One late-summer Munich morning in 1986, Vivian and I were walking to the Alte Pinakothek art museum, and I made the mistake of questioning her business skills.
“How did you learn to negotiate so well?” I asked.
“In Argentina, it’s normal. We negotiate for almost everything.”
“I take it you didn’t have much money growing up?”
Vivian looked offended. “No. You’re just surprised that a woman can be better at business and not dependent on a man. Your machismo is showing.”
The weather was cloudy and unsettled, but just as we arrived at the museum, the sun peeked through the clouds, and I said, “Why don’t we enjoy the sunshine for a minute?”
Finding a park bench facing south, I lay my arm over the backrest behind her, and we became two sunflowers, faces following the sun. The rays felt like an embrace, warm and comforting. Glancing now and then at Vivian, I marveled at how the sunlight played on her golden-red hair and the curves of her face.
A question came to mind, and it just popped out of my mouth. “Why are you so worried about being dependent on a man?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Because I’m a man? Maybe your machisma is showing.”
“That’s not a word,” she replied. There was a long pause before she continued, “I could tell you a story from when I was young, but it might bore you.”
“Please. Nothing about you could bore me.”
She looked at me to see if I was serious before beginning, “I was fourteen. I remember it was a cold August winter morning. Mutti took us out of school early and drove us five hours to the family estancia, the ranch in the pampas west of Buenos Aires. Papi stayed behind.”
“After dinner that evening, my mother tried to project as much dignity as possible as she told us that Papi had met another woman and was moving his belongings out of our house. Money would be tight, and she would have to find a job.”
“My sisters were taken out of the German school, but since I’d already started high school, I could finish there.”
“A cousin told me months later that my grandfather had told Papi to simply take the other woman as a mistress and not to break up the family. It was a choice he had made years earlier. The cousin said that taking a mistress was almost a family tradition. Men just seemed to wander.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I didn’t tell you the story to earn your pity,” she said, frowning. “Men wander. They leave or take mistresses. It’s a simple fact. My mother wasn’t prepared to take care of us when my father left. Late in life, she had to learn how to operate in a man’s world. It wasn’t easy, and I don’t intend to make that same mistake.”
“That’s not all men.”
She looked at me skeptically.
“And that’s not me.”
“Who is this old girlfriend in the US who said you should see other people?”
“Maybe I should introduce her to your old boyfriend in Argentina, who hasn’t given up.”
The sun slipped behind the clouds.
“It’s getting cold,” she said. “Let’s go look at the art.”