Cargoes
Walling off the end of a street called Calle Calicuchima, sitting high in the water, the freighter Alexander docked almost in the middle of town. A great black hull studded with rivets, a floating giant to the local people, its daytime shadow dwarfed the new P&O office and cut a slant across the pillars of the customs building. Under the stars its mooring ropes creaked back and forth, while its great wall added darkness to the night.
.....This was 1910, when my grandfather sailed and strode the earth.
.....When art told tales.
.....When Picasso worked with Georges Braque, making brown pictures, snipping up newspapers, painting with combs and sand and glue.
.....The Alexander had just come up the west coast from Valparaíso, at that moment with next to nothing on board. Its crew of course were on board. My grandfather, the captain. His white uniform. His broad white cap, which he brushed at the peak and put on at the mirror. Off with his cap; it was all well and good for photographs, ceremonies, strong sunlight, but otherwise it fitted best under his arm. He combed his dark hair and stepped down the walkway to the Malecón, the waterfront, to be greeted by the Honorary Consul. Captain Jones, welcome to Guayaquil. Thank you, said my grandfather, though I have been here before.
.....But not to Quito, high atop the Andes. Quito via the new mountain railway, a marvel of gleaming brass and carmine, a proud flame in the fire of British financial enterprise. In Quito he was to negotiate next year's cargoes: cacao, coffee and bananas.
.....This much is recorded in his logbook, a document which has come to rest in my possession.
.....1910, when these artists stuck tin and cardboard onto canvas.
.....When my mother was conceived.
Captain Jones first quartered nearby, at the Hotel Bolívar, and waited for the season's loading to begin. He was given a room overlooking the flat brown expanse of the river Guayas, with its slow tides and islands of green grass. Unusually for him, he rested, having looked out the once from the balcony; just long enough to clutch at the empty air, for the rail was lower than the bridge of the Alexander. He then hung up his white cap, trousers and captain's jacket, and slept. On waking he was offered pancakes with fried banana, platanos, and tea with lemon.
When Picasso suddenly threw a banana at Braque, the story goes, he deftly caught it. Although Georges immediately returned this toss Picasso was already locked back in his work and had forgotten the banana. He was even oblivious as it slumped down his chest, and it remained dumbly in his lap all afternoon. Yet mostly he and Georges made a finely-tuned pair of jugglers, moving closely hand in hand. They used the same materials, the same signs, performed the same intellectual somersaults. When Pablo experimented with an oval frame for his cubist works Georges did too. When Georges decided to print on words and letters Pablo likewise ventured forth with the names of drinks, newspapers, composers.
.....The banana-throwing took place in Picasso's studio on the boulevard de Clichy.
.....As it was an awkward distance from there to the nearest post office, Picasso would frequently ask Braque to post letters for him on his way home. Merci, Georges (...)