, and the boys were placed against the cruiser, they were body searched and then put into the automobile. They drove off. My judgment tells me that they were only curious kids who were cocky enough to speak to a gringa. But perhaps I don’t have the facts right. They may well have been skipping school, they may well have been petty thieves, and maybe they were going to eventually ask to trade money. But somehow I felt they were only kids being kids. By this time my mind was in a permanent state of suspended suspicion. I did not trust what I was seeing, and I did not trust what I was not seeing. I did not trust what I was hearing, nor did I trust what I was not hearing. In a funk of confusion I was only able to experience. I did not seem capable of analysis and conclusion. It was only conflicting guesswork and at best speculation.

I strolled over to the Bodeguita del Medio where I was to have dinner with companions from the Dutch and Canadian embassies. The Bodeguita is the restaurant in Cuba. For tourists and Cubans alike. Its acclaim to fame is that it used to be the frequent hangout of that other great Cuban national hero - Hemingway. Ernesto. Like Castro. A man’s man. A woman’s man. Everywhere I went and to almost everyone I spoke both names would pop up in conversation. It seemed to be a connecting status symbol to have either shook Castro’s hand or to have a first edition of one of Hemingway’s works. At dinner in the restaurant after we had raised our glasses to these two Great Fathers, the conversation once again turned political. Yet this time, the problem was between the French Canadians and myself, the Anglo Canadian. “You domineering English never think of us oppressed French.” Wide eyed I said, “I have nothing to do with it - I have only just met you. I am no more guilty of oppression by my birth than you are victims of yours. We both have clean slates. I do not oppress you, in fact,” I said, “I do not really think of you.” “That,” they said in impeccable English, “is precisely the point.” We moved on to dessert.

We ended the evening by going to the nightclub - Tropicana. A remaining vestige of another era, the floorshow was without a doubt one of the finest I have ever seen. Surrounded by massive palm trees and lush bundles of bougainvillea, one watched and listened to the Cuban dancers and musicians put out their best. Lots of tits and ass for the men; lots of feathers, costumes and colourful plumage for the women. At one point I did wonder what the entertainers got paid. But this thought was soon forgotten as I slipped down another Cuba Libre - Cuban rum and Russian ‘coke’.

The Roving Tourist Goes to the Beach:

Driving out to the Playa St. Maria on the eastern side of Havana I stopped off at the old Spanish fortress - Fort Moro. Images of the Spanish Main, British Navel supremacy, pirates and early slave traders exploded in my brain. The fort was a monstrous imposing structure that guarded the harbour. Today, it serves only the tourist trade. The gift shop sold Cuban cigars, grass dolls and earthenware bowls. War is no longer a simple question of location.

Driving east further along the coastal highway I passed the recent urban development called New Havana. It is an eye sore. Rows and rows of concrete apartment blocks cluster together on a grid pattern. Little has been made of landscaping or architectural design. I was later told that this is considered good housing for many labourers. I never managed to get inside one of these edifices. Money, it seemed, was again the problem. But, I thought, no, this is reflective of the poverty of human imagination and ingenuity. It occurred to me that this horrible barren village had more to do with government building ‘codes and regulations’ as well as available constructions capabilities, skill and materials. It did also strike me as Soviet. But I knew I had to be careful with this kind of observation.

I continued on to the beach. It was fantastic. The water was superb and clear. Fir and fern came close to the pure white sand beach. An unspoilt natural scene lulled the bathers into slothful reverie. Wind surfers and small sailboats abounded. Children built sandcastles.

After a swim and some sun I wandered into one of the seaside hotels looking for a sandwich and a soft drink. I discovered that what I had ordered on the menu was not available that day. A plate of spaghetti was unceremoniously placed before me. I had encountered this sort of thing before, so I gobbled it up. There was only beer, which I did not want. I rummaged around in my swim bag for a can of lukewarm Cola that I had brought from the house. I remembered the injunction by the cook to leave the can on the beach when I had finished. When my anti-litter sensibilities had kicked in, she explained that it had nothing to do with litter. After the tourists leave for the day, the local Cubans go down to the beach to comb for abandoned debris. Soft drink cans are a real find. They are collected and coveted. Cut out at one end, they are used as tumblers. She told me of a friend of hers who had collected over 200 cans and had subsequently used them for her daughters’ coming-of-age party. One person’s garbage is another person’s pleasure. Again, I was forced to consider the land of plenty - Canada. We have so much.

My friend, Hans, from the embassy had told me to make myself available for several hours in the late afternoon. We were going to see a brujo or witchdoctor of the Afro-Cuban people. Our guide was a dissident playwright who had been imprisoned for two years because he followed the ancient wisdom of this old man. We met in a designated place and then proceeded to meander through the old quarter until we came to a tumbled down colonial home. We were told to wait. Our guide went ahead, returning several minutes later, to say it was not a good time, we were being followed. He took us back into the streets and we gingerly followed him through the never-ending maze of side-alleys for about a half hour until we returned again to the run down house. We continued quickly up a flight of back stairs then circled around and came down the front stairs and entered a small room at the back of what used to be a kitchen area. We were told to have 2 dollars ready as an offering. I was called in first.

I entered a small badly lit room that had a balcony that opened out to the noise of the street below. On the floor to one side of the window sat an elderly clean-shaven man who smelt of a strong sweet aroma. I was instructed to take off my shoes, sit on the floor opposite him, and place my bare feet onto the edge of the grass mat on which he sat. The man stared at me for several moments then began chanting. While doing so, he shook and rattled a necklace made of sculpted coconut shell and leather. The language, and his voice, were rhythmic and soothing. By his legs were several small natural objects: a shell, a large seed (like a walnut), a piece of coral and a small pebble. From these items he chose the seed and the shell. He gave them to me in exchange for the money, which he quickly dropped into a bowl of water. All the while he continued to chant in a musical language that seemed a cross between Spanish, Creole and some obscure dialect. (African?) I could barely understand him. Periodically he would make the sign of the cross on his forehead, and he would slap his leg and sort of bark. All these fluid and rhythmic motions were performed as a form of ‘calling’. He asked the intermediate god - the communicating spirit Arolla - if he was entitled to take my money as an offering. The answer apparently was no. He withdrew the money from the water and placed it quietly in my lap.

And so we continued. We began a question and answer period. It had nothing to do with body ailments. It had everything to do with time, and the state of my mind. His accuracy, observations and his perceptive powers were astounding. His ability to recount my memories was incredible and shockingly accurate, and his forecast of my future seemed to make much sense. He introduced me to the female god Jamaya - the goddess of fresh water. He told me that she was my protector and guide, and that I must call on her when I needed her. We conversed for over an hour as the sun slowly set on the buzzing T.V. antennas of Havana. I cannot and do not scoff the power this man seems to have. It is power. I can understand why he, his religion, and his faith are considered a threat to the security of the secular government. Within a very short time I was overwhelmed by his honest simplicity and his personal strength of understanding. His influence again raises many questions.

Hans also sat for the brujo. I was allowed to sit at the back of the room and listen. As Hans sat down, the brujo sadly shook his head, picked up the shell and started chanting softly calling on Arolla’s protection. He was visibly upset and agitated. Before he took Hans’ money he said, “You are in great danger. Very bad danger. ” He looked carefully at Hans. “The Diablo is watching. The Evil One is here.” Hans smiled and waited for more exciting news.

(Pencil notation on right margin - Michael, as you can see, over 6 paragraphs have been ‘deleted’ here by a thick black pen…)

Hans and I ended that unusual day by going to a cocktail party at the Guyanese ambassadors home. The Guyanese were celebrating their National Birthday and the entire foreign diplomatic community had been invited. We were ushered around from one well-heeled world rep to another. Snippets of conversation detonated with each arrival and departure. A soft-spoken Algerian spoke earnestly of his commitment to geo-politics. A blonde blue-eyed German envoy cornered me and told me with a straight face that he was black. The acting ambassador from Britain explained how her government refused to pick up the tab for repairs to their rented embassy quarters. “If the Cubans want to be imperialist landlords,” she reasoned with a wry smile, “then they should learn to look after their tenants.” While I mused on this satirical irony, I was introduced to the Austrian ambassador who had had the unfortunate luck of being arrested by overzealous Cuban officials while he had been sailing on his yacht off the southern coast of Cuba. It seemed he had unwittingly manoeuvred his craft into off-limit territories. The Cubans had thought he was invading. A Cuban Central Party Committee Member was not standing in earshot of this condescending tale, but as it was, he looked painfully uncomfortable on the global cocktail circuit. Two Jamaican doctors were busy tallying up their scorecards of ‘important people I have met’. A Canadian artist and his Cuban bride offered perky observations and cracked self-deprecating jokes. An ABC news correspondent laughed with disbelief when he learned that I had not, nor could remember, having heard his weekly news broadcast. Most people with whom I spoke had children studying in either London or Paris or the United States at an Ivy League college. Then the music began. Drums, rumbas, tangos and disco pounded through the livingroom and onto the back lawn. Black and white bobbed together. I noticed that people drank, but no one, no one got drunk. After all, this was business as usual.

Leaving the party and gliding back to Hans’ split-level home we listened to the sounds of America waft in over the Miami radio station. Michael Jackson carried us over the boundaries of space back to the U.S.A. I wondered what Gordon Lightfoot or Bruce Cockburn would make of this strange place.

My Departure:

I stood in the kitchen on the morning of my departure and, like Hans, had breakfast. We popped a small handful of vitamins into our mouths and washed them down with freshly squeezed orange juice. Amada, the Cuban cook, laughed at this nonsense. To her, good health lay in the restorative powers of select herbs. As she explained, in the beginning the African slaves to Cuba could not and did not develop the science of medicine like their white owners. The slaves had brought their own understanding of the causes of sickness and health from their homelands. Slowly they learnt the new plants, shrubs and vegetation of this unique island and, over time, developed their own medicinal knowledge. When I asked how this tradition could have possible survived the restrictions of