by Anita Abriel
“You’re dressed formally for a Sunday.” Vera noticed Edith’s two-piece suit and matching hat. “Don’t tell me Robert convinced you to go to church.”
“Of course not. He’s there now.” Edith shook her head. “Robert goes every Sunday; it makes him feel closer to his wife and son in Boston when they pray at the same time.”
“He would feel closer if he went home,” Vera muttered, pouring two cups of coffee.
“He can’t go home; all his suppliers are in South America.” Edith accepted the cup of coffee. “I came to tell you my news. I finished my first dress and Robert is going to help me deliver it.”
“That’s wonderful,” Vera agreed. “But why would Robert need to help you with that?”
“The client’s name is Edna Burrows and she spends half the year in Venezuela and the other half in Boston.” Edith sipped her coffee. “She and her husband have a stud farm five hours from Caracas. They invited us to be their dinner guests.”
“Five hours! It will be late by the time you finish dinner,” Vera started. “And Venezuelans are terrible drivers. It’s not safe to be on the road late at night.”
“Robert agrees with you. He thinks all Venezuelans should have their licenses taken away,” Edith laughed. “That’s why we’re going to come back tomorrow.”
“What did you say?” Vera asked.
“It was Edna’s idea.” Edith put down her cup. “They have a guest wing and a separate hacienda in the back. I’ll sleep in the guest wing and Robert will stay in the hacienda. There won’t be any chance of bumping into each other in the corridor on the way to the bathroom at night.”
“How will that look?” Vera wondered nervously. “Robert is married. Even if he wasn’t, you can’t go away with a man.”
“You went to Capri with Anton,” Edith reminded her.
“That was different,” Vera said, her cheeks turning scarlet.
“You stayed in the same hotel,” Edith pointed out.
“Anton’s parents took him to the Hotel Quisisana before the war. He wanted to show it to me,” Vera responded. “We had rooms on different floors.”
Vera still hadn’t told Edith the whole truth: that she knocked on Anton’s door and begged him to let her in. That she urged him to make love to her because they were engaged and going to be together forever.
“You called him Captain Wight, but you were in love with him even then. I saw it in your eyes.”
“Of course I called him Captain Wight; he was my boss,” Vera exclaimed. “I didn’t realize I had feelings for him, they just grew.”
“We keep talking about Robert when there is nothing to say,” Edith went on. “You’re the one who sits in Ricardo’s car in front of the house. Twenty minutes last night.”
“How do you know?” Vera asked.
“I counted. I was standing by the window,” Edith said. “If it hadn’t been a convertible, the windows would have been steamed up.”
“You couldn’t see anything in the dark,” Vera responded.
“Why shouldn’t you see Ricardo?” Edith asked. “He’s charming and he looks like Clark Gable.”
“Ricardo would look ridiculous with a mustache,” Vera giggled. Suddenly they were two young women swooning over actors in American movie magazines.
“He’s obviously in love with you,” Edith insisted.
“I do enjoy his company, but he’s just moving fast,” Vera said tentatively. “He wants me to meet his mother.”
Vera thought about how quickly her romance with Anton moved, but that was different. From the moment Anton said he was falling in love with her, she felt like she had known him forever.
“She will adore you,” Edith assured her. “When will you meet her?”
“Today,” Vera sighed. “We’re going to lunch at his parents’ villa.”
* * *
Ricardo’s parents lived in one of the huge colonial-style houses near the Plaza Venezuela. The entry was as imposing as the Palazzo Mezzi in Naples. There was a sweeping staircase and tall French doors leading into an inner courtyard.
“You look like you’re waiting for the schoolmistress,” Ricardo chuckled, leading her into the living room. Ceiling fans turned overhead, and white sofas were flanked by palm trees in clay pots.
“Does your mother know I’m Jewish?” Vera whispered, noticing the collection of gold crosses on the mantel. Why hadn’t she asked Ricardo before? But meeting his parents had been so sudden; she didn’t have time to ask questions.
“Of course she knows you’re Jewish,” Ricardo responded. “I told her everything about you: you’re a star copywriter and so beautiful that a famous philanthropist sponsored you to come to America.”
“You shouldn’t have said that. She’ll think I have a big head.”
“You don’t have a big head.” He laughed at her English. “But you have a bright mind. My mother is a great admirer of intellect; you’ll get along wonderfully.”
A door opened and Ricardo’s parents entered the living room. Ricardo’s father was an older version of Ricardo. His dark hair was streaked with gray and his cheeks were tan from the sun. He wore a white suit and the most polished shoes Vera had ever seen.
But Ricardo’s mother was younger than she expected, and quite beautiful. Alessandra Albee had the face and figure of a model. She wore a form-fitting crepe dress and smelled of jasmine perfume.
“Vera.” She kissed Vera on the cheek. “Ricardo told us so much about you.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you. You have a beautiful home,” Vera answered.
“I can’t take much credit; it’s my husband’s childhood home.” She patted the sofa. “Come sit next to me.”
Ricardo handed them pink cocktails with paper umbrellas.
“Please go help your father choose a bottle of wine,” Alessandra said to Ricardo. “Vera and I are getting to know each other.”
“It’s normal to be nervous,” she said after Ricardo left. “I had to take a sleeping drought when I met Pedro’s mother, then I almost fell asleep in my soup. But I promise we’re harmless. Pedro and I want Ricardo to be happy.”
Vera’s eyes traveled to the marble fountain in the courtyard and vases filled with roses. “Ricardo never mentioned you had such a beautiful house.”
“From when he was a boy, I taught him the true value of money is to take care of the people you love.” She pointed to her wedding ring. “My ring belonged to Pedro’s grandmother and this house is inherited from Pedro’s parents. But every centimo that comes into it has to be put to good use. The reason we have household help is so that Diego, the gardener, and Valeria, our cook, can afford to feed their own children. Plus, I’m terrible in the kitchen.” She smiled and then turned serious again. “My grandparents were so poor, their house didn’t have a floor. And Pedro’s ancestors fled the Spanish Inquisition with what was in their pockets.”
Vera nodded. “My parents lost everything in the war. I’m hoping to bring them to Caracas.”
“The world has not seen anything like what happened in Europe. I may be Catholic, but what Hitler did to the Jews was the devil at work. But where there is life, there is hope.” Alessandra stood up. “Come, let’s eat. Ricardo and his father are similar. They both get cranky when they are hungry.”
Lunch was served at the oak table in the dining room. Ricardo’s father poured glasses of red wine and Alessandra led a lively discussion about female enrollment at the Central University of Venezuela.
“My wife is a fervent supporter of education,” Ricardo’s father said, smiling. “She would like to see all young people attend university.”
“My parents wanted me to go to university, but the war interrupted everything,” Vera said. “I was going to study languages and possibly writing. I wanted to write plays.”
Alessandra picked up her wineglass. “The war is exactly why the young must attend university. Do you know what the most important human trait is? It is not piety, as our Catholic priests would wish; i
t’s not honesty or even loyalty. It is empathy. If we don’t have empathy for others, we are finished. How can we learn empathy without studying history and geography and literature?”
“That’s enough of a lecture; it’s time for dessert,” Pedro said fondly. “Our cook makes the tastiest dulce de leche in Caracas. You must try it.”
After lunch, the men smoked cigars in the library and Vera and Alessandra sat in the living room.
“I take it you are very close to your parents,” Alessandra said, sipping a cup of dark coffee.
“How did you know?” Vera asked in surprise. The dulce de leche had been delicious—condensed milk and caramel spooned onto thin slices of toast. But the coffee was too strong, and Vera left her cup on its saucer.
“I can see it in your eyes when you talk about them,” Alessandra commented. “My children are the best thing I’ve ever done. I was lucky to have four. Ricardo has two married sisters.” She paused. “Tragically, my youngest son, Enrico, was run over by a tractor and died when he was eight.”
“Ricardo told me. I’m so sorry.” Vera nodded.
“It is the worst thing that can happen to a mother.” Alessandra was somber. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“I’m an only child. I suppose that’s why I’ve always wanted a large family,” Vera answered. “My friend Edith and I were born three days apart at the same hospital; she’s always been like a sister.”
“It’s important to have someone to talk to, especially with everything you’ve gone through.” Alessandra put down her cup. “Ricardo said you just turned twenty. I can’t imagine the hardships you’ve had at your age. To lose your home and your country is unthinkable.”
“Edith and I turned twenty in April.” Vera replied. “At least this year I know my parents are alive. Last birthday, I thought they were both dead.”
“I was barely sixteen when I married Pedro,” Alessandra said thoughtfully. “He was an old man of twenty-five. Ricardo is twenty-seven, and people wonder why he’s not married. Ricardo is old-fashioned; he believes in love.” She leaned back against the cushions. “I taught him two things: to love and respect his parents, and then to love his wife even more.”
* * *
Ricardo drove Vera home and they sat in his car in front of the house.
“Your mother is wonderful,” Vera said. “She looks like a movie star and she’s so intelligent.”
“My mother is a modern woman and she’s not afraid to speak her opinions,” he chuckled. “I told you she would like you.”
“How do you know she liked me?” Vera asked. “I didn’t even finish high school, and my Spanish isn’t that good.”
“She called you mija when we said good-bye.” He leaned forward and kissed her.
Vera put her fingers to her mouth and gulped. Even she knew that mija was Spanish slang for “my daughter.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
June 1947
Vera looked up from her notepad and glanced at the clock in Lola’s living room. Ricardo was picking her up in half an hour, but she was still sorting numbers into two columns. No matter how she arranged them, she simply didn’t have enough money to bring her parents to Caracas. And she didn’t want to return to Budapest with them; they all needed a fresh start.
She had written to her parents telling them how overjoyed she was that they were alive, giving them news of her and Edith. But she felt guilty that she couldn’t promise when she would bring them to Venezuela. She had to find a way to afford their passage.
She tried everything: asking Mr. Matthews if she could bring work home from the office, begging Lola to let her do the ironing. But it would be months until she could afford the tickets.
“You look glum for a Saturday night,” Edith said as she breezed into the room. She had a silk cape draped over a turquoise dress.
“I’ve been doing sums and my head is about to split open,” Vera moaned. “If I iron Lola’s tablecloths for three months, I still won’t be able to pay the ship fare. Mr. Matthews can’t give me any more work. Until the rollout of the GM cars, the New York office is watching every centimo.”
“I could ask Kitty for the money,” Edith offered. “She spends that much on a new purse.”
“You can’t ask Kitty for money. She’s already done so much for you.”
“Ricardo would lend you the money,” Edith said. “I heard a rumor that he’s going to ask you to marry him.”
“Where did you hear that?” Vera asked.
“From a friend of Kitty’s,” Edith giggled. “A few of the women are heartbroken that he’ll be off the market.”
“That’s ridiculous. We’ve only known each other for a few months,” Vera said.
“Ricardo isn’t young, and he’s already introduced you to his parents.”
“He did say he had a surprise for me tonight,” Vera said uneasily. “We’re going to the opening of the new wing at the Museo de Bellas Artes.”
“What if he drops to his knee and proposes in front of a naked marble statue?” Edith giggled.
“It’s not going to happen.” Vera shook her head. “And I would never marry Ricardo to bring my parents to Caracas.”
“Of course not, that would just be an extra perk,” Edith suggested. “Like having a husband who is a great chef. Every marriage needs perks.” Edith adjusted her stole. “Besides in the bedroom, of course.”
“That’s no way to talk,” Vera said.
She noticed the diamond pendant around Edith’s neck.
“Where did you get that?” she asked, pointing to it.
“Don’t worry, it’s fake. It’s made of paste.” Edith’s eyes danced. “Robert and I have a meeting with the general manager of the Majestic. Robert thinks I should rent a little space to showcase my dresses. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every woman who enters the hotel lobby sees an Edith Ban design?”
“Why do you need a diamond pendant?” Vera asked.
“It’s the best way to negotiate the price. As if I’m doing the hotel a favor by allowing them to show my designs.” She ran her fingers over her neck. “I feel richer just wearing it.”
“You’re going to be a fashion mogul and I’ll still be an assistant copywriter working ten hours a day to afford a pair of shoes,” Vera said fondly.
“Not if you marry Ricardo.” Edith hugged her and walked to the door. “Then you can buy shoes all day long.”
* * *
Vera stood at her bedroom window and heard a car pull up outside. She rubbed her wrists with perfume and hurried downstairs.
“You smell wonderful tonight.” Ricardo kissed her when she opened the door. “But I’m afraid they’re not going to let you in the museum.”
“Why not?” Vera wondered if her dress was too revealing. Edith had insisted Vera wear one of her designs: a red dress with a scooped neckline and narrow skirt.
Ricardo smiled.
“Because every eye will be on you in that dress.” He took her hand. “How will the donors give money if no one looks at the exhibits?”
Vera laughed and grabbed her purse. She was used to Ricardo’s flattery, but it was still nice to be admired.
“What’s that?” Vera asked. A royal-blue convertible was parked in front of the house. The seats were cream-colored leather and the steering wheel was walnut.
“That’s the surprise!” Ricardo said eagerly. “It’s a 1940 Lagonda, I saw one at the 1939 New York Motor Show. It just arrived by boat; it’s the only one in Venezuela.”
“It’s gorgeous.” Vera admired the spoked wheels and silver emblem on the hood. “But what about your MG?”
“A man is allowed to have two cars.” He opened her door and smiled. “As long as he devotes his time to only one woman.”
Vera slid into the passenger seat and ran her hands over the dashboard. The gears were as shiny as one of Lola’s brass candlesticks; she could smell the polish.
The surprise wasn’t an engagement ring; it was a new car. She glanced at Ricardo
and felt a twinge of disappointment. Would it be fun to be married? To drive a beautiful car and never worry about money? To eat Sunday dinners with Ricardo’s parents and one day have a houseful of children? She had told Mr. Matthews she wasn’t thinking about marriage, so why did it come to mind now?
Yet, hadn’t she and Edith always dreamed they would marry for love? True love happened only once, and she would never experience what she had with Anton again. But what was love, except a feeling that made you happy? There were other ways to be happy: a night of dancing or a piece of art that took her breath away.
“You look like you’re having a wonderful dream.” Ricardo leaned close to her.
Vera started out of her thoughts, and tipped her face up to the sky. The stars were notes on a sheet of music and she was reminded how lucky she was to be in Caracas.
“I’m enjoying the night air,” she answered. Why was she even worrying about marriage? Ricardo hadn’t proposed.
“I brought a bottle of champagne.” He pointed to a basket on the backseat. “We will pay our respects at the museum and then take a drive in the car.”
* * *
Vera stood near the Bellas Artes entrance and searched the vast space, a beautiful neoclassical structure designed by the famous architect Carlos Villanueva. The interior had mosaic floors and marble columns and a ceiling so high, Vera had to crane her neck to admire the domed frescoes.
Ricardo had gone to say hello to the director, but Vera had needed to use the powder room and said she would catch up with him. Now he had disappeared.
“You look like you lost something.” A man with stooped shoulders stood near her. “I hope it wasn’t a valuable piece of jewelry. With the number of people crammed in here, you’d be lucky to see it again.”
“That’s not likely, I hardly own any jewelry.” She turned and recognized the Austrian portrait artist she met at Kitty’s party.
“Julius Cohen.” He held out his hand. “We met at the Majestic.”