DON ERNESTO

Don Ernesto in a file photo from the early 1970s.

On the eve of his receiving the Cervantes Prize—the most prestigious award in Spanish letters—world renowned novelist Ernesto Sabato told me, “They start giving you prizes and medals when they think you’re going to die.” But if that’s what “they” thought, they were in for a surprise. Don Ernesto was 76 when I ventured that getting the Cervantes was a great honor and he gave me that wry answer. He was to live, however, for another 23 years. He died last Saturday, less than two months shy of his hundredth birthday. With his death, Argentina lost its most renowned living literary figure, an informal title that Don Ernesto had held since the death of Jorge Luis Borges in 1986.

That meeting with Sabato a quarter-century ago was an interesting one. I was at a turning point in my writing career. I had gone as far as I could go in the newspaper where I was working. When I landed the job of managing editor of the Buenos Aires Herald in 1986, after a prior decade-long career in that paper, I felt as though I had “arrived”. My loosely envisioned plan for the future was to continue to head up the paper’s editorial department for another twenty years or so while pursuing a parallel career as a free-lance writer and novelist. I couldn’t have guessed then that, within a year and a half, my increasingly hostile relationship with the chairman of the local board of directors and his general administrator over editorial and commercial policy—and the mixing of the two—would have reached such a pitch that I would feel obliged to resign. But by the time I met Don Ernesto, I could have already described myself as less than content with my job. The chance to interview this famous writer was directly linked to a conscious effort to expand my free-lance horizons in new directions.

In this case, I had been contracted by Insight Cityguides to be one of the lead writers for the first Cityguide to Buenos Aires. As such, Project Manager Kathleen Wheaton, left it pretty much up to me what I would write about. I chose to do a couple of light-hearted color pieces—one about the then-disastrous telephone system and another about the city’s multi-faceted kiosks (where you could buy anything from cigarettes and half-pints of liquor to stationery, condoms and ice-cream). But I also set out some serious tasks for myself: a concise history of Argentine politics from Juan Perón to the then-incumbent President Raúl Alfonsín, and two interviews. One of these I did with film director Luis Puenzo, who had just won Hollywood’s Academy Award for Best Foreign Film (his The Official Story) and the other with Argentina’s by then most famous living writer—Borges had died the year before—Ernesto Sabato.

My first contact with Don Ernesto was iffy. He said that he wasn’t really giving interviews any longer, and anyway, he hardly had the time for such nonsense since he was flying to Spain that very week to receive his Cervantes Prize. But I kept him on the line, talking about his outstanding work in the field of human rights, and reminding him of the parallel human rights track record of the paper I worked for, although making sure he understood that the interview was for the Cityguide, not for the Herald. Finally, reluctantly, he acquiesced.

“Look,” he said, “I’m only going to consent to the interview because of the great respect I have for the Herald. But we’ll do it this way: Write your questions out and I’ll meet with you at my home for ten minutes or so, just so we get to meet each other, then I’ll answer your query in writing and get back to you when I’m done.”

I was thoroughly disappointed, but said, “All right, Don Ernesto, just as you like,” because by the tone of the conversation up to then, I realized that any other answer would probably cause him to hang up on me and I was surprised I’d been able to get him on the telephone in the first place.

I arrived bright and early the next morning, questions in hand, at the large old house in the middle-class western suburb of Santos Lugares where he had lived for almost four decades by that time. When I stepped up to the iron gate beyond the tree-lined door yard and rang the bell, I was immediately accosted by a neighbor, who had been watching me ever since I’d gotten out of my car.

“What do you need, friend?” he asked in a less than amiable tone.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Sabato,” I said.

He nodded, but waited there, vigilant, until I had not only been buzzed through the gate, but also until he was certain that I was expected. Don Ernesto was such a respected figure in Santos Lugares that this was standard operating procedure, I later learned. His neighbors took care of him and his wife, Doña Matilde, in a way that has since been all but lost elsewhere in an ever more cosmopolitan, yet violent and introverted city. Except for his trips abroad, Santos Lugares was Don Ernesto’s everyday world, right down to the neighborhood Club Social across the way, where he was a regular in the table games that the older men of the area played there while they had their coffee or other drinks and swapped stories.

Don Ernesto himself ushered me into a small, sparsely furnished but pleasant room adjoining his large studio. The little room was obviously for just such occasions, a little place in which to receive strangers and get rid of them quickly. He was quite apparently jittery and on edge. He asked me a few questions about my years at the Herald. I asked him a few preliminary questions about the presidential commission he had headed at the behest of President Alfonsín to document the disappearances of thousands of people during the dictatorship that had preceded Dr. Alfonsín’s democratic administration. I had it on good authority that much of that commission’s final report (called Never Again) had been authored by Sabato himself. But he was quite self-effacing about it, taking little of the credit, though it had been he who had delivered it personally into the hands of the President. Then, we talked a little about the Cervantes Prize, but this rendered him even more ill at ease, since that’s where he was headed right now and he was supposed to be in the international airport at Ezeiza by sometime around noon to catch his flight to Madrid.

All in all, even when he invited me to take a seat and took one himself, with a coffee table separating us, I got the distinct feeling that he was saying, “Nice to meet you, no need to be in a hurry, here’s your hat!” After a few more pleasantries, he pursed his lips, pushed his iconic horn-rimmed spectacles further up onto the bridge of his nose, gave his brush of a moustache a tweak and said, “Well, let’s see your questions, shall we?” I retrieved my dozen carefully worded, and even more carefully thought-out questions from my briefcase and handed them to him.

“I’ll just have a quick look in case there’s something I don’t understand,” he said. He started to impatiently scan the page I had handed him, but then, I saw him pause, go back, reread, heard him say under his breath, “Oh…oh yes…well…ah yes…” Then he looked up from the page and said, “So you’re a writer!”

I felt myself flush and then hastened to say, “Uh, no, Don Ernesto, I’m a journalist.”

“Nonsense,” he responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You may work as a journalist, but you’re a writer. Otherwise you could never ask such intimate questions about writing.” Then, after a pause, he said, “Well, I think we need to talk.”

I stood up and said, “Fine, Don Ernesto, but another day, then. You have a plane to catch.”

“Nonsense,” he said, “sit down, sit down!”

So I sat down.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“No, don’t bother…”

But he was already calling out to his wife, “Matilde, could we have some coffee, please!”

Seizing the opportunity, I immediately started asking him about topics that weren’t included in my list of questions. I asked him about his days as a nuclear physicist. After receiving a PhD in physics from the National University of La Plata in 1938, he was hand-picked by Argentine Nobel Prize-winner Bernardo Houssay to take a research fellowship at the Curie Institute in Paris. Of this period of his life, he  once wrote, “During that time of antagonisms, I buried myself in electrometers and graduated cylinders during the morning and spent nights in bars with the delirious surrealists. At the Dome and the Deux Magot, drunk with those heralds of chaos and excess, we used to spend long hours creating exquisite cadavers.” He is also quoted as saying, “At the Curie Institute, one of the highest goals to which a physicist can aspire, I found myself empty. Battered by disbelief, I kept going on an inertia that my soul rejected.” In 1943, he gave up science entirely to become a fulltime writer and painter.

I asked him too about his checkered political leanings. Early on, he had been an outspoken supporter of communist and anarchist causes, “but today,” I reminded him, “you are an iconic figure in one of the country’s two most traditional political parties,” (referring to his more recent support for Dr. Alfonsín’s center-left Radical Party).

“Any young man who isn’t a staunch leftist or an anarchist is an idiot,” he quipped, “and any old man who’s a leftist or an anarchist is equally an idiot.”

His wife came with coffee and cookies and he presented me to her. Doña Matilde was a pleasant, polite woman, but her only concern was her husband. “Ernesto,” she said raising her eyebrows, “your plane.”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “I have plenty of time.”

So on we went. He had, he said, devoted nearly forty years exclusively to his writing. If you wanted to be exceptional at something, he said, you had to focus all of your attention on it.

“The thing is,” I said, “despite the decades you spent at it and in spite of your much deserved fame, your total output as a novelist has been just three books. Outstanding, admittedly, Don Ernesto, but just three.” (The first published in 1948, the second in 1961 and the third in 1974).

A grin broke beneath his moustache and he said, “I’m self-destructive. I’ve burned almost everything I’ve ever written.”

“Why?” I asked in alarm.

“I guess maybe I’m an arsonist at heart,” he laughed.

“So, is there anything that’s been spared from the flames lately?” I ventured to ask.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t write any more. My eyes won’t take the strain…so I paint.”

I gazed at him in surprise. “Your eyes won’t take writing so you paint?”

He laughed aloud and said, “I can tell you’ve never seen any of my paintings!” He explained that as a youth he had been torn between painting and writing and that for those forty years after he quit being a physicist, writing had willed out. So now, he was indulging himself as a painter.

By the end of the interview, I felt a surprising closeness to the aging writer and, for days, couldn’t stop thinking about a lot of the things we had discussed.

It was only a matter of months after that—after yet another major run-in with the Chairman of the Board—before I decided that my career at the Buenos Aires Herald was at an end and tendered my resignation. It was at about that time too that I received author copies of the Insight Cityguide to Buenos Aires, one of which I earmarked for Ernesto Sabato. I sent it with a letter in which I explained to him that I had resigned from the newspaper and now was devoting my time to free-lancing, while also exploring my worth as a fiction writer. I added that my interview with him had given me the self-confidence I needed to become an independent writer—no matter what it was that I ended up writing. Writing was my calling and while running a newspaper had been good while it lasted, I was no longer willing to compromise my own goals and ideals to fit someone else’s.

By return post, I received a copy of Don Ernesto’s first published novel, El Tunel. He had dedicated it, “To Dan, with affection always, E. Sabato”. Just inside the cover, there was a small piece of memo paper and, on it, the writer had typed:

Dear Dan,

How glad I am for you.

E. Sabato

        

Leaf Storm: Magical Misery

I’ve just finished reading La hojarasca (usually translated into English as Leaf Storm), by Colombia’s famous Nobel Prize-winning writer, Gabriel García Márquez (now 84).

Gabriel García Márquez - Random House
publicity photo by Patrick Curry 

I should start by saying that I’ve never been a very orderly reader. That is to say, I’ve very seldom read all of an author’s works in a row—with the possible exceptions of J.D. Salinger and Truman Capote, some works of both of whom I’ve read several times—and, much less, in chronological order. So it is not at all strange that I should just now be getting to Leaf Storm, García Márquez’s earliest novella, which was first published in 1955. I read it in a recent Spanish-language edition (La hojarasca, Buenos Aires, Debolsillo, sixth edition, 2007 – Contemporánea – 176 pages, ©1954 by Gabriel García Márquez and ©2003 Random House Mondadori SA, Barcelona, under license to Editorial Sudamericana SA). But it was also first published in English in 1972 by Harper & Row and there have been several other English editions since, usually with this novella as the title for anthologies of the author’s shorter works. Any translated quotes included in this article are my own translations from the original Spanish, not those appearing in any of the English-language editions of this work.

Despite the Colombian writer’s well deserved fame, he was anything but an overnight success. He was making his living as a journalist while studying law when he wrote Leaf Storm, but it took him seven years to interest anyone in publishing this story. Nor was it to lead to a sudden string of successes: He wrote No One Writes to the Colonel (El coronel no tiene quien le escriba) from 1956 through 1957, but didn’t find a publisher for it until 1961. That same year he won the Esso Literary Prize for La mala hora (In Evil Hour), his first published novel, but didn’t publish another book for five years—in this last case, his masterpiece, One Hundred Years of Solitude (Cien años de soledad). García Márquez has indicated that he was writing “Solitude” in his head from the time he was eighteen, but never could find the way to get the story—which, like Leaf Storm and No One Writes to the Colonel before it, was based on his own family’s history—down on paper. But when it finally came to him, he wrote obsessively for eighteen months straight, to such an extent that he had to sell the family car to keep the wolf from the door and his wife had to talk  grocers into giving her credit in order to keep food on the table.

Leaf Storm was where all of this process began, a simple sketch of characters, ideas and artistic concepts that García Márquez would later employ in other works. It also carried hints of the magical realism movement of which he would later be recognized as a major exponent. Nearly two decades after he wrote this novella, García Márquez was quoted as saying that of all the things he had written, La hojarasca was his favorite, because he felt it was “the most sincere and spontaneous.”

There is nothing complicated about the plot, but it does indeed have elements that are unique. It bears the starkness of some of the most ruthless of American Westerns and of similar tales of remoteness and isolation, a largely understated harshness and brutality that rival stories such as Steinbeck’s The Harness or Hemingway’s An Alpine Idyll. But the longer format of the novella gives García Márquez room in which to infect the reader to an even greater degree with the stifling, lugubrious atmosphere that he weaves from the first page to the last.

We have come to the house where the dead man is.

The heat is suffocating in the closed room. You can hear the buzz of the heat in the streets, but nothing else. The air is stagnant, concrete; you get the feeling that you could twist it like a piece of sheet steel. In the room where they’ve placed the cadaver, there is a smell of wardrobe trunks, but I don’t see any anywhere. There’s a hammock in a corner hung from a ring at one of its ends. There’s a smell of rubbish. I think that the ruined and near ruined things that surround us look like things that should smell of rubbish, although they actually have another smell.

I always thought that dead men should have a hat. Now I see that they don’t. I see that they have a steely head and a kerchief tied under the jaw. I see that they have their mouth a little bit open and that you can see, behind the purple lips, the stained and irregular teeth. I see that they have the bitten tongue to one side, thick and pasty, a little darker than the color of the face, which is like that of one’s fingers when they are squeezed by a hemp rope. I see that they have their eyes open, a lot wider than a man’s, anxious and bulging, and that the skin is like pressed and damp earth. I thought that a dead man looked like a person still and asleep and now I see that  it’s just the opposite. I see that he looks like a person wide awake and furious after a fight…I don’t know why they’ve brought me. I had never entered this house before and I even thought that it was abandoned…          

In this way, García Márquez allows his most impressionable character—a young boy for whom the very concept of death is as yet unfathomable, drafted to accompany his mother and grandfather to the house of a man who has died alone and rejected by his town—to describe the breathless environment in which the entire story will take place. It is, in fact, the boy’s descriptions and thoughts that give this story its near magical feeling and its mysterious nuances in what otherwise could be merely a dark, sordid tale of lust, rejection, isolation, vengeance and suicide.

And the author might well have set his mood of stifling incomprehension and mystery by allowing the boy to continue to be the narrator from beginning to end. This in itself would have proven a novel enough approach to a uniquely macabre story. But he has chosen instead to weave a more complex tapestry, to tell the story bit by bit and from three distinct points of view: that of the boy, who is seeing a dead body for the first time in a uniquely brooding and mournful setting, and who is all first impressions of the dead man, the room, the circumstances and the proceedings; that of the boy’s mother, Isabel, who is disgusted by this task and concerned for the impressions her young son is gathering and for what the town of Maconado will think of them for claiming the body of this man whom no one wants to see buried and for whom the town has only contempt, but who out of respect for her father has agreed to accompany him and bring the boy on this charitable mission which her father has taken as his duty; and that of the woman’s father, the boy’s grandfather, “the colonel” as the town knows him, who, though there is no real love lost with this wretched dead man, feels a debt of honor toward him and a need to instill a sense of decency in this town whose people and mayor have vowed—such is their disdain and hatred—that they will not allow this virtual hermit to be buried until they can smell his rotting corpse from the street outside his house.

This is García Márquez at his rawest and yet at his most intimate and meticulously mysterious. The story is a surreal word painting into which the reader is drawn and made to walk the dusty twilit floors of the shuttered room where the true main character—the deceased—has taken his last gasp at the end of a rope after a decade of isolation.

This character too, like the setting, is almost morbidly uncommon. And as unattractive as he is odd. He is known only as “the doctor”—a fallen medical man from an uncertain past, who is as unpopular for his unintentionally unsociable manner as he is for his unabashedly lustful way of observing women. The colonel tells us of how the doctor came to town twenty-five years before and of how he and his family took the stranger in on the strength of a letter of recommendation, datelined Panama, from Colonel Aurelio Buendía (who would reappear in later works by the author) and of  how he ended up overstaying his welcome—and then some—before finally moving into a house two doors down the street. For a time, the doctor makes an effort to appear sociable but seems destined to carry the taint of his unknown past with him wherever he goes and the mystery that surrounds him is enough to make him suspect and to cause the town to shun him. For a time, he maintains a meager practice, but eventually, he shuts it down and shuts himself in…for a decade.

Quoth the colonel:  Although he [the doctor] might have expected the contrary, he was a strange personality in the town, hardly outgoing, despite his obvious efforts to seem sociable and cordial. He lived among the people of Maconado, but distanced from them by the memory of a past against which any attempt at rectification appeared useless. He was looked upon with curiosity, like a sober animal that remained during much of the time in shadows and then reappeared, observing a conduct that the town could only consider assumed and, as such, suspect.

The doctor’s strangeness is enough, of course, for the people of a small town like Maconado—through which the foreign banana company has swept and gone, like the leaf storm of the book’s title—not to accept him. But it doesn’t explain why the people would hate him. And here, García Márquez crafts another turn of the screw in this story of concentric rejection. There comes a day in the civil strife of Colombia’s history, when twelve men are critically injured in the fighting. Maconado’s only other physician is overwhelmed and the townspeople, who previously have done everything to make the now retired doctor feel unwelcome, clamor to his door, pounding and calling on him to lend a hand, to save these wounded men. But the rejected doctor now rejects them, telling them from behind his closed and bolted door, to leave him alone, that he is no longer a medical man. The casualties, bereft of medical attention, succumb to their wounds and from then on, the doctor, whose world is now this room where he will, in the end, take his own life, has become a marked man. Eventually, the townspeople reckon, he will either have to come out or die inside that squalid, shuttered house. Either way, he can expect nothing but revenge from the town of Maconado, not even Christian burial.

Nor is this the first time that the doctor has refused treatment to someone in need. Indeed, he refuses to treat the colonel’s ailing servant, Meme. But that doesn’t stop this lingering house guest from striking his only even semi-intimate relationship with this very same woman. Unbeknownst to the colonel’s family, the doctor eventually seduces the naïve Meme and begins having sexual relations with her even while he is still under the colonel’s roof. When he moves two doors down, Meme goes with him, the only human being with whom the doctor shares his solitude, until finally, weary of his heartlessness and apathy, Meme too abandons him, and takes his unborn child with her. Meme also becomes a mystery for the town, since she disappears without a trace, never to be heard from again, a fact that also raises suspicions among the townspeople.

Aging, crippled and half-blind, the colonel is the stabilizing factor in the anarchy that this story describes. He represents tradition, gentlemanliness, principles and ethical behavior. He never wavers in his purpose of seeking to ensure that this pathetic hermit is given a proper burial and he is willing to risk his own reputation and that of his family to ensure that this happens.

This first major work by Gabriel García Márquez is symbolic of the quality level that he has consistently met and improved upon in his long career as one of Latin America’s—and, indeed, the world’s—finest living writers. And it marks the first steps he took in finally setting to page the history of a family that had been writing itself in his head from the time he was a very young man. Anyone interested in discovering the work of this contemporary Latin American author would do well to start with Leaf Storm.             

   

For Your Feet

I don’t recall how we got onto the subject, but the other day some colleagues—with whom I’m in an on-line writer’s group—and I got to talking about footwear. I mean, we don’t always talk about character, plot, description and point of view. Actually, now that I think about it, we almost never do. The fact is that in a writing group you can talk about just about anything, because, in the end, everything—for writers at least—refers back to writing, since everything we do or say or think, we eventually turn into writing of one sort or another.

My choice for everyday wear,
the Caterpillar chukka.

But anyhow, footwear, that was the topic. And it wasn’t until I started talking about “shoes I’d known”, that I realized just how important—for whatever reason—the right footwear has always been to me. Seems the same was true of some of the other writers as well, so the subject definitely appeared to spark interest. After listening to some of their “foot fetishes” and sharing some of my own, I realized that while we may live with our heads in the clouds much of the time, many of us have our feet very firmly planted on the ground—in some seriously heavy-duty footwear.

Timberland hikers for my trail hikes
and walks on the mountain road.



Where I live at this point in my life and for the past eighteen years, the only footwear you want to have is boots of one sort or another. As regular readers know, I make my home in a rural mountain area in Patagonia. The nearest pavement of any kind is a mile and a half away and consists of a two-lane highway with dirt berms. It’s about fourteen miles to the nearest sidewalk.  That’s “in town” and once you get past town, it’s miles and miles of open country, desert steppe land and mountain terrain, two hundred-fifty miles of it, in fact, to the next city of any size. So unless you’re a “townie” and live in the little make-believe paved world of Bariloche with its ski-resort character, its hotels and restaurants, its chocolate factories and shops, its building supply stores and municipal offices, then you definitely want to have all-terrain shoes that will get you from point A to point B with your feet intact, if something should happen and you should find yourself on foot in the middle of nowhere.

Classic wingtips

       Back in my urban days, as a newsman in Buenos Aires—a bustling cosmopolitan city on the other side of the continent, over a thousand miles from here, and where I lived for almost twenty years—my shoes of choice were black or brown wingtips and black low-quarters. But they had to be both tough and comfortable as well as elegant. As a reporter, I did a lot of walking…and occasional running! Fortunately, that was back when Argentina was still the maker of some of the finest leather shoes on earth. I bought mine at Los Angelitos, one of the fine old stores from the pre-globalization days when porteños (Buenos Aires natives) were also some of the most elegantly clad people on earth. Los Angelitos sold dress shoes that made you sigh and go “aaahhh” as soon as you put them on. Comfortable from day one! Still, before I wore a new pair, I always took them to a shoe-mender’s and had them fitted with rubber heels and rubber half-soles. The purists who made dress shoes for Los Angelitos didn’t believe in anything but shoe leather.  But I couldn’t afford to slip on a wet sidewalk and break my neck while chasing after a story. And, for my money, once the rubber half-sole and heel were on the shoe, it became a perhaps less elegant but certainly more versatile piece of footwear.
Back then, I dressed as elegantly as I could afford. My suits were few and off the rack, but tasteful—light two-piece ones for summer and wool-blend three-piece ones for winter, all in blues, grays and thin chalkline pinstripes. I learned something right off when I started working in the street: Typically, reporters—especially the young ones like myself—wore the kind of informal or whimsical garb that marked them from the get-go as reporters and earned them the immediate enmity and suspicion of executives, cops, military officers and government officials alike. One look at them and security was on them like dogs on a bone. ‘Dressing up’ was half the battle. Press corps idealists tended to think of ‘the suit’ as a cop-out. I considered it body armor, which let me slip unscathed and undetected into places where the less well-dressed ended up outside looking in with their noses pressed against the windowpane. Still, if things did end up getting ‘hairy’, having on shoeleather you could move quickly in was another great advantage.

Dobbs snap-brim

That kind of footwear was nothing new to me. When other kids my age were wearing loafers and sneakers in high school, I was already wearing wingtips, since by the last part of my sophomore year, I was a rather precocious professional nightclub musician and was playing one or two weeknights and just about every weekend at jazz clubs in the area—‘the area’ being Lima, Ohio and vicinity. I also gave private percussion lessons and sold musical instruments part-time for a major music store in the area and worked hard at looking the part—right down to a Dobbs snap-brimmed hat and hound's-tooth topcoat for winter. When I also took up smoking Anthony and Cleopatra Grenadiers in my senior year, I began to bear a resemblance to nothing as much as some kind of junior member of the gangland families that owned some of the area’s top nightclubs.
Earlier, when I was about thirteen or fourteen, I went through a dark protest stage in which I wore a duck-tailed ‘Detroiter’ hairstyle, carried a folding knife in my hip pocket, wore black shirts and black trousers, and my footwear of choice became “Spanish boots”. 



Spanish boots - at thirteen,
I thought they made a statement.  

 These, I felt, made a statement, a statement of non-conformity. I pictured myself looking sophisticated and dangerous…not like a juvenile idiot. They were a kind of modified Flamenco ankle boot with high-ish heels and pointy toes. I think I had gone through two pairs of them and was on the third—all of which I bought with money I earned doing myriad odd jobs and selling papers, because the ol’ man said he didn’t mind paying for a nice sturdy oxford, but that he was damned if he was buying me “those ridiculous goddamn boots”— before I started getting chronic ingrown toenails. After a local GP mangled both of my big toes getting the ingrowns out a couple of times, I finally went to a podiatrist someone had recommended.

The foot specialist was a gentle soul, a delicate little man who talked not unlike Truman Capote, dressed in pastel colors and wore his short gray hair in a feathery ‘Caesar cut’ to cover up the fact that he was balding. You could tell that feet weren’t just his job. He loved feet. His patients sat in a tall chair that looked a little like a shoeshiner or barber’s chair, while he sat on a low stool at one’s feet: “All the better to see your feet, my dear.” And before and after treatment, he would, almost fondly, hold one of your feet in his hands, rather as if it were a loaf of warm bread, while he talked to you about what was ailing your feet and what to do about it. In my case he gently—compared with the exquisitely painful Oriental torture inflicted by the GP—removed the ingrown portions of the nails on both big toes, cured the wounds they had caused and then patiently taught me how to cut the nails so as to avoid future problems.

Finally, one of my tormented and now relieved feet in one hand, he reached down with the other and picked up one of my Spanish boots, turning it this way and that, looking at it from all angles. Then he said, “And please, get rid of these.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he said, “Listen, not only are these terrible for your feet—and the probable cause of your ingrown toenails—but they also are so improper. I mean, you seem like a perfectly nice young fellow, and I’ve always equated this kind of footwear with, well, shall we say, uncouth individuals.”

I still sat there looking back at him with a dubious expression.

“Please,” he added, “for the sake of your feet, and your reputation, for goodness sake!”

Vietnam vintage, US
Army-issue combat boot

It was in the United States Army, however, that I was first introduced to major footwear: namely, combat boots. I did my basic combat training at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, home of the 82^nd Airborne Rangers (and home to Rambo—that’s where Colonel Trautman, Rambo’s mentor, says he’ll take him, “back to Bragg,” when the disturbed Vietnam vet turns a whole town into a disaster area because the sheriff treats him like a vagrant and won’t let him get something to eat). After doing even plain old basic training with those guys (all of our DI’s were Airborne Rangers) you kind of ‘got’ where Rambo was coming from. Army ‘psychology’ worked back then, no matter how smart or in control you thought you were. It tore you down to basic parts and then pieced you back together in the image of the “American Fighting Man” described in the Basic Combat Training Manual. You went in there whatever you had been “back in the world”—farm kid, factory hand, construction worker or joe college—but you came out knowing that if push came to shove, you could be a killer.

Vietnam jungle boots -
fortunately I never
needed any.

This was the 1970s, two decades before Desert Storm turned all Army issue into the sand camouflage of today. Back then the Army was a green army and the boots were black leather—simple, no lining, single-piece sole and heel and tough as a bronco’s saddle. You got two pairs. On one you had to paint a little white square on the back at the top of the upper. That way you couldn’t cheat and use one pair for combat training and have the other one all shined up and perfect for inspection. It was black back one day, white square the next, so that every time your boots got wet and sullied and scuffed in training, it meant you’d spend a long time before lights-out patiently getting them cleaned and polished and buffed up for the next wearing.

My two pairs of basic issue boots accompanied me throughout my three-year tour, as did my single pair of Army-issue black low-quarters to wear with dress greens, dress blues and, sometimes khakis, although khakis were often worn for parades with boots, helmet-liner and pistol belt. Had I been sent to Vietnam at any point I would probably also have been issued a pair of jungle boots—a boot with canvas upper, specially designed for hot, humid conditions in which footwear had to breathe in order to let the wearer’s feet dry out. Fortunately, in Europe, where I was eventually assigned for an overseas tour, there was no need for jungle boots.

The way you broke your new combat boots in was by immediately putting them on and going on a forced march—the first of many. That first forced march in new boots was tough, but putting your feet back into the boots and going for a 5 a.m. run the next day before chow was even tougher. I would have to say that my feet adapted fairly quickly—if only the rest of me had reacted so fast! But there were guys who had never had anything more challenging than a pair of penny-loafers on their feet who ended up requiring treatment at the infirmary. I recall one chubby little guy with a complexion so fair that he was almost translucent, whose feet blistered so badly during the first week of training that he lost the toenail on one of his big toes. But once your feet molded to the boots (those boots never molded to your feet), Army-issue combat boots were really comfortable footwear for long walks in rough places or for standing on pavement for hours on end.

US Army-issue low-quarters.

And the low-quarters were also incredibly durable and comfortable. These looked like a simple, no-frills, black, leather, dress shoe. But they were made so tough that, in my case, for instance, they withstood countless formal and holiday parades in which we accompanied the color guard on marches of up to five miles wearing dress greens or dress blues. And all they required was once-a-year resoling and reheeling. What other dress shoe could you do that in?

When I was discharged, they took my field jacket away from me: It was a practical piece of clothing that I cherished by then, but it was the seventies and the old officers and NCOs were sick and tired of seeing Army field jackets, with peace signs emblazoned on them. So they confiscated them as we “processed out”. But I did manage to keep my Army overcoat (an excellent garment over a suit for cold winter weather) and my dress blue trench coat (that came in handy in rainy Buenos Aires winters). I also kept my two pairs of boots and my low-quarters, items that I had come to be fond of and that were to influence my choices in footwear from then on.




Carolina loggers



The low-quarters I finished wearing out in my first couple of years as a reporter on the streets of Buenos Aires. The combat boots, meanwhile, accompanied me on every adventure in the wilds that I was to have from the time of my discharge in 1973 until the last surviving pair gave up the ghost sixteen years later. Those last boots had a fitting end for veteran footwear. They died at the end of the eighties on the particularly sharp and abrasive surface of an ancient lava bed in Neuquén Province, Patagonia, at the foot of a beautifully cone-shaped extinct volcano called Lanín. Luckily, I had taken along my first pair of serious store-bought boots, which were Carolina loggers. Those not only survived the lava-rock, but also lasted me for another decade, even though, by the end of that time, I was already living in Patagonia and putting them to the test on an almost daily basis.

When I'm in the States
I always pick up a pair
of light Wolverines

Nowadays, I no longer own a single pair of formal shoes. My choice for everyday wear, no matter where in the world I happen to be, is some form of chukka boots (currently from CAT - see photo at the start of this blog entry). These, I even wear—to my wife’s chagrin—with a blazer and chinos when I go to Buenos Aires on business. For general trail-hiking, I’ve most lately favored Timberland hikers (I’m on my third pair). And whenever I’m back in the States, I always make sure to pick up a new pair of Wolverine light Gore-tex high-top boots, which are my standard fair-weather work boot for patrolling the woodland that I administrate or for gathering firewood during the summer months—a light, comfortable, simple boot.

The MyS mountain boot
one of the toughest anywhere

But for really heavy-duty weather—heavy winter rain, mud, snow—and terrain (the mountainous outback of Patagonia), I rely on the most traditional name in Argentine, handmade, outdoor footwear: Marasco y Speziale. The mountain high-tops and hiking boots that this small craftwork factory turns out are the Willys Jeep of footwear: "virtually indestructible". Real four by four power for your feet. They are simple, unlined, heavy as flatirons, tough as whet-leather and hard as a rock. But once you’ve broken them in, nothing in the world gives more support to your feet and ankles in rugged terrain. These are the boots you want to have on if you are about to go, literally, where no man has tread before.

Marasco y Speziale hikers -
virtually indestructible

When I last bought a pair of Marasco y Speziale, I got them from the hands of Marasco himself. He was sitting by himself in the modest showroom of his shop in midtown Buenos Aires, a gruff octogenarian who sized me up before deciding whether he would wait on me or let someone else do it, but who quickly fell into conversation with me when I told him that I administrated 70 acres of woodland in Río Negro and was an admirer of his work. My wife, I told him, was still wearing a pair of MyS hiking boots that I had bought her for Christmas fifteen years before .

He eagerly launched into his own story. He had, he told me, been highly active in the inauguration of the ski resort on Mount Catedral, near my home, decades before and had been providing footwear to mountaineers in the region since 1945. Not only that, for years, he had frequented the Andean-Patagonian region where I live, having hiked and skied and generally enjoyed the beautiful landscape of the region every chance he got for many years.

We ended up talking for a good forty-five minutes or an hour. I was fascinated by his story and he was only too glad to recall the good old days, before the second and third generations in the family firm had started moving MyS more toward lighter outdoor wear and ski gear. He gave me to understand that he could still keep them making the old standard boots because he himself still sat at his cobbler’s bench and hand-crafted them. He had been the one to pass on the trade to his children and their children. But in the future, who knew? 

I ended up buying a new pair of hiking boots for my wife and another pair for myself. When the old gent wrapped them up and handed them to me, I couldn’t help but feel honored to be receiving the items from the very hands of one of the two men who had first created Marasco y Speziale boots, some of the best and toughest footwear the world has ever known.

The Book Bob Never Wrote

In the forward to David Cox’s powerful portrait of a violent time, his father, journalist Robert J. Cox, writes:

“This is the book that I could not write…A quarter of a century has passed since the end of the aptly named “Dirty War” in Argentina, yet I still find it too painful to relive those malevolent times by writing about them. So I am deeply indebted to my son David for telling the story of a small English-language newspaper…which saved lives by refusing to be silenced…”

The title of the book is Dirty Secrets, Dirty War (©2008 by David Cox, published by the Evening Post Publishing Co., Charleston, S.C. with Joggling Board Press) and a new edition has just been launched on the market in Spanish (Guerra sucia, secretos sucios, ©2010 by Sudamericana S.A., Buenos Aires, with translation by Teresa Arijón). Both books are listed on Amazon.

While the story is indeed that of the Buenos Aires Herald, where the author’s father worked from 1959 until 1979, and where he was editor-in-chief for well over a decade, it is more the story of the author’s hero: also his father, Robert J. Cox.

David was barely a teenager when, after suffering years of threats, intimidation, arrest and several close calls, his father finally and reluctantly chose to leave Argentina in order to take his family out of harm’s way. But David has since followed in his father’s footsteps, becoming a journalist and writer in his own right, and having worked for publications including the Buenos Aires Herald, the International Herald Tribune, the Miami Herald, the Sunday Times, Clarín, La Nación and Perfil. He is currently a journalist with CNN in Atlanta.    

From May 1974 until December 1979—precisely the violent years that David Cox focuses on in his book—I had the privilege of learning my craft as a writer and journalist from Bob Cox. In fact, in my early days as a newsman, back when it still embarrassed me that I had never managed to find the time or money to complete a college education, when somebody asked where I had gone to “J-school”,  I would say, “Cox-Herald.” And when they said, “Huh, never heard of it,” I would just shrug and raise my eyebrows knowingly, as if to say, “Your loss!”

I recall that when I had worked for the paper for a little over a year and began to feel I was becoming a real newsman, we received a high-flying intern who was placed with me on the night desk editing international news. I immediately felt threatened since the guy had a degree (from the Columbia School of Journalism, if memory serves) and his father was a ranking editor at a major U.S. paper, as well as being a personal friend of Bob’s. To make matters worse, we were kind of left to our own devices, to sort out who was going to run the show on the international desk.

In the end, that part of it seemed to work out brilliantly. Since Bob refused to discuss the matter with either of us, (“It doesn’t really matter, does it? Just get to work and turn the bloody paper out!”) we reached a truce and simply shared the desk. I benefited from his superior education (significantly improving my technical knowledge of news-handling), and he benefited from my greater knowledge of the local scene, the local language and the workings of the printshop. Moreover, left to work things out on our own, we began to get quite bold and creative with layout and headlines, like two rival soda jerks, seeing who could out-do the other making the most elaborate of ice-cream sundaes. Granted, at times, we carried this to extremes: The ever conservative, ever droll Basil Thomson—the Herald’s brilliant humorist and then-chairman of the board—once quipped when we arrogantly asked what he thought of the changes we were making in the front-page layout: “Sometimes it’s difficult to finish breakfast after seeing it.”

Anyway, one night this fellow and I were having one of our frequent arguments over idiotic issues. This time it was about which knowledge was more useful to a newsman, classroom hours or hours wearing out shoe-leather on the street. I had some good defensive arguments and was sort of getting the upper hand when Bob walked into our cubicle, absorbed, as usual, in making final penciled corrections to his editorial as he walked. So this guy decides to engage Bob in our discussion and shut me up.

“I’ll bet Bob has a journalism degree, don’t you, Bob?” he says. “Uh, Bob…don’t you?”

Bob was holding a page against the wall with his left hand while he wrote in a correction with his right, and now he looked away from his work at us as if we had just awakened him from a sound sleep and said, “What?”

“J-school,” says the intern.

“What about it?”

“You went, right?”

Bob looked at him, then at me, then back at him and, handing me his editorial to put into the out-basket for the shop, said: “Most places I’ve worked, if you had a journalism degree, you didn’t talk about it.”

The discussion ended there and neither of us ever brought it up again. And from then on, we were almost chummy.      

I’ve talked here before about how Bob and I met, about how I almost literally besieged him for months on end until he finally hired me to work for the Herald. What I neglected to say was that about ten years ago, when he and I spent an evening reminiscing at his home in Charleston, South Carolina, after not seeing each other for two decades, I reminded him of this and asked if he remembered how obnoxious I had been. To my surprise, he told me that he had sometimes used me and my hounding him as an example of the dogged persistence a journalist needed to have. I felt honored, since before that, I had frequently thought back to that time with a certain chagrin, always feeling that I had simply worn him down when he had no real interest in hiring me.

A lot of what I learned from Bob Cox came as much from what he didn’t tell me to do as from what he did. From the outset he explained that I would often find myself on my own when I felt like there should be someone to hold my hand and walk me through the procedures. If I wanted to be a reporter, it was up to me to get out and do it. But that wouldn’t keep me from having to do what I might feel was more than my share of the hard daily grind of getting the news into print and onto the street. Writing and reporting would be done on my own time, since from 6pm until midnight, or until we were done, I would be expected to be at my desk helping do whatever it took to create a daily edition. During those hours, I would have to make decisions that I probably didn’t have the experience or expertise to make and I would have to be responsible for their outcome. No excuses. So it would behoove me to make those decisions logically and ethically. All of this was simply the nature of working for a small, under-funded, community newspaper and if I could live with that and pass my thirty-day trial, I had a job.

In other words, from the beginning, I was treated like a professional, like somebody who should know what he was doing, even though I clearly didn’t. But that kind of responsibility tended to make you learn fast. And not having the boss breathing down your neck all the time meant that when he did tell you something, it was memorable and it changed and molded you.



Author David Cox



One of the greatest lessons I learned from Bob was that a newsman’s first loyalty should not be to the advertising department, to the Board of Directors, to the boss or even to the paper’s editorial line, but to the reader and to his or her own sense of honesty. This was, perhaps, the greatest lesson I ever learned, not only about authentic journalism, but also about writing in general. And a second lesson he taught me was that neither journalism nor writing was like any other job in the world. It wasn’t something that could be done without full commitment. If what you were looking for was simply a steady job where you could just show up and that would be enough, then you should be a bureaucrat. If you were going to be a journalist or a writer or both, however, you needed to be the job. Nothing less would do.

Perhaps the ultimate lesson that Bob Cox taught me, however, more through his actions than his words, was that there were severe consequences to publicly telling the truth, and that you had to be willing to accept those consequences and live (or die) with them. Otherwise you needed to look for something less risky to do with your life, because painting a portrait of your times, telling what you saw exactly as you saw it, was one of the riskiest occupations on earth. A morning newspaper was, in the end, not merely a selected assembly of the previous day’s events, but a—hopefully objective—reflection of the times, a daily snapshot of the era, history in real time. As such, it had to be as true as you could get it. And wherever there was truth, there were people who wanted to silence it…at any cost.

This kind of commitment is what David Cox’s book is about. In this highly inspired portrait of his father, David demonstrates himself to be an accomplished writer, stepping back somewhat from his more intimate role as Bob’s son and observing his father as the subject of a probing and detailed biography. Interestingly enough, the author doesn’t merely talk about the years of the bloody military regime in Argentina that turned his father into an internationally renowned journalist, but starts, instead, at the beginning, when his father was a boy, growing up in war-torn England and forming his first ideals in the face of the Nazi and Fascist threats to world peace and freedom. He talks about Bob’s precociously early first steps in journalism and his first job as a reporter. He then goes on to tell about the hand of fate that took Bob to Buenos Aires, of how Basil Thomson traveled to Britain in search of new talent for the Herald and how, like in a writer’s fantasy, Bob became his choice and was taken away on a voyage to a new adventure in a strange land.

This is the story too of how that adventure became a lifetime commitment—to an editor he admired, to the woman he met, loved and married, to the family they formed, and to the newspaper that became his mission and his life as a journalist, writer and editor.

But despite the distance he takes to tell his father’s story as an objective narrator, David Cox skillfully manages to weave intimacy into the story as well, since we also see the effects of those “malevolent times”—as Bob refers to them in his forward—on the entire family, on David’s mother, Maud Daverio de Cox, and on David himself and his four siblings, Robert Andrew, Victoria, Peter and Ruth. He carefully paints a portrait not only of Robert J. Cox, journalist and editor, but also of Bob Cox, husband and father, and of the strength that the family members drew from each other and from friends and supporters in the midst of critical and life-changing times.

In the end, the story that David Cox tells—and that I highly recommend, even if you don’t know anything about, or have the slightest interest in Argentina—is a universal one. It is a story about the true value of staunch idealism and provides proof that determined individuals can make a difference, and in doing so, both change and save lives.