Siegfried was the only man Ellen had ever known who wore cravats without
looking homosexual. Custom cashmere sports jackets, easy slacks, Dunhill clenched between teeth, his laid back, casual style did not equate with
Wagner’s Siegfried with whom she was besotted. This Siegfried and Ellen
had become acquainted when both lived in Washington, D.C. and worked for the
Foreign Service.
Outspoken to a fault, when they first met Ellen said bluntly, “You don’t look like a Siegfried type.” Pipe in hand, a slight
smile, “I agree with you. I was named Siegfried after my German father. My
mother insists on Bernhard, my middle name, but most people call me Bernie."
In stature, features, and general demeanor, bachelor Bernie could have been a
stand-in for the Duke of Windsor - without the Duchess.
“Now that’s more like it! Is your father still living?”
“No, he is not.”
Ellen persisted, “What happened to him?”
Slightly exasperated, “He was killed in an automobile accident,” thus ending
the subject.
Between assignments, Ellen rented the second floor of an old Georgetown house and used the living room for a painting studio. Bernie, a short walk
away, had a small modern apartment. Occasionally he invited her there for
dinner. He was a good cook, better chef than conversationalist. While he
was in the kitchen,, Ellen, aware of this taciturnity, read from his copies of
Time or Newsweek and scanned the book he had been reading.
Assigned to Tokyo, Bernie, because of his bachelor status, was a favorite with hostesses who relied on him for dinner parties - always too many single
women for proper seating. His observant grey-green eyes silently took in everything. Pipe as a prop, he appeared to be contemplating the
conversation. Unless spoken to directly, he volunteered not a syllable.
Obviously intelligent and wise, he was liked by women and men as well. Men consulted him on the stock market, women purred and hostesses were
pleased. And his luxurious black Jaguar parked outside contributed to his
esteem in this small gaijin community.
Ellen’s assignment to Tokyo was not because Bernie was there, but it didn’t hurt -
made the transition easier. Arriving late at night, he met her at Haneda
Airdrome. They went directly to Prince Akasaka Hotel, he handed her a heavy
paper bag and was gone. “Nice touch,” she thought, he remembered I like
light Scotch,” and poured a neat nightcap.
Looking for a small place to live, she eschewed an apartment building where many foreigners lived. In the Shibuya area she chose the tiniest house
she had ever been inside. At that time this area had narrow dirt streets with
‘jubes,’ which were the primitive sewer system, along the sides of streets. Drivers carefully avoided driving into a
jube. Coincidence or by Bernie’s design, Ellen never asked, but her little
house was a five minute walk from Bernie’s house. Small but big enough for a
single man, his elderly cook-housekeeper, Sachiko san, and a small garden.
There was room to park the Jaguar in front.
Bernie began picking up Ellen each morning for the short ride to the
government building where they worked. Never arranged beforehand, sometimes
on the way home, he asked, “Would you like to stop in for a drink?”
Occasionally when invited to stay for dinner, Ellen usually did so. Sachiko
San prepared delicious fried chicken. Although an avid reader, conversational skill not his forte, Bernie’s
extensive jazz collection filled in the gap. Ellen knew nothing of jazz, but
was mesmerized by classical music, especially Bach and Mozart. Bernie borrowed and taped some of her records. Shortly afterwards he returned
them. Hidden within the stack she found a new record had been slyly, shyly
included.
One Christmas he gave her a Tchaikovsky record. This beautiful music, sacred to Helen, was performed on a solo harmonica. Ellen burst into
tears at this desecration. Bernie, speechless, hadn’t a clue at the cause of
this emotional reaction. No more record gifts.
After each visit Ellen was Jaguared home. She resolved to remain friends with him although the conversational drought was sometimes frustrating and
she didn’t know how to fix it. Besides, single men in Tokyo quickly discovered dark eyed beauties eager to relieve a foreigner’s loneliness.
Occasionally Bernie asked where she would like to go for dinner. She always chose the same tiny Japanese restaurant to which he had introduced her.
With few street signs, she never knew its location. There were no more than
six tables, but they always sat at the counter to watch the maestro. His steaks were the finest Kobi beef, competing with any in the world. The
amiable chef sipped sake as he worked, the more saki the better the food. Returning in darkness, ever mindful of the jubes, it seemed a miracle Bernie
could find her dollhouse.
Ellen thought of the house as children’s over-sized blocks, one atop the other. The bedroom block was placed directly over the living room block -
sliding glass doors obviated windows. The kitchen contained a fridge and a
small gas stove. Only big enough for one small person, Ellen seldom went butt to butt with Midori, her cook and all around maid. Lovely and
efficient, she was necessary to pay bills, interpret language tangles and wrestle with the phone system and frequent wrong numbers, “Moshi moshi, ha!
so des ka! hai!, etc.”
Frustrated with so many such calls, Ellen sometimes played tricks on the hapless, rapidly talking Japanese caller. She grunted
“Ha. So des ka. Hai!”
The house was unheated except for a small electric heater in the bedroom which provided little warmth. One bitterly cold night Ellen had a brilliant
idea. “Heat rises,” mumbling to herself, “how about lighting the gas oven
in the kitchen.” At last she slept a bit warmer. Suddenly she awakened
vomiting uncontrollably. Then a violent explosion blew off the door of the
old oven. A night to remember! The stove was trashed but Ellen, although
ill, was glad to be very cold but alive.
His assignment finished, Bernie was leaving Tokyo. He planned to retire
and remain in Washington or perhaps move to San Francisco. Hostesses were
bereft, single women sighed and Ellen’s life was depleted. Although Bernie
was not a conversationalist, she was surprised and welcomed his infrequent
letters. Contrary to his inadequate verbal skills, his letters in longhand
were chatty and easy to read. Letters were nice but didn’t fill the void.
Ellen began seeking remedial activities. She began Japanese language classes, studying at five each morning. A
difficult language but she soon learned useful phrases. She could give directions to maniacal taxi drivers,
with their ancient, charcoal-fueled vehicles held together with duct tape. She learned, “The food was delicious. Thank
you very much.”
In department stores, although she didn’t need the facilities, she asked female clerks, “Where is the restroom?” Invariably
these lovely creatures hid behind their hands, giggling in embarrassment, “Choto mate, kudasi,” (“Just a moment, please”) then ran off.
Quickly a male floorwalker appeared, “May I help you?” After a few such encounters,
Ellen gave up classes and learned simple Japanese words and phrases. A cowardly solution but it did the job.
Sunday mornings Ellen walked to an American church close by, attended by self-sufficient families. She tried communicating with God but her line
never answered. And those belted-out off-key hymns reminded Ellen of childhood Depression years. She found a new venue.
Joe was also an employee in the Foreign Service and spoke Japanese. He was short,
pot bellied, intelligent and an amateur painter. Ellen began looking forward to Sunday mornings. Rain or shine, Joe’s beat up, ancient
Volkswagen wheezed to a stop in front of Ellen’s warren. Grabbing her painting gear, quickly they were off.
Fair weather meant landscapes. Drizzly days they painted in Joe’s small house, stopping at Shibuya markets
for still life subjects - yellow, green, purple vegetables. Imported fruits,
each piece displayed atop colorful tissue paper like a jewel, and almost as
expensive. A large fresh fish was more challenging. Joe’s new sound system was huge, wonderful, but he had only one record -
Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, played repeatedly. Engrossed in painting, they
never tired of it, remaining one of Ellen’s favorites.
One Sunday Joe blew into Ellen’s house waving a newspaper. The first art exhibition either had ever entered was featured in the English language
Tokyo Times. A surprisingly good write-up, it included their photograph. Hugging
enthusiastically, they congratulated each other’s secure future as painter.
Ellen’s two-year tour of duty was winding down. With excellent recommendations as an administrative assistant, she could have worked
abroad almost anywhere. Maybe because it was mysterious and remote she chose
Libya.
In Tripoli, a capitol on the Mediterranean, Foreign Service housing stowed her temporarily in a basement room with toilet
and shower. She kept the ground level window open several inches for ventilation. Routinely she took a warm shower before bedtime, then read
herself to sleep. “The wind has picked up,” she thought, “maybe tomorrow will be cooler.”
One night, stepping from the shower, she heard the faint rustling sound and a smothered, strangled cough.
Hurriedly wrapping herself in a towel, she ran to the window. Big boots scuffled to a standing position and noisily ran away.
“How long,” she asked herself, “have Embassy guards personally made sure of my safety?”
When not working, Ellen painted. Almost hopeless at cocktail chatter, she eschewed these encounters whenever possible, using the time to paint.
Doubtless this was interpreted by some as anti-social. Obsessed with Libyan
forms and subtle colors, she painted beige landscapes with cloudless blue skies, noble ancient ruins, columns against the surrealistically cobalt
Mediterranean Sea. From her apartment balcony, across the road she observed
native rooftop festivities with ululating women. Symmetrically shaped houses
and rooftops inspired unusual compositions and quiet colors. The sameness of
let-down raw sienna sometimes triggered wild profusions of color and blockish
shapes.
The Libyan assignment was coming to an end. Ellen had been through ghiblies - storms of sand invading every crevice and
orifice, and millions of dead crickets covering the landscape. She pondered her next locality,
mentally preparing for a change.
Mail from the U.S. was always welcome and Ellen and Bernie had corresponded sporadically.
Then a letter, fatter than usual, arrived from Bernie. Written with a fountain pen, his steady penmanship began, “I have an idea.
We’ll meet in Tokyo, stay in the Dai Ichi Hotel that night, get married next
day. We’ll live on sushi and rice and travel around Japan for a couple of
months. What do you think?”
Ellen, shocked at this unaccustomed forthrightness, read the letter several times.
Is this Siegfried, Bernie or a new personality. Whichever, clearly he is
serious. Excitedly, she wrote back at once agreeing to the plan. And they did just as he suggested.
By signing papers at the United States Consulate in Tokyo they were married by an American functionary. Much simpler than shopping for clothes,
or getting an appointment with a popular hair stylist, the newly marrieds
were mildly in shock. A perfect sunny October day, they walked through one
of Tokyo’s beautiful parks, resting on a rustic wooden bench. Although
happy, Ellen hardly believed this wasn’t a dream. She thought, “There was
so little yakamashii (noise, confusion), are we really married?” Bernie,
silent, thoughtfully pulled on his pipe. Uyeda Jewelers had manufactured Ellen’s earlier jewelry designs so she
trusted them to make her wedding ring. A simple wide platinum band with baguette
diamonds horizontally set - perfect!
They toured Japan via train on their honeymoon. Vendors frantically sold passengers food and tea. Tea was offered in tiny pottery containers unique
to each locale. After the tea was drunk the containers were discarded. Ellen later regretted that she had not collected one of each of these
charming tea pots.
Bernie photographed aspects of their trip including workers in native clothing, magnificent giant cryptomaria trees, lakes, the Inland Sea and
red painted tori after tori. They stayed in ryokans, the Japanese version of
Western bed and breakfast accommodations. Many were pampering pinnacles of
service, care and comfort. Sleeping on tatami (straw matted floor) under a
futon (silk padded quilt) was quite comfortable.
Sounds of Japan were memorable. Wooden getas clattering from hot baths, water trickling quietly from an unimposing source, pond frogs
calling amorously, a cricketing insect. A huge bronze bell at a nearby shrine was struck at regular intervals by a huge suspended log, willing the
listener to wait breathlessly for the next reverberation..
They slurped breakfast soup from small, hand-held lacquer bowls. Unique foods, not necessarily identifiable, were always artistically presented on
flat lacquer ware. Priceless pottery, exhibited in glass cases - Ellen longed
to hold an ancient, simple, irreplaceable tea bowl. The potter had made it
his own by indenting the rim with his thumb.
Exquisite taste and artistry were everywhere. In thatched farmhouses, sparse furniture and everyday tools and utensils had been designed for
efficient, constant use. The tiniest spaces became gardens. A bamboo ladle
rested at the lip of a great hollowed-out boulder holding purifying water.
One unique, restful and cool garden was devoted entirely to many varieties
of moss.
Ellen studied riotous use of color in ancient and new kimonos, obis and hair ornaments. The colors shouldn’t have worked together, but were
glorious. Ellen was fascinated by large graceful koi, their gold, yellow
and black bodies silently gliding through the water. She longed to feed them bits of bread as they begged pond-side for treats. But these sacred
carp were fed only by their caretaker.
To Ellen no thing seemed beyond the Japanese sense of beauty. In awe she said to Bernie, “Hiroshima is a sad memory, and Tokyo is a great city. But
elsewhere Japan is a giant kaleidoscope of color and beauty.”
The flight from Japan’s Haneda Airport to San Francisco was long - too
long. Exhausted, they stayed in a motel, sleeping thirteen hours. While stationed abroad Bernie had purchased a house on Macondray Lane in
San Francisco, without ever having seen it. Trusted friends had cabled Bernie about a house they believed was just right for him. He wired the
necessary funds. Suddenly Bernie was a homeowner, the house having been occupied by tenants while he lived overseas.
Following their marriage, Bernie and Ellen were eager to live in his house and the tenants were given notice. They took a cab from the motel to
the empty house. The lane had no automobile access. Carrying their bags down the narrow, uneven path, they passed huge trees, flower beds in front of
each house, quiet, beautiful and cool. Their house was at the very end of
the lane. It was unimaginable such a place existed right in the middle of
San Francisco.
The little house was charming. Ellen knew Bernie was elated as he was likely ever to be. Ellen thought the most wonderful aspect of the house was the view of the
whole known world from the living room. From the deck San Francisco Bay shimmered. Golden Gate Bridge loomed to the left. Night lights across the
Bay became twinkling alter candles or a toreador’s ‘Suit of Lights.’
Sometimes fog drifted in amorphous shapes and the great fog horn announced,
“You are here - to stay, where you belong.”
Minor skirmishes occurred in furnishing even so small a home. A decorator was hired to referee furniture acquisitions and placement of
treasures both had collected from overseas assignments over the years. Bernie, clamping teeth over his pipe stem, finally acceded to Ellen’s fervent
request.
The downstairs room and antechamber became the studio of her dreams. While painting she left open the top half of the Dutch door leading to
the lane. Several times a kitty crept in on little cat feet, surveyed the
hall, curling up on a silk pillow. Before soundlessly leaping out the open
half of the door, the cat left a generous, pungently wet dollop on the pillow.
While visiting Santorini, Ellen enjoyed the sound of brass bells on donkeys’ bead necklaces and bought one. Now she strung the necklace across
the door’s opening. The timbre of the brass bell ended the slinking cat’s
tinkling.
Ellen enrolled at the San Francisco Art Institute, painting larger, far more ambitiously. The
institute was situated in a beautiful building at the bottom of the very steep hill where they lived. Fabric stretched on wood
supports, covered with a primer coating, she carried the prepared canvasses
downhill to school. Wind was often so strong she feared sailing off into the
bay, joking that she invented hang gliding. Extremely disappointed with classes, her instructor disapproved of
everything she painted. Lacking any understanding, he disdained a large, powerful painting of two ancient Japanese clay haniwa warriors and sniffed at
a lone figure, distant in a large snow scene.
In unstructured classes, young students had loud rock music blaring
constantly. Unwilling to quit, Ellen acquired an instructor interested in her work,
understanding the need for contemplative surroundings. Incredulously, he came to her studio; she need come to class only for student critiques.
He came by on his way home, not having taken time for lunch. Ellen, elated, “You
are incredibly generous,” and stuffed him with hard cooked eggs or whatever
was quick, to get him on the way to his own studio across the bay.
One of Ellen’s largest paintings, awarded a gold medallion, was hung in the
institute’s gallery. After a year on exhibit, she went to collect her work. It had been stolen, never recovered and the Institute awarded her a
princely one hundred fifty dollars to cover her loss.
Retirement came easily to Bernie, playing golf in thrift store rejects - bizarrely colored, patterned slacks. Mornings he pondered machinations of
the stock market, reading Barons, Wall Street Journal and the Daily Bugle.
Ellen intending to learn about stocks, “Bernie, I can’t understand
this. Please explain it differently. I really ought to learn.” Sighing audibly,
he explained again, more arcanely than the first time. Ellen gave up.
A friend gave Ellen a Siamese kitten. Never having painted animals, beautiful Miss Ping became the subject of a large oil dominating the living
room wall. Ungratefully, Ping chose Bernie as her guru. She frisked about
happily as Bernie, in rag bag grubbies, puttered with recalcitrant plants in
the miniscule front garden.
He favored an ancient London Fog raincoat, perfect for mechanical work beneath a vehicle. Not that Bernie would EVER
get under his red BMW. Never a Siegfried, now he was not even a Duke of Windsor.
Ellen joked, “Bernie’s affection priorities are the house, his BMW, Miss Ping, then me.”
About four years into their marriage, Bernie and Ellen somewhere lost their
way. There was much tension between them. Puzzled, worried and disappointed, Ellen reflected on the past couple of years. She had no idea of their financial situation, and enjoyed working.
Occasionally she substituted as secretary to a very wealthy, prominent San
Franciscan who gave enormous amounts of money to worthy causes. Sometimes his secretary did not show up for days. Mr. F. then called Ellen, pleased
that she could help.
Ellen threw out many booze bottles in the woman’s desk, held the office together
while the regular secretary dried out.
Once, provoked at such irresponsible behavior, Mr. F. asked Ellen to take the
secretarial job permanently. Later, the same day, apologetically, he
withdrew his offer. “I’m sorry, Ellen, but I’m really trying to help this
unfortunate, middle-aged woman.”
Ellen began working for a tax attorney in a downtown high-rise. Mornings when she left for work, Bernie sat in his usual chair, behind his newspaper,
continued reading as Ping snoozed on his lap. No acknowledgement of her departure, not even the generic, “Have a nice day.”
Homecoming was no different. “Posture, paper and cat will be the same. I’m living in Madame
Toussaud’s Wax Museum.”
The attorney’s office was in a recently built high-rise. Two spacious
rooms for just two people. Huge windows overlooked a stunning view. One day, surprised at the
attorney’s lunch invite, both pleased to forget tax atmosphere for an hour or
so, they went to a nice restaurant nearby. Refreshed, they returned to this
pleasant office.
Without preliminaries, Morrie grabbed Ellen, pushing her against her desk, kissing her passionately. Ellen, horrified, not at all
flattered, forcibly got out of his embrace, putting her desk between them.
Rebuffed, he went into his office. Grabbing her handbag, she left the office, did not call nor come in for two days. She returned to work and
neither mentioned the event which was not repeated.
Ellen kept a bottle of Ballentine’s in the bottom drawer of her desk. Morrie always left early,
leaving Ellen to transcribe his dictation and lock up. Infrequently, after Morrie had left, she poured two fingers of this
amber elixir, turned off the lights and leaned back in Morrie’s big chair.
The huge windows displayed myriad lights of a throbbing, vibrant city. Ellen
was pleased to be part of it.
Christmas Eve was inundated with nonstop rain. Every possible surface of downtown buildings was encrusted with happy holiday decorations. Rain
embellishments made them abstractly, vividly colorful and spectacular. Ellen, more annoyed than thrilled by the overblown hype this holiday
engendered, was in a somber mood. Tonight, work finished, Ellen poured a Scotch, chuckling to herself, “I
seem to have taken on the bad behavior of that boozing secretary.”
Sitting in Morrie’s chair, door locked, she put her stocking feet up on his desk
and felt like a bigshot. “How long,” she mused, “can I enjoy this before
returning to the Wax Museum?”
Comfortable, entranced by the silent, colorful view, her mind wandered to earlier Christmas Eves. Childhood
Christmas had never been a big deal. Sadly, Ellen trenchantly remembered Christmas during the Great Depression. She would
never, ever forget those lean years, vowing never again to eat white beans
slathered in catsup. At last, her father found a job. Still poor, in a two-story house, her mother, brought in a little money by renting two rooms
to boarders who took dinner with the family.
On Christmas Eve, for simple, affordable fun, Ellen beat water into Ivory soap flakes. Younger sister, Julia, slathered this messy “snow” onto a
small Christmas tree in the seldom-used living room. These very dissimilar
sisters sang Christmas carols as one washed dishes, the other dried. Tired,
Mom rested while Dad, home from a long day in the machine shop, read the
newspaper.
Surprised at having dredged up this childhood reverie, Ellen’s glass and wandering mind were empty. Glancing at the tiny Rolex Bernie had given her
years ago in Tokyo, “It’s time to return to Madame’s wax works.” Walking
home suited her mood perfectly. She enjoyed the silly splat, splat of rain
on her plastic, wide brimmed ‘witch hat.’ Slowly, down the dark lane she
walked carefully, the wet flagstones were slippery with fallen leaves.
New Year’s Eve was beautifully clear. Zillions of lights across the Bay
were like sharp, twinkling neon buttons. Outside on the deck Ellen enjoyed the brisk,
dark night. Putting her arm around Bernie, “It’s all so beautiful. I’m very
happy. Are you?”
Unable to utter the simplest endearment, Bernie mumbled, “Oh, I guess so.”
Forcing back tears, throat constricted, Ellen sighed. She tried to understand his emotional constipation from what little she had gleaned.
His father was a graduate of Heidelberg University in Germany and his mother,
from Minnesota, an ardent Quaker. Ellen believed that Bernie loved her; marriage had been a giant,
courageous leap for him.
The horny tax attorney retired, closing the office. Ellen loved the
little house and her studio, but was unwilling to stay home accepting the sameness of each day. Soon hired by three of the city’s most prominent
society women, she did secretarial work in their extravagant homes. Saturdays were her happiest days. Unable to forgive the cavalier
attitude of the Art Institute, she had stopped instruction and painted solo
every Saturday. She might do five paintings of the same subject, setting them around the room. Walking from canvas to canvas, she judged each work.
All but the very best were destroyed.
Saturday nights Bernie cooked splendid dinners, the routine being tightly structured. On a couple of evenings Ellen lighted the fireplace while Chef
Bernie was in the kitchen. His deep frown signaled that was not the drill.
He lighted the fire when dinner could be left unattended. Ellen made do with
a lighted candle but, “It smokes up this room I’ve just painted.”
Bernie frowned on a second martini, “Dinner will be ready very soon.”
Curiously, on many gourmet nights, sleepless with indigestion, she consulted a doctor. She lay watching her innards on television as several
doctors huddled around, interested in the problem.
So simple, the diagnosis was almost funny. “When your husband cooks, does he use garlic?” “Yes, I
believe so.”
The doctor gave his diagnosis with a smile. “Your problem is an allergic reaction to garlic. Either he leaves out the garlic or YOU leave
him!”
Tension between Bernie and Ellen eventually led to shockingly physical violence. Following an unresolved, inconsequential matter, Ellen
uncharacteristically furious, spit at Bernie. Quickly in a throat hold, seemingly he intended strangling her. Thrashing about, struggling on the
floor, a piece of Japanese pottery was broken into many pieces. Both of them
had cherished this bowl. Ellen assumed and hoped Bernie realized this atmosphere could not continue.
Early the following Saturday Ellen prepared to paint. Her mood somber, marriage on the edge had taken a violent turn. With no subject in mind, she
turned to Bach for solace. The B Minor Mass suffused her with ineffable sadness. She attacked a large canvas with furious energy. Dour, let-down
raw umber expressed her mood. Swiftly, brushing it on the snow white canvas,
then wiping off most of the umber with a paint rag. Working maniacally, swiftly covering the canvas, she scarcely perceived the emerging image.
Physically drained, she lay on the floor, sobbing out of control. When the emotional tsunami abated, she looked at her monotone work. In
the half light of late afternoon a faint halo glowed at the top of the canvas. Turning on the light, she stood back from a subject she could never
have considered painting. Of no religious faith, she had painted Christ on
the cross. She finished the work more tranquilly and declared it anomalistic, profoundly sad, movingly good.
Months later the painting was purchased by a woman who sent it home to Washington, D.C. A year or so later Ellen received a letter, “This painting
haunts me! I cannot live with it.” Ellen sent a full refund and the painting was returned.
Although Ellen was not Catholic, she volunteered as secretary to the Monsignor at nearby St. Francis of Assisi, a small lovely old San Francisco
church. She assisted Monsignor in writing a book on Gregorian music. He was
a splendid organist and took her to afternoon organ concerts, and organ crawls. She enjoyed his erudition and many interests. Happily she gave the
“haunting” painting to Monsignor for his church. Returning from a painting
exhibition abroad, Ellen was bereft to learn of the too early death of this
very special friend.
Ellen realized that she and Bernie needed help. Stubborn and reluctant, he accompanied her to a couple of
counseling sessions. It was not easy to discern the problem but Ellen talked freely with the psychiatrist. Turning
to Bernie, he asked, “And what do you think?” Arms folded defiantly over
his chest, “I don’t have a problem,” resuming his taciturn attitude.
When Bernie had gone out to his BMW, “Helen, wait just a moment. I want you to
continue coming, but I cannot work with Bernie. And you MUST get out of there!”
Taking the psychiatrist's advice, Ellen devised a plan. While Bernie and
Ping grubbed around in his tiny garden she called Elsie, a painter friend.
“I need a place to stay for a couple of weeks. May I stay in your basement
until something can be figured out?”
“Yes, of course, Ellen. Shall I pick you up at the end of the lane in about
an hour?” Hurriedly, Ellen threw into a large duffle bag her clothing, shoes
and a brand new London Fog raincoat.
“Bernie, I’m going to the Laundromat. See you later.”
Several hours later Ellen called Bernie from Elsie’s small house. “I am
all right but will not come home for a while. Don’t try to locate me. I’ll
be in touch from time to time.”
Ellen stayed in Elsie’s basement for about three weeks, frequently assuring Bernie she was well.
Following many phone conversations and persuasion, Bernie was convinced and
agreed that Ellen would return only if she could live completely separate and
independent in her studio. Very grateful, Ellen gave Elsie the new London Fog which her friend had
admired.
And so Ellen returned to Macondray Lane, happy to be surrounded by painting atmosphere. The smell of turpentine was more welcome than any
perfume. And so they lived independently, apart under the same roof. Ellen continued secretarial work with the three socialites. She put
files in order, typed eleven dictated letters, kept records of their magnificent paintings loaned to
museums. Ellen’s solitary lunch, presented by a butler, was served on a silver tray.
Late one afternoon as she was about to leave, one of the oft-coifed lovelies told her, “I’m not accustomed to paying three dollars an hour, so I
won’t be having you come any more.” The other two ‘dollinks’ didn’t have
the chutzpah to make such an absurd comment, but each said something similar,
“I won’t be needing your services after today.”
Although Ellen had not particularly enjoyed the work nor the women, she was
crushed at having been so summarily dismissed. Bewildered, bereft, she took a
bus home. She had always decided when to leave a position. A voice in her
head mocked her. “Ellen, my girl, at middle age, you are still so naive.
You assume even very rich people play by the rules. Where have you BEEN!”
She would get little sympathy from Bernie - “Why tell him? A failed marriage. I can’t hold even demeaning jobs” Alone, depressed,
overwhelmed in solitary sorrow, she made a single martini, sipping it slowly. Tired,
defeated, she tried to think through this miasma. She hit bottom. The
tunnel had caved in, no light at the end.
Ellen used the bathroom, then emptied a full bottle of tranquilizers into her palm. It was difficult to cram so many tablets in her mouth, then gulp
water. “I’ll leave a single tranquilizer in the bottle to make it easy for
folks who will eventually come nosing around.”
Finishing her martini, she lay flat on the carpeted floor, fully dressed, primly crossing her ankles. Calm and comfortable, she quickly fell asleep. She never knew how long she slept. About four o’clock on a subsequent
morning she awakened.
Bernie sat by the bed and smiled, “You’re in the emergency room.” A doctor came in, “Mrs. von Ammon, I’m a hospital
psychiatrist, would you like to talk?”
“Thank you, doctor, but no.”
After he left, she gushed emotionally to Bernie, never before having revealed so
much of her feelings. He, characteristically, said little, totally oblivious
that he had been a large part of her despair. Clearly Bernie was glad to have Ellen alive and took her home to the
bedroom they once shared. Alas, he could not summon words to declare happiness that she was alive, that he loved her. He hadn’t a glimmer that HE
was the largest part of the problem.
Weak and extremely cold, Ellen rested, slept - no idea how long. Recovery took a while, then she agreed to live in
her studio once again. She thought, “At least for the present.”
Ellen had worked in offices for so many years, she missed that environment and became a volunteer at The Nature Conservancy. She accepted
a secretarial position, later becoming office manager. Months later, emboldened by painting exhibitions she had had in San
Francisco, Jamaica and New Mexico, Ellen naively took slides of her paintings
to New York. Showing the slides to several galleries, there was a modicum of
interest in some works, but insufficient to be serious. Message received.
“Well, I tried,” and she flew home.
At the San Francisco airport she waited in the cold, damp night for the
red BMW Bernie so cherished. Jaguars were out, sporty red BMW’s were in.
She waited and waited, then called him. The phone rang many times. No answer. “DAMN!
He’s fallen asleep again, did it before. Now I’ve got to find a cab.”
Almost midnight, tired and cranky, she calmed down, looking forward her
studio, a warm shower and familiar bed. The cab let her out at the entrance to the lane. It was very dark,
completely quiet. There was no light over the front door as she set down her
suitcase. Fumbling in her oversized handbag, finally she found her keys and
let herself into the dark house. Switching on a lamp in the living room she
thought, “This night is getting weird and weirder. Where is Bernie? Why
didn’t Miss Ping try to get outside as I opened the door?”
Puzzled and tired, her nerves frazzled, the phone rang imperiously in the semi-dark room. Mumbling in irritation, “Now what! Another
wrong number!
Why can’t people dial correctly, especially at this time of night. HELLO!”
“Ellen, this is John. I saw the light was on and knew you had returned from your trip. May I come and see you for a moment - it’s important.”
John and Bernie were good friends, neither getting any younger. Each had keys to the other’s home - just in case.
“Sure, John, but just for a minute. I’m really tired.”
Seconds later John stood at the door. He walked right in, sat on the sofa, motioning Ellen to join him. “This is totally uncharacteristic of
John,” she thought. “What is so important it couldn’t wait until tomorrow
at a decent time!”
Realizing Ellen was tired, John paused to ensure her complete attention.
“I saw two, then three unopened newspapers outside your front door...very unusual for
Bernie. You know how he enjoys his newspapers. I rang the doorbell, called him on the phone. No answer. I was
extremely worried. With the key he had given me, I went inside and turned on
a light. The bedroom was empty, in complete disarray. I looked in the bathroom. Bernie lay dead on the floor.” John hurried on with his dreadful
report, not giving Ellen an opportunity to speak.
“I called 911 and the appropriate medical people took him to the morgue. An autopsy was performed and Bernie remains there now. The report stated he
died suddenly of a massive heart attack.” John paused, uncertain. “Maybe I
should not have told you tonight, but you will soon receive a phone call from
the morgue. We have been neighbors and friends for years. I wanted to break
this dreadful news to you myself.”
In a dream-like state, Ellen knew, “I’ll wake up any moment and can forget all this.”
“John, I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Thank you for sparing me the shock of the phone call. I won’t hesitate to call if there’s
anything you can do. Thank you and goodnight.”
Ellen could not remember how she spent the remainder of the long night. The coroner called early next morning. He requested that someone come to
identify the body and sign for personal possessions. The coroner added, “I
think it would be better that you do not come. Ask a friend who knew your
husband to come instead.”
Derrick, another neighbor, volunteered to visit the morgue. From there he
brought Ellen a small manila envelope. It contained all that was left of a
life - Bernie’s watch, wallet, the ring he had worn always. Set in gold, the
dark green bloodstone had been carved with his German family’s proud, double-headed eagle crest. His beat up old wallet
contained a couple of ten dollar bills, driver’s license and a donor card
from University of California, San Francisco.
Soon after moving onto the lane, Bernie and Ellen had discussed, then signed necessary forms donating after death their eyes and bodies to medical
science. This numbered card identified Bernie as a whole body donor. Ellen
called the University with necessary information. The University informed
her that the body could not be accepted because it had been autopsied. Stoically, she tore up the card, returning all other items to the envelope,
placing it in Bernie’s desk. She would not open this desk again for more
than a year.
Was it a prescription drug she was taking? Dreamily, Ellen sleepwalked through the ensuing days. Fortunately she was not injured in traffic as she
walked, trance-like, on her daily rounds. Miss Ping’s behavior became
uncharacteristically wild, erratic. She jumped out the first floor window,
came in the front door, looked for Bernie, jumped out the window, came back
in repeatedly.
Clearly the beautiful creature sensed something was very wrong. Bernie had never been absent day and night. Ping would not be
consoled. Ellen gave her to a friendly neighbor child who would love and care for her. Ping
repeatedly returned to the house looking for Bernie. Unable to control her, Ellen called a trusted friend to carry out a plan for
Ping. Sobbing, she told her friend what must be done.
Ellen arranged for Bernie’s cremation. There was no ceremony. She collected his ashes without trauma, the cardboard box was like a gift to be
wrapped. Then she collected another, smaller box. Bernie had spent so much time in the Pacific area she believed he would
prefer his ashes be cast into the sea. She wondered whether friend Derrick
knew how best to do this. Derrick quickly arranged everything.
A few days later, driving to the yacht harbor, Derrick glanced at Ellen’s wan face, but
said nothing. Silently walking down the ramp to the Jolly Folly, he held her
free hand, the other hand clutching a plastic bag.
Overcast, the morning was as foggy as San Francisco gets. Jim helped Ellen with her light burden, welcoming her aboard his beautiful thirty foot
sailboat. Jim and Derrick soon had the trim craft cutting through swirling
fog, wind filled the sails as waves slapped the bow. No one spoke. Sail rings chinked against the mast and gulls flew erratically overhead. Somber, feeling nothing, Ellen lifted her head accepting the kiss of
moist grey fog. She thought, “The mist is appropriate; Bernie would have enjoyed this day.”
Curiously, she remembered a film in which much admired Katharine Hepburn’s unique voice complimented a handsome young man, “Your
boat is ‘yar.’ “ Ellen was sure Jim’s boat was very yar.
Soon they were three miles from shore. Jim glanced at Derrick who said,
“I think this is a good place,” and dropped anchor. Ellen was grateful to
be with thoughtful friends, as her inner calm ebbed on this memorable day. Derrick steadied Ellen as she stood, the Jolly Folly rocking gently,
small waves the lapping against the sides. She handed him the larger box, then the smaller.
Removing the lids, she took a box in each hand, pouring both ashes slowly into the clear water. Bernie and Ping were together again.
Tears prevented her seeing clearly the glittering, confetti-like
particles. Soon they were out of sight. Unevenly, Ellen walked aft and sat quietly, shoulders
quivering in grief. Soon the emotional flood abated. She blew her nose. Surprised at the unexpected sound, she laughed in relief,
along with her companions.
Thoughtfully, Derrick had brought a bottle of champagne. Clinking glasses, “To Bernie.” Ellen’s mood lightened along with the weather. With
sunshine and light winds, soon they were back in port. It had been a memorable day.
Ellen could, at last, empty Bernie’s desk. She had resigned her job at The Nature Conservancy, unable to function efficiently. Unaccustomed to
being in the entire house, daily she sat across from her painting of Miss Ping. Her sleek sable coat, saucy, carefree manner, Bernie had loved her
very much. Ellen thought, “Ping must have been the only pet Bernie ever
had.”
It seemed a mockery that Ping’s portrait should continue its domination. Ellen took it off the wall, found an Exacto knife and plunged
the sharp blade into the painting’s center. Again and again, frenetically,
she ripped the canvas, hardly realizing her demonic actions. She didn’t
understand. Should she be relieved or ashamed of this manic behavior? The
destroyed painting was placed in the trash.
Ellen was mystified by her uncharacteristic behavior - destroying a good painting, inability to open Bernie’s desk. At last, jaw firmly set, Ellen
sat at the desk. “How strange this seems, but I must get on with it.” She
found photographs of Miss Ping playing among Bernie’s flowers, Ping walking
home, her sable brown tail held high from an exploratory venture up the lane.
Ellen was surprised to find thoughts, lines written about things which
interested him. Photographs of unusual architecture which abounds in San
Francisco, photographs taken in Asia before color eclipsed black and white,
before high-rise buildings covered so much scenic land, women workers in
clothing unique to their jobs, ancient charcoal-driven taxis. Myriad eight
by twelve cards on stocks were neatly filed, referred to almost daily. None
of these had been shared with Ellen.
For many years it had been Ellen’s greatest desire to know a person, to really
know some one - share thoughts, anxieties, experiences, happy times, not so
happy times. Before approaching Bernie’s desk she knew this wish had failed. But she was unprepared for the extent to which she was excluded. Sadness
enveloped her, still does when she allows herself to think about it.
Ellen addressed the empty desk, “I don’t know whom I loved. Was it
Siegfried, Bernhard, Bernie, or a holograph? I will never know.”
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