Once Upon a Time...I had a social life. All of it happened in one place--an unpretentious Italian restaurant up the street from ZBM...The Little Venice Cafe. I don't recall how I was first introduced to the eclectic group that gathered there each night, but I'm still grateful for the good fortune.
It was an international bunch, with interests ranging from art and music to poetry and politics, from good books to good jokes. On a given night there would be at least a couple of us at the table and as many as seven or eight, drinking English tea served on red-checkered tablecloths--with an occasional plate of the most excellent Maltese spaghetti.
The table was open to anyone who cared to have a seat--a friendly practice that guaranteed the best of spirits, as well as new faces. I now know it's a social style not uncommon in Europe, in certain settings.
The core of the group consisted of a Bermudian artist/sculptor/ballroom dancer, an English weather forecaster (Good Old Vic), and an American girl whose father was a civil engineer with the US Air Force. There was a local girl whose extra-large daddy was in charge of Bermuda's Water Board, a Bermuda guy who was so brainy that no one ever knew what the hell he was talking about, a frail, middle-aged Englishman, Mr. Hawkesworth, who walked with a cane and taught Braille to Bermuda's blind kids, a German Mai*tre D'Hotel, a shy Scottish nurse, an American sailor (me), another American sailor (Joli), and others whose names and faces have slipped my mind. I recall some pretty Canadian girls and some hilarious, bearded English.
All those accents, and all those ideas, were terrific. We had an ongoing conversation about Picasso, Keruoac, and life: life here, life there--life in your underwear; life without compromise, the moral life, artful life, ideal life, fearless life, and the lives of literary heroes and jazz musicians. But, never about your sex life, not in those days; and certainly not about the weather; there's little need to in Bermuda.
Good Old Vic, our gainfully employed weatherman, was a tall, bony Englishman with soft, sweet eyes and a gentle smile who could have said nothing offensive about anyone if they'd just ripped his arms off. Vic had a subtle but distinct influence on the group, I think. He was so utterly genuine, so shy and kind that I, for one, would moderate myself to be compatible with his gentle presence. Perhaps others did, too. Vic would be amazed to hear that.
It was a matter of concern with us young idealists that we shouldn't "sell out" as we made our way through life. Translation: Don't
surrender principles for money. Well--jumping ahead to 1972--the Good Old Vic story continued when I returned to Bermuda for a holiday. Vic was one of the people I hoped to find, though I thought he'd probably returned to England long before. Happily, he was still there, and the people at the Weather Bureau directed me to his new office. I went unannounced, hoping to bring paroxyms of sentimental blubberings to his tenderhearted self.
He wasn't quite that sentimental. There was even an uncomfortable reticence in his greeting, though it was explained by the first thing he said. As if the unofficial credo of our little group had been tattooed on his conscience, Vic said, with genuine embarrassment, "Well, I guess I sold out." You see, Vic had become an insurance man. Even with a wife and kids to support, he felt the guilty obligation to explain his slide into sin. Good Old Vic, a sweetheart of an Englishman, had retained the most important essential of all..his innocence.
The other persons I visited on that holiday were the artist/sculptor/ballroom dancer, Eddie Lima..and his wife. Eddie always saw the funny side of things, cracking us up every few minutes on a good night. The big hotels would occasionally hire Eddie to suit up in tie and tails and whirl his pretty partner around in a romantic ballroom dance--in an actual ballroom. I saw them once and gave them five stars. They were lovely, handsome, and entertaining in a grand sort of way.
One evening, romance blossomed with a bang at the Little Venice. Frances, the shy Scottish nurse, was there. Eddie announced he was going
to spend the weekend in bed and with a mischievous grin asked if anyone wanted to join him. Immediately raising her hand, Frances said, "Me!" We were all dumbstruck. They left without a word, as stunned as we were, though undoubtedly more anticipatory.
We had no idea the quiet, red-headed nurse had eyes for Eddie, although he probably detected it. And his behavior was an unprecedented thing for us. It was a more innocent time, after all, and our interests were usually well above the waistline - at least in public.
That little event happened within a week or so of the end of my stay in Bermuda. I had to leave without a farewell to Eddie and Frances. But in 1972, Good Old Vic told me that Eddie was mixing colors at one of Bermuda's paint factories, so I Zundapped out to see him.
Wearing a straw fedora, shorts, sunglasses, thongs, and with lotion-smeared nose, I looked like every other male tourist on the island, i.e., like an idiot. But in spite of the effective disguise and an additional thirty pounds, Eddie paused at ten paces, looked closely and said, "Cliff?"
I soon approached the big question: "Hey, do you remember that night you said....and she said..."ME!" What ever happened...anything?" With his familiar grin, Eddie replied, "I married her."
But the blush was off the rose, I'm sorry to report. Frances had acquired a fair measure of claustrophobia, and a bit of a caustic tone, living on twenty-one square miles in the middle of the ocean for thirteen child-bearing years. That was Eddie's story, anyway. Of course it takes two to tango, and I may have read things wrong, but there seemed to be a certain pissed-off glint in Frances's long-suffering eyes--perhaps something to do with Latin men. Over the years, they may well have tried to kill each other--more than once. So much for romantic beginnings. It was wonderful to see them again! And that, of course, is the truth.
My early days at the Little Venice were full of nice surprises. One night there was an American girl at the table who made a smashing first impression in her black dress, black-rimmed glasses and wide, mischievous smile. She broadcast strength, intelligence and humor, and she spoke her mind unafraid, I soon learned.
Introductions were made while I joined the table, the conversation resumed, something funny was said and everyone laughed. But Ginny didn't stop; she kept chuckling while looking squarely at me. I didn't know what to make of it, and was beginning to squirm self-consciously when, with a wide grin, she blurted, "You look like the village idiot when you laugh!"
Virginia McLanahan became my girlfriend for the next six months or so. She'd given me my first opportunity to laugh at myself, in an intelligent context. It was a great moment for the young me. And by the way, if you don't think it takes guts to say what she did to a complete stranger, give it a try sometime.
Ginny was the only jazz-loving girlfriend I've ever had. And she introduced me to the romantic piano concertos of Rachmaninov, Grieg, Saint Saens and Tchaikovsky. We spent hours listening to beautiful music on her parent's screened-porch...the Bermuda breeze wafting softly through...often lulling me to sleep. To this day I've yet to meet another person, male or female, with Ginny's good tastes, her guts, her honesty, and her unfettered intelligence..and I look for one every day. She had her faults, but she was one of a kind.
Chapultapec-Perry, her cat, was named for the Aztec emperor. You remember him.
The last time I stumbled across my old Navy seabag, I rescued from it a photograph of a pretty Bermuda girl named Kathleen, a girl who had once been a seriously fat person.
Kathleen first appeared at the Little Venice shortly after Ginny had decided I was no longer her cup of tea. It was a memorable first appearance, with Kathleen maneuvering clumsily through the door, her arms overloaded with books. Ginny quietly murmured, "Hmmm." It seems she'd envisioned Kathleen and me warbling romantic duets in the moonlight.
Kathy always carried a load of textbooks, notebooks, folders, etc., that were in a constant state of slippage from under one arm or the other. It was as if she hadn't adjusted to life without all that fat. Her clumsiness was an endearing quality about which no one ever uttered a word. And Ginny was right; I was immediately drawn to the bright, insecure girl. Our respective vibes were soon rapping out a flirtatious Flamenco amongst the teapots.
I never saw Kathleen consume anything besides black coffee, dry toast, and once, a salad. She was resolved never to be fat again, even if it meant living with anemia. Even I, who later survived an entire Chicago winter on rice pudding, knew that Kathleen's diet was unsafe; but when I mentioned it she shut me down; her mind was firmly set. So, I shut up and fell in with the mood.
A possible explanation for Kathy's unusual kissing technique pops to mind: Having been to her family's home, having felt the still, quiet air of her expanded daddy, I suspect that Kathy had substituted food for affection. And perhaps she was doing the same thing when she kissed, like, "Hey, gimme love!" She opened her mouth so wide you could have popped three tennis balls in there. It was sort of like kissing a yawning hippopotamus--not an easy thing to do. The imaginative reader will realize that in order to successfully pull off a kiss like that, you have to open just as wide--if you want both lips, that is. Kissing Kathleen was definitely an odd experience, but once you got used to it, it was fun!
A barrage of brilliant letters flew between Bermuda and Connecticut for the next few months, following her return to school. It was a once in a lifetime correspondence: creative, humorous, and smart. But the promise was never fulfilled, I'm sorry to say. The poor thing was a bundle of insecurities, an ongoing trauma for any concerned man of romantic persuasion. I'm still a little unhappy about it, after all these years. Sniff.
The group at the Little Venice seemed pretty much angst-free, though. No doubt one of the reasons for that was the presence of the group itself, a friendly table of predictably interesting, real people: curious, colorful, kind, and bright; every night but Sunday at The Little Venice Cafe. Everyone should be so lucky.
In 1972, Eddie Lima referred to that period as an "era." I was both glad and sad to hear that; it's nice to have been part of an era in Bermuda..in particular, that era. But I would have hoped the gang would rally on forever, with renewing generations of interesting people discussing the same concerns, full of life, acceptance, and humor, and unafraid of the big bad truth.
The Little Venice is still cookin', but now it's upscale, in different quarters, no doubt under new ownership. It's listed in the travel guides and it's even on the Internet. But I'm sure that in the minds and hearts of a certain group of people now scattered over the globe, the wonderful old place still lives. Even the spaghetti was unforgettable.
There is one downside to that experience: All subsequent social experiences have come up limping in comparison. Those people were the best...forever. I have the rose-colored glasses to prove it.
copyright © Cliff Morris 1992-2003
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