On This Day

This would be my first wife Carol’s 77^th birthday had she lived.  We split 44 years ago.  She fell to schizophrenia at 32, having fought it all her life.  It is two souls fighting for one mind and her's was splendid in spite of it.

Her divorcing me was a release: Her final words were, "Go, you have all the life we have to live," the ending of "For Whom the Bell Tolls." She had a vision for me and a reference in literature for every occasion.  She felt guilty for not having told me of an affliction she diagnosed at age nine.  In those ten words she closed our book knowing she would never be free of the voices.

Carol was the most intelligent, well-read person I had ever known. She graduated Phi Beta Kappa from the U of I, had the key; the whole bit. Her PBK girl friends could not understand what she wanted with me.  It was "Look what Carol dragged in! A science teacher nerd!"  They were all marrying high borns. I learned something from her every day, but recall three in particular:

We spent the summer of 1962 in Marbella, Spain with our classical guitar teacher, friend Frederick McNeal Noad in his mother’s guest house.  Mrs. Noad retired there from BBC. She was Rudolph Hess’ interpreter in WWII when he landed in England.  We spent evenings trying to ply Nazi secrets from her while she drank us under the table.  That lady was made of iron.  

Fred was preparing for the Andres Segovia Consortium in Santiago de Compestela.  We took him to Cordoba for a meeting and audition with the blind composer Antonio Rodgrigo of "Concierto de Aranjuez" fame for a letter of introduction to the master.  Fred got it.

We toured Andalucia, met the great guitar makers, luthiers, bought their instruments, paid the bribes, shipped them to Los Angeles dealers, doubled our money, went to concerts at the Alhambra Palace in Malaga, bullfights in Torremolinos, trips to Gibraltar and Tangiers. It was life in Spain 1962 for two happy kids from Illinois with great dreams.

Late in August we left for three day trip to Galicia stopping in Sevilla and Lisbon on two nights.  The roads were scratches on mountain sides. Carol wrote letters to her mother furiously should we crash.  How they would be delivered was not discussed.  It kept her busy.  Fred sat in the back reading aloud from tour guides and brochures.  Englishmen love to be busy.

In Sevilla we searched cemeteries for "Solis," the name of my Sephardic Jewish ancestors who went to Mexico after the mid-19th century purge.  We saw Sherry "solera" caves in Jerez, a show in the big tent Flemenco school in Triana, and more in cave "tavernas" spending a night in Sevilla.

We arrived in “Lisboa” on this day in 1962 her 25^th birthday, found a hotel, went out for a fine restaurant to celebrate. We entered, properly attired, were ushered to a table and asked for their finest Port as a compliment to Portugal.  Fred told us how "30 English bowmen saved the Portuguese crown."  The Maitre de’ brought a 1908 vintage; decanted with great ceremony.  It was pale orange, clear and velvety, the wine taste of time.

Dinner was in courses.  As we ate a screen was removed and in the patio a small woman with long black hair, a man with a Spanish classical guitar, another with a large mandolin-like instrument, “guitarra Puertugueza,” began to play and she sang. It was wonderful.  We had not heard Fado; the folk music of Lisbon, the only city with its own musical genre’.  We were entranced.

At set end ever-gallant Fred invited them over for a drink. One man came with the lady.  She was Amalia Rodriguez, the Queen of Fado; famous in Portugal.  She wanted to meet us on hearing we were from LA as she was planning a world tour and apparently trying out new material in a friend's fine restaurant.  Her English was halting, but far superior to our Portuguese.  The conversation flowed.  They had more questions about America than did we of Fado. 

A few years later she came to Los Angeles. Carol and I went backstage at the Hollywood bowl.  She recalled us and her English was much improved. In 1995 when she died they shut down the country for a week; nothing moved. When Salizar died they shut it down for three days, but only because a weekend had intervened.  Amalia was that famous and loved.

Our hotel had the most incredible tile work I have ever seen. All in tiny blue and yellow squares.  The bathroom had a commode on a foot tall tiled pedestal with a great copper “throne,” a huge overhead tank and brass pull chain to flush.  When pulled a great roar of water shook the throne and was certainly heard throughout the building. I expected applause!  What an experience and a night to remember!

For the last 25 years of my life I have felt I would give the rest of it to live those three days again.  My life was perfect then and that is where I am on this day.

Adrian Vance