Marguerite & The Cuban Paintings - Chapter 14 - Havana - 1934

Chapter Fourteen – Outside Havana – February, 1934

The Dying Tobias, by Mattia Preti, known as the Cavaliere Calabrese, 1613-1669

(Neapolitan School)

9 am, Monday morning, February 12, 1934. Salvatore Buffardi sat at his desk in his underwear drinking strong Cuban coffee sweetened with six small spoonfuls of pure cane sugar. Striped garters held up thin black socks over purple, swollen veins that read like a map of the Cuban countryside. His navy blue suit hung on a mahogany valet stand behind his office chair, gold cuff links, his Bulova watch and a diamond stickpin sat in a well-worn tray on top of the stand. This would have been his usual morning ritual if it hadn’t been for the long-awaited yet unavoidable and unfortunate “request” of President Zayas. Today’s event was announced the day before by a short telephone call from Carlos de Vargas, aide to El Presidente:

“Buffardi. it’s time. We will be there tomorrow at 9 am. Have everything ready.”

He was expecting Alfredo de Zayas himself but knew he would not get “El Presidente” to actually come to Buffardi’s home without his full entourage and hand-picked bodyguards and that would mean far too many eyes on Zayas prize. Reluctantly, he got up and dressed carefully as if he were going to an art show instead of his own funeral. Dressed for both he thought to himself.

Buffardi watched as a long, black Cadillac limousine followed by a huge, dirty white truck lumbered up his driveway. The truck’s springs were shot and its body rocked from side to side with every pothole he himself had dug to slow all visitors; family, friends, customers, would-be robbers and assassins, and other enemies, known and unknown. Two men could be seen inside, probably more in the back of the truck. He was expecting them and he was ready. Cuba in 1934 was a time of violence and deception after the Sergeants Revolt led by Fulgencio Batista. Buffardi knew that the Zayas government was under attack from several fronts and could not last much longer. However, to refuse this request would be suicide.

Zayas’ aide and deputy assistant, Carlos de Vargas y Montoya, stepped out of the limousine, looked down at the dust swirling around his perfectly shined cap- toe oxfords and sniffed the air, recoiling at the olfactory assault and digging deep into his vest coat pocket for a silk square.

“Country life! Disgusting. An “artist” in the country. Perfect!”

Dripping sarcasm and a superiority complex were the sad distinctions of this little man, whose political future would never match his egotistical aspirations. Yet, for now, he was a key figure in the Zayas government and the discreet manner in which he carried out Zayas’ instructions were key to his survival, for now.

In 1925, Salvatore Buffardi, known throughout Cuba as a famous art historian and collector had donated 43 pieces of priceless European artwork and sculpture to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes de La Habana. President Zayas was furious for being upstaged by this Italian, non-Cuban and insisted that the donation be “re-named” as coming from him. The announcement, covered by all Cuban papers, edited and overseen by Zayas aide Carlos de Vargas appeared as:

“President Alfredo Zayas government has made a generous donation

to The Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes de La Habana. Purchased from

the Italian collector Salvatore Buffardi, the collection included 43 works

from the Italian, French, and Dutch Schools and the first one from the

English School, they have now been integrated into the museum.”

To ensure that this donation would be properly announced, earlier that week Alfredo de Zayas and his aide paid a social visit to the collector. They were not happy.

“Greetings Senor Buffardi! Congratulations on your success here in Cuba which has enabled you to make such a generous donation to our museum.”

“Thank you El Presidente. It is indeed an honor to welcome you to my home”

“Yes, yes, it is our pleasure. However, there are a few things we should discuss...”

Buffardi’s blood froze in his already cholesterol clogged veins. He knew that discussion meant demands which could not be ignored and certainly would not b a subject of a casual “discussion”. He invited his guests to join him in the library and quickly dropped his large bulk into an overstuffed leather chair with a sigh.

“Wonderful, how may I be of assistance?”

“I have been thinking about how it would appear in our papers if this donation were to come from my government instead of from a non-Cuban immigrant such as yourself. “

Buffardi was speechless and knew that the next words spoken could be his legacy or his last:

“That is very interesting Presidente. You may be correct.”

This was the wrong thing to say and Buffardi knew it as soon as the words left his trembling lips.

“I am correct and that is why I am leading this country. I have also been thinking about how you, should you wish to consider my offer rather than accept it with gratitude, would look in a painting of you by someone like Francisco Goya when you have no eyes and no hands and are sitting in front of a blank canvas. You would be the perfect subject!”

The silence in the room was deafening. Finally, Buffardi spoke;

“I have an excellent idea, if you agree, of course! Why don’t we announce that the donation came from you and your government! Further, and as a way of apology for my crass presumption, why don’t you select a few items from my own personal collection here!”

“A wise decision and a good idea. Carlos! Hand me the list.

A LIST? Buffardi was again speechless and terrified at the same time. What list could this smug little pathetic ignorant politico have prepared? Carlos de Vargas enjoyed the abject fear in Buffardi’s pale, fat face as he shoved the list into the collector’s shaking hands.

Before he could stop himself, after reviewing the list quickly, Buffardi blurted out:

“You can’t be serious!”

Again, the wrong thing to say to El Presidente.

Vargas spoke next and probably saved Buffardi’s life.

“I will return next week with my men and a truck to collect these few items, pack them up, and deliver them to the President’s private residence. Shall we say Monday at 9 am?”

That Monday meeting did not occur for over ten years. For all that time, Buffardi felt he was under “house arrest” until the delivery of the paintings could be completed and he would be free to leave Cuba for the United States and New York, where his own provenance and reputation would be an asset rather than a liability.

To Love a Church

Saint Thomas Episcopal Church

Camden, Maine

There was an old church

in a very old town

near the water

that ran down to the bay.

The people attended

for a very long time

but then

they drifted away.

The church was alone

and starting to fail

as the mortar and glass

crumbled away.

But then a young girl

who chanced to attend

with her grandmother

on one special day

Fell in love

with the church

and decided to save

her pennies to find a way

To restore the old church

and bring people back

To worship and

hopefully stay.

Soon many came back

and new people too

The church was

happy and gay.

They all saved their pennies

and fixed up the church

and that is how

you see her today.

Now the Sunday school

is filled with laughter

of children who

loved the church in a new way

The little girl grew

and then took her vows

now she is

the Rector today.

Please Come Back

Please come back

and throw your

clothes on the floor

Come back now

and forget the door

leave it open

so you can return

to ease the pain

and stop the burn

Of an empty room

and an empty heart

once filled with love

before your depart

Please come back

let the dishes sit

wherever you put them

I don’t give a ____.

I miss the things

you left behind

like a spatial spore

to mark the place

you were before.

Come back, come back

it will be all right

we will never shout

and never fight.

We’ll just hold each other

under a blanket or coat

and watch TV

you can have the remote.

I know you’re out there

My world is off track

I can feel you are close

please...come back.

Tom Crowley – 10/22/18

Marguerite and The Cuban Paintings - Chapter 1

Wayne PA – 1985

Anne picked up the large claw hammer Jim had left on his work bench and an old flat head screwdriver and walked out into the backyard. The sun was just coming up and could be seen between the leaves still on the branches of the huge oak trees surrounding the house and grounds. The smallest of three old dusty, wooden crates lay on the patio where she had dragged it from Jim's hiding spot deep in the far corner of the basement. The other two crates were far too large for her to move; the largest measured 5 feet by 10 feet and the next smallest was 3 feet by 5 feet. Even the smallest one was very heavy as evidenced by the scratch marks on the basement floor and the twinge in her lower back. She been thinking about this for many months but was waiting for Jim to take another extended business trip so she could work alone, uninterrupted and unchallenged. She was alone and that was how she liked it. Just her and Petey, her fox terrier, who was at that moment sharing this experience with her and demonstrating his understanding of and solidarity with her views of the crates by urinating on the one she had out.

Havana, Cuba, 1925

The ancient, rusty freighter slid past the 295 year old El Morro Castle two hours after sunset on September 19, 1925 and entered Havana Harbor where it dropped anchor and, as required by international law and custom, raised the yellow quarantine flag. This flag was sufficient to alert the Customs officials that he was ready to be boarded. This flag was originally intended….. Another smaller square flag, no bigger than an ensign, was hoisted on a second flag halyard. This one had the simple image of a square knot. Meaningless to most sailors today, this was the signal agreed upon code between the Captain and the agents he was supposed to signal on shore. It was the symbol for Hercules who was represented on the flag of Cadiz, Spain.

The Captain raised his binoculars and searched the empty ramparts of the castle for any response to his signal flag. Nothing. He went below to his cabin, opened a greasy porthole and lit the Cuban cigar he had been saving since leaving Cadiz, Spain. He smiled as he reflected on the provenance of the dark, aromatic, tightly rolled cigar in his hand. It was a Quintero Y Hermano, purchased in Cadiz but made here in Cuba outside of Havana in the Vuelto Arriba region on the southern coast. The fragrant smoke soothed him as it circled his cabin and slipped, ghostlike out the open porthole, returning home.

The next morning he awoke at 6 am to go on deck and enjoy a blindingly brilliant sunrise which cast a golden pink aura on the white walls of the Castle as he waited for the customs official to come aboard to clear customs. The official arrived with his assistant, leisurely, on “island time” around 9 am. He suppressed his irritation and greeted them warmly in Spanish. After the usual pleasantries they glanced at the manifest listing the cargo, shrugged, smiled and accepted a significant “harbor clearance fee” and left the ship. No more than 15 minutes had elapsed to inspect the 125 foot freighter (research freighters of 1925) and its cargo. With this hurdle out of the way, Captain Vincente was now able to move his vessel to the dock. (add more description here) That evening, the agent he had signaled came aboard with four men to claim three large wooden crates. The crates contained over 100 priceless works of art and sculptures by masters from France, Italy, Germany and the Netherlands dating back to the 16^th century.  However, seven would not seen again until May, 1935 when they were produced to satisfy a debt owed by Salvatore Buffardi, Italian art critic, to a Severino Marrozos y Andrade. In 1937, they were smuggled out of Cuba on a diplomatic flight to Miami, Florida.  From 1937 until 1985 they AGAIN remained hidden in the basement garage of a small townhouse in the suburbs of Philadelphia. The house was owned by my maternal grandfather, Nicolas E. Meneses, Consul General for Cuba under General Fulgencio Batista.

Wayne, Pennsylvania, 1985

She thought she knew what was in the three, strange secret crates but she had never seen their contents because Jim forbade her and young Jimmy from ever touching them. They had been delivered to her house by an unmarked white van, unloaded by two large strange dark men who did not speak English but only smiled and nodded to her endless questions. They dragged the three huge, dirty, dusty old wooden crates into the basement, scratching the floor as they could barely lift the largest one, and then, the nerve, wrapping a huge chain around all three boxes, locking a padlock to the chains and then, pocketing the key. She demanded that they give her the key but they only nodded, smiled, and walked back to the van and drove away. Morons!

Anne, still in pajamas and an old, cotton robe with coffee stains, sitting on a couch in the living room, ashtray full and overflowing, with a cigarette and a cup of black coffee in her hand, hesitated before she called Jim at his office. She knew she would have to get through Isabel, Jim's “secretary” to reach Jim. She hated Isabel and Jim knew it. Why he kept her on was beyond Anne's belief but not her understanding. Straightening up as best she could, she dialed the number she had called so many times before, wincing as Isabel answered, deliberately, on the third ring:

“Attorney Meneses' Office. May I help you?”

“Yes. Get Jim on the phone. Now.”

“May I ask who's calling”

What a bitch! She knew my voice but always played this game!

“You know who it is Isabel. It's Anne. Now get Jim on the phone!” Her voice was shrill and insistent but she thought she sounded weak and desperate and hated the girl even more for this feeling.

“Of course, Mrs. Meneses. How are you?”

“Fine. Where's Jim?”

“Oh, he is in his office but has a client with him. Shall I tell him you called?”

“No! Tell him I am on the goddamn phone and need to talk to him immediately!”

“You know I would love to do that for you but Mr. Meneses insisted that he not be disturbed”

She faltered, wondering who was in his office that was so important that he could not take HER call. Then she spoke

“You go in there and tell him I am on the phone! Now!”

“You know I would love to do that for you but you know Mr. Meneses. May I tell him what this is in reference to?”

“No! Just, just tell him I called and that he needs to call me back as soon as possible. It's urgent that I speak with him directly!”. She hung up, slamming the phone down hard so it would be clear to Isabel how important and mad she was. Bitch. Whore. I know she is fucking my husband.

Jim did not call her. He walked into the house at 7 o'clock, his usual arrival time after a long day at the office. Sure. She knew where he was and what he was doing with that whore, Isabel.

“Honey, I'm home!”

“Jim! Why didn't you call me back! I needed to speak to you about those men and those horrible, dirty crates and why are they locked up, and why wouldn't they give me the key! “

“Hi Jim! How are you? Did you have a good day?” He mocked her with his usual smart-ass comment that he made almost every day.

“I'm serious! What is going on?”

“Lets have a cocktail and I will tell you all about it...”

That was ten years ago and he had never unlocked the chains or given her the key. However, she had found the key a few weeks ago in the basement. She had been cleaning the basement and mopping the floor when she bumped into an old oak secretary containing family photos and some of Jim's old textbooks from law school. The key was wrapped in waxed paper and had been taped to the back of the secretary. It dropped to the floor when she moved it to clean behind it. The key!

She ran over to the corner of the basement where the crates had been stored and locked up with chains and the old padlock. She tried the key. It worked and the chains fell to the ground, noisily. She froze where she was and listened for Jim or Jimmy upstairs. Nothing. Fearing discovery by her husband, yet not knowing why she should fear him, she quietly replaced the chains, locked them, and put the key back in its hiding place. Another time. Yes, another time when she could unlock the secrets of those strange wooden crated with Spanish words all over the outside and crumbling customs stickers and faded stamps that she could a barely read:

ENTREGAR A -

NICOLAS E MENESES

1123 ARDLEIGH STREET

YEADON PENNSYLVANIA USA

DE -

SEVERINO MARROZOS Y ANDRADE

HAVANA CUBA

She waited one more agonizing week. After Jim had gone to his office, she walked into the basement, unlocked the storage area and dragged the largest crate out into back yard and stood there staring at the crate for a few minutes. Then she picked up the hammer and screwdriver and went to work. The more she struggled with the tools and the stubborn, rusted nails securing the crate's lids, the angrier she became. A small drizzle of saliva dripped unnoticed down the right side of her open mouth until the first lid came away in broken pieces revealing a huge oil painting set in a gold-leafed wooden frame...

to be continued ….FTC – 7/19/18

NOTES FOR REST OF CHAPTER ONE -

1. Cite sale of artwork to National Museum of Fine Arts by S. Buffardi – 1925
2. Refer to or copy letter from Cuban Clerk – 1935
3. Describe Meneses last, diplomatic flight from Cuba in 1937 with family, possessions, and paintings aboard
4. VARIATION! -
   1. Nicholas Meneses goes to Cornell, becomes agent for family sugar business
   2. Use picture of Meneses in 1948 at port in Philadelphia, PA, USA with sugar from Cuba! (assume paintings smuggled inside shipment and then taken to Yeadon, PA)

My grandfather is the short one on the left holding, what else...a cigar

Sea Legs

Disclaimer: I have no right to write this poem. I hurt my right leg while doing something stupid; like pretending to be 30 instead of 70...However, pain, in any and many forms, can be an inspiration. So I wrote this to my old captain to honor him and to try to feel the pain that he has conquered.

It was just the one leg

but the label burned inside

in the 1940’s

There was no place to hide

Polio took many

Some endured, not thrive

But young Jim

would succeed, not merely survive

Many boats he would sail

on Barnegat Bay

No help needed

Sailing, his way

At first a walker

and later a cane.

Both were worthless

on a deck’s angled plane.

On a boat he found

That he could make a stand

With one good leg

and two strong hands.

Tom Crowley

former mate on the Adventure 1971-72

The Carpenters Trunk

He was tired of so many tools

to work his craft around town

He had to make a trunk

Much easier to carry around.

The first one was too small

The next one too big by far

His final version sits here now

It will barely fit into the car.

For years it served him well

Expanding as his practice grew

leather pouches for razor sharp chisels

Wood slots for his saws; just two.

The tools were gone forever,

The winter mice didn’t mind

They built their nests, quite happy

To share this historical find.

I could sell it now on ebay as

A victim of re-purposing’s curse

Or I could keep it here in the attic

To inspire new prose and verse.

William Kidder’s family may wonder

What became of Uncle Bill’s trunk

Perhaps they will find it now

when it sits next to more local “junk”

At The Lincolnville Historical Society

Visitors can delve into the past

A Kidder may see this piece here

And be pleased that it was able to last.

Toys of Summer

Summer kids bring tons of toys

They fill the bathtub and

bring secret joys

They drive you crazy

trying to pick them up

under foot and broken cup

But when they leave

and you clean up the mess

you understand why you

miss them most

Once the toys are put

in their winter place

time stands still

and seems to erase

The joy of toys

and the memories

of the children

that brought them.

The deck is clear

The laundry is done

The toys put away

The children are gone.

As soon as they leave

In the quiet time

You miss them the most

and know life is sublime.

Who cares about madness?

when the grandkids arrive.

You love it because

You are glad to be alive.

A simple hug from a child

restores body and mind

Despite the sore muscles

and the bruises in kind.

Now you wait for the call

or the facetime show

As they reach through the phone

so that you will both know

That love transcends time

But you must settle your mind

So the toys will come back

With the kids right behind.

FTC