Read Online Some of My Lives by Rosamond Bernier - Free Book Online Page B

Cubans had only a halfhearted interest in illumination.
    Much was made of the arcane fact that a diamond was buried under the floor of the National Capitol, at the precise point from which all roads in Havana were centered. I was disappointed to learn later that the diamond was synthetic.
    When we were leaving Havana some time later, Chacón y Calvo sent a formal letter of thanks to Lew (to the man, not the woman, mind you) ending (it sounds better in Spanish): “Will you do me the favor of throwing me at the feet of your wife?” Since he was distinctly chubby, I wondered if he might bounce.
    It was symphony orchestra season, and for the chic women of the capital this was the cue to bring out their furs—regardless of the tropical temperature. And the family diamonds (real, these). The orchestra’s conductor at that time was a personable Italian, much favored by the ladies.
    But the real music came from the streets. There seemed to be literally music in the air, with rumba rhythms pulsating from every café and street corner. A favorite number described a hearse being pushed along a street with its burden, but when a rumba is heard, the corpse springs out of its coffin and gets up and dances.
    No one appreciated the uninhibited rhythmic vitality more than
Aaron Copland. He was in Havana for a Good Neighbor Policy tour similar to ours—to my good fortune, we had coincided in Bogotá, Caracas, and now Cuba.
    For economy, I had rented an apartment to avoid hotel bills. I took over the kitchen and bravely entertained. “Everybody” came, including the American ambassador, Spruille Braden. I served an orange ice cream of my own invention. It had a somewhat unusual texture. “How amusing, fur ice cream,” one of the guests was heard to remark.
    I acquired, briefly, a taste for Cuban cigars: Romeo y Julieta, Partagás, and Bolívar were the best, I thought. I had gone to watch them being rolled into shape by young women at long tables. They were being read to aloud by a person on a high stool.
    These were still the days of the reprehensible dictator Fulgencio Batista, much admired by the State Department as a bulwark against Communism. Fidel Castro would emerge a few years later.
    Of course I visited studios. Unfortunately, the most interesting Cuban artist, Wifredo Lam, was not back in Cuba from Europe. I did like the work of Amelia Peláez, elements of Cuban architecture, and decorative arts peering from a strong black grid. I know there is a vibrant art scene now, and I hope to return to see what is going on with a whole new, talented generation today.
    The Cuban visit was cut short by the horrific news of Pearl Harbor. I had been walking along the famous Varadero Beach outside Havana with Aaron Copland when we heard a broadcast from a beach shack.
    As soon as possible, we packed up the exhibition and headed for home.

More Mexican Moments
    W hen I returned to Mexico after my marriage, I found that because of the war in Europe, whole new groups had arrived to diversify and enliven the scene. There were gifted émigrés from France—particularly the Surrealists, who found what the imperious Surrealist leader André Breton called “a country in which myth is still alive.” Breton was followed by the poet Benjamin Péret and his wife, the painter Remedios Varo; the Austrian painter Wolfgang Paalen and his French wife, Alice Rahon, who wrote poems and developed into a painter; and the scene designer Esteban Francés.
    There were Spaniards escaping from Franco and central Europeans fleeing the Nazis. There were brilliant people and, as always at such times, dubious people escaping responsibilities or the law (or both).
    I did a stint at a canteen benefiting the Red Cross. I followed the red-haired mistress of the ex-king Carol II of Romania, Magda Lupescu. She warned me, “Always be sure to weigh the sugar before you leave.” It took a Romanian to think of