A Study in Tone and Shade
1.
The chandelier at the top right corner of the photograph reflects a sharp bright light. It is nighttime. It must be 10 degrees outside.
Right below and to the right of the chandelier sit 18 men. They are of similar height, their ages range between the late 30s and early 60s. They’re all in black tie, their jackets elegantly pressed against their robust bodies. Were it not for the one young man holding a cup of coffee (and another one, the tail end of a cigar?), there would be no sign of food, of drinks.
The room’s decoration is scarce but elegant. A thin and narrow bookshelf (I imagine their spines burgundy, olive green), two baroque mirrors, four leather seats (dark brown, perhaps).
I don’t know all of their names. My grandmother has identified Hugo de Ferreira, calculates he must have been recently appointed minister of agriculture. She recognizes Bernardo Saiz, Augusto Ramirez, Miguel Angel Lis. They stand next to my grandfather, who smiles at the camera as though he was alone in the picture. His hands tucked behind his back, his bowtie two perfect triangles—not flat, like those of Augusto’s, or scrunched up, like Miguel Angel’s. A man in the center smiles politely, teeth as white as the men’s shirts. Five out of the twelve men in the back row look directly at him—he may have just finished making a sharp remark.
On the leather seats are the remaining 6 men. Among them, Alberto Miani and his father-in-law, Misael Pastrana. Anibal Fernandez de Soto. I research their names, seek a story for the young man sitting uncomfortably at the lower left corner directly opposite to the chandelier, the brown chair too big for him. I settle on Anibal, who must have been 10 years younger than my grandfather, so in his early 30s at the time of the photograph. It fits the reserved face, the liminal fit. He’s not staring at the camera, or at anyone in particular. His legs crossed, we catch a glimpse of the dust on the sole of his leather shoe.
My grandfather’s mother saw this photograph on the newspaper’s social pages and kept it. Anibal must have been elected city mayor some 15 years later. His son, another Anibal, still works in politics. I may have met him once.
2.
I’ve often seen my sister sit in the short corridor of her small apartment, for what seems like hours, separating the wash. She does it meticulously, first by color, then by texture. She then carries everything to the ground floor launderette, 4-6 rounds of going up and down, washing, drying, hanging.
My mother is the same. She visited recently and, as I sat working, she felt the need to wash my clothes. There was a small laundry basket. 2-3 washes. A full day of drying. Nothing was stained.
I sometimes think of Gloria, in Elena Ferrante’s The Days of Abandonment. The days she spent in the stupor of heartbreak (though that word feels lacking, perhaps it read more like a life-break, her structure, rather than her affection, losing ground with the collapse of a marriage). I remember reading it in soft, beige quietness, yet the words in the paper almost vibrating to a buzz, the clearly delineated a’s, the dotted i’s, becoming fuzzy as I felt her sorrow, her anxiety, confront the incessant and stiff requirements of motherhood, of adulthood. I remember when she regains her grip on reality. The quiet tasks that put her at ease. She makes soup for her kids, she separates the darks and the whites.
While I was reading Ferrante, I went to the cinema. They were playing Maestro. I was lulled by the slowly flowing images, the softness of the music. I was intrigued by Felicia Bernstein as I tend to be by female companions to artistic geniuses— something about their solid and quiet non-flourishing. There is a scene where the older Leonard Bernstein is playing the piano. He stops, speaks of his late wife. “I’ve often seen her in the garden working. Julia Vega swears that she’s at the top of the stairs every morning, making sure she’s separating the whites and the darks.”
One time, in my own absence of sense, I visited a friend’s house. It was Sunday, and their whites hung delicately on the laundry line. A spring breeze softly tilting them, the day felt peaceful, structured.
I looked it up, to see if it was really necessary. I found it was not essential, but highly recommended, “especially to preserve the color and integrity of your clothing.”
This piece was published in Volume III of the journal Mind, Ocean, Space.