Promise Me (8 page)

W
e arrived in Madrid at 6:30
A.M.
, ravenous, exhausted, and a little tipsy, but determined to milk every moment. Over the next ten weeks, we dutifully kept a diary, recording every sight we saw and every dime we spent. The first entry was a 15-cent cab ride to the hotel, where we dumped our bags, then headed out to walk the city.

“We’ll have to do a little shopping first,” Suzy informed Dave and Mike. “Nan forgot her patent heels. She can’t go to dinner without them.”

This didn’t go down well with the boys. It was well before noon, and Dave had already pronounced it “hotter than hell’s armpit.” Somehow Suzy kept them tagging along in relatively good spirits, carrying our bags of shoes, dresses, books, and souvenir shot glasses until the shops closed for siesta. Back at the hotel, we collapsed until dinnertime, which for the jet set (and the jet-lagged) was ten-thirty at night. We ate like longshoremen, killed three bottles of wine, and ambled down the street to a club called Arco de Cuchilleros
(arch of the cutlers
, as near as we could figure from our dog-eared Spanish-to-English dictionary), where we downed a bottle of cognac and watched flamenco dancers, which Suzy called “flamingo dancers,” and we were still laughing at that when we fell into bed a little after four in the morning.

Suzy’s alarm went off three hours later. She rousted me out of bed, and I joined her at the open window looking out over Madrid.

“Look at the architecture,” I said. “Marvin would plotz.”

“I’m a little woozy, Nan.” Suzy fanned herself with a folded map of the city. “We better pace ourselves.”

I agreed, but the pace we settled into was nonstop fifty-five-hour days, traipsing past every painting in every museum, up every bell tower in
every cathedral, down every alley in every straw market. Suzy was instantly in love with everything in this friendly, romantic country.

“I’m in love with Hieronymus Bosch,” she said, standing worshipfully before his
Garden of Earthly Delights
in the Prado, and as we bused over to Segovia, she said, “I’m in love with those crinkly olive trees. Oh, Nan, look! I am in
love
with the Roman aqueducts.”

I chatted up elderly British ladies, getting the lowdown on the cheapest hotels and essential historical markers. Suzy engaged the handsome tour guides, practicing her
español
so she could flirt fluently with the young men who flocked around her like goats every night in the cafés and clubs. The boys couldn’t match our stride for sightseeing, but they managed to catch up with us every evening.

Dave had decided he was in charge, acting like the continental expert, and as we taxied across town, he educated us on the sport of bullfighting. “Also known as
tauromachy,
” he informed us.

By the time we got to the Corrida de Toros, my curiosity had escalated to buzzing excitement and Suzy’s enthusiasm had dwindled to unsettled dread.

“Maybe we could do some shopping instead,” she suggested.

“Shops are closed,” I said. “Some holiday having to do with Saint Peter.”

“As if they need another darn excuse to close the shops. C’mere, Nan, you’re shiny.” Suzy powdered my nose, checked her hair, and dropped her compact in her purse. “There are no bargains here anyway. We should save our money for Paris.”

“I think we should cut Paris short and go to Rome,” said Dave. “I hear France is filthy. The people are rude. Everything costs an arm and a leg.”

“I don’t believe that,” Suzy whispered in my ear. “I think I’ll be in love with Paris.”

Piling out of the cab at the Coliseum, we were instantly mobbed by little children begging, “Moneys? Moneys, Señorita? Cigarillos?” A woman thrust an empty baby bottle toward Suzy. Following the advice of the handsome tour guides but fighting everything in her nature, Suzy pushed past them without making eye contact. It upset her to brush by the needy, grasping hands, and neither of us was prepared for the bloody spectacle inside the Coliseum.

“Those bastards.” Suzy shielded her eyes with a gloved hand as the picador went to work. “I hate this. This is a vulgar, disgusting sport.”

“It’s a cultural difference, Suz. We have to respect that and understand—”

“No. Some things I’ll never understand. Jesus, Nan, why would you even want to? Some things are just—
oh no.
”

A beautiful young matador was gored horribly through the chest and groin. A shudder of delighted horror went through the crowd. Suzy nudged me and tipped her chin toward some men seated below us.

“Nan, they’re saying he’s dead.”

“He’s no such thing, Suzy. How could they know from way up here? They’re just trying to impress you,” I said, but angling for a better look, I felt guilty about rooting for the bull.

When the bullfight was over, despite my lofty worldview, I was no more able to eat dinner than Suzy was. Dave and Mike left us, and we wandered until midnight, then found a quiet little place where kindly Spanish grandmothers served us a simple salad with trout. Suzy and I sat for a long time, talking about everything we’d observed thus far about the treatment of women and the treatment of Jews. I was fascinated by Franco’s staunch nationalism and the fervent anticommunist stand that made him sympathetic to so many Americans during the Cold War, though he himself was a dictator who’d sided with our enemies during World War II. Short-term memories yielded to the idea that “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Suzy was more taken with the politics of fashion, which wielded an influence more powerful than any de facto regent
por la gracia de Dios
. She was in awe of Balenciaga and understood something I didn’t grasp until much later in life: that
fashion
—as both noun and verb—creates a collective. It graphically illustrates the ideas that bind a diverse population of individuals. Personal and professional intentions are made plain. Those of like mind recognize each other. Those who fear change are left behind. Leaders emerge, followers unite. Good ideas stand the test of time; faux pas of the past are forgiven with good humor. Perpetual evolution is not only embraced from one season to the next, it’s celebrated.

“We must come back and tour Spain extensively,” said Suzy. “We could spend fifty summers exploring the Prado alone and not see it all.”

“We’ll be the old ladies on the tour bus,” I said.

She raised her glass to that. “Onward to Paris.”

We faithfully wrote to Mom and Dad, Boppie, Aunt Rose, and everyone else in our leather address book, and our next letter home was written on gauzy gray stationery from a hotel near the Arc de Triomphe. At the top, Suzy wrote:
WARNING! This comes to you from Seventh Heaven!

“Oh, Mommy, I can’t stand to have this great experience locked up inside me,” I wrote below. “I wish you could share it. The French have so much pride and patriotism. What a fantastic city!”

Suzy enclosed her P.S. on a fourteen-inch strip of stiff beige toilet paper. “So Marvin won’t think we’re living in luxury. Disregard everything people say. Courtesy, friendliness, and a cozy room with silk draperies. Louie would have a ball in Paris. Lots of girls for him. We can buy wine for 12 cents a bottle! Met some great kids and stayed up gabbing till 2
A.M
.—up at 7:15 tomorrow. Sleep is the one thing we haven’t overdone.”

We floated through the week on a cloud of euphoria, perfume, and impulse purchases. Suzy bought a Degas lithograph (which almost certainly wasn’t), and as we explored the streets of Montmartre and the Marais, I listened for echoes of V-E Day, relishing the idea that the little old men in the park might have been heroic figures of la Résistance. We traipsed the city for days and didn’t miss a cobblestone. As we stumped up a hill in the Père-Lachaise Cemetery, the sole came right off the bottom of my beige walking shoe.

“Oh, Nanny,” Suzy sighed. “And yesterday you broke a heel on the blue ones.”

“I’ll get a cheap pair,” I said. “At that place near the American Express.”

“Nan, that place has the most hideous shoes in the Western world.”

“Who cares? They’re just for walking. I’ll dash in while you pick up our mail.”

“I love getting letters from home,” said Suzy, “but that Tom character I went out with before we left—he writes every day. Even called the hotel. He’s really snowed. I’m trying to be nice, but wise up, for goodness sake.”

“What a chore for you, to be so irresistible.”

“Oh, shut up. Let’s go buy your ugly shoes. Then we should turn in. The Louvre is free on Sunday. We want to be fresh.”

We danced till four with Australians in a bar near the Moulin Rouge, but were at the museum when the doors opened. Somewhere between the Winged Victory of Samothrace and the Code of Hammurabi, we made the important discovery that tourists could sit in the bar at the Lido for less than $3, first drink included. We closed the place down and stumbled home in the wee hours, but bright and early the next morning, we met Mike and Dave, crammed an impossible cubic ton of baggage into the VW, and set out for the Riviera.

Dave did a fine job negotiating the winding mountain roads, but the lanes were so narrow, we held our breath every time we met another vehicle coming from the opposite direction. When we hit Saint-Tropez, the guys informed us they’d canceled their hotel reservation and were planning to stay at hostels and pensions for the rest of the trip.

“Suz, we should do that, too,” I said. “Think of the money we’d save.”

“I’m not staying anywhere I’d have to share a bathroom,” said Suzy.

Our true-blue escorts dropped us in front of the hotel with our mountain of suitcases and headed for a nude beach they’d seen in
Playboy
magazine. We lugged our things to our room, then shopped our way down the sunny Strand.

“I’m in love with these knit suits,” said Suzy.

“Daddy’s going to kill us.”

“Maybe so.” Suzy bit her lip. “We should buy him a few of these fabulous ties.”

The salesgirls quickly agreed this was the best remedy for our overspending and asked to see a photo of Daddy so they could tell us which fabulous ties were meant for him.

“Oh, cha cha, what a papa!” they exclaimed. “Muy
bello
—like a movie star!”

We met up with Mike and Dave the next morning to head for Geneva.

“You look sunburned,” Suzy said tartly. “Or are you blushing?”

“Little of both,” Dave grinned, but Mike slumped into the passenger seat without talking. He’d decided he was desperately in love with his girl back home and spent the rest of the trip mooning over her. Suzy found this absolutely precious, but I coughed irritably every time he started gassing on about it during the ten-hour drive to Rome, where it was stifling hot. The rhythm of the city felt ponderous and slow after the
nightlife of Paris. The first thing Suzy did was purchase two little Mother Mary statuettes from a street vendor.

“Not expensive, Nanny.
Priceless,
” she said. “Blessed by the pope!”

Everywhere we went, Suzy attracted a flock of admirers. Tourists wanted to take her picture by fountains and doorways. Guys wanted to dance with her or buy our table a round of drinks, just so they could hover. Suzy welcomed anyone and everyone to join our happy company. David, Michael, and I laughed ourselves silly at the halting attempts of her suitors to speak English and Suzy’s enthusiastic but not very successful efforts to speak Italian.

As we sat by Trevi Fountain in the cool of the morning, Suzy said, “Rome’s a bit dirty, but the art is fantastic, and the Italian men … well, they stare, but they don’t pinch like I heard. I haven’t been pinched once, have you?”

“Not the slightest goose,” I said. “I feel very insulted.”

“Most of the Spanish men were a bit earthy for me, and most of the French men weren’t tall enough, but Swiss men seem very strong and good looking. We’ll reassess the men situation after Venice. I told Mommy I’d bring her back a rich prince.”

“I don’t want to have to be on date behavior,” I said. “That’s what I love about Europe. No social worries. Just learning.”

“I can’t believe you left your hair clips in Paris, Nan,” Suzy said, smoothing a stray corkscrew away from my face. “I’ve lost half of mine running hither and thither, so don’t look at me for spares.”

We both had thick, impossibly curly hair that inflated to twice its original size in the humid heat. Earlier that morning, when Suzy plugged her hairdryer into the electrical adapter, the motor had fried with an acrid sizzle. She’d managed to tame her hair into a French twist with bobby pins and hairspray, but the moment we stepped outside, mine was total anarchy.

“I’m on my last pair of hose, too,” I told her.

“Break down and buy some,” said Suzy. “Stop being so tight.”

“Nope. When these are gone, I’m going native.”

“Nancy Goodman. You will not. Mommy would slip into a coma.”

“It’s not a Valentine dance, Suzy. It’s
Roma
, it’s
Fellini
, it’s
Three Coins
in this very fountain!” I gestured to the spectacular stone hippocampus,
Oceanus, and his mighty Tritons—none of whom were wearing hose. “I’m not being tight. I’m being sensible. I counted our money, and I think we should skip lunch from now on.”

“Maybe we should move on to Florence.
Firenze
, as the natives say. I hear it’s much nicer and more affordable.”

“Agreed. If Dave and Mike don’t want to leave early, we can take the bus.”

Suzy nixed that idea. “One: Hell could not be hotter than that bus. Two: Our hair would be so huge, we’d be combing chickens and goats out of it. And three: If we don’t stick with the boys, we won’t have anyone to go out with in the evening.”

We devoted our last day in the city to Eva of Roma, a salon near the hotel.

“Without the hairdryer, it’s a necessity,” said my pragmatic sister. “We wouldn’t be spending wisely if we didn’t take advantage of the full treatment.”

Similar logic was applied to a unique knit dress on the Via Veneto. My flight bag was already demolished, and as we were packing to leave, the zipper on my suitcase gave way.