“The next thing to do was go to don Herman’s, my opera-conducting German-carpenter genius—it was on my list. He was making a complete set of bedroom and dining room furniture for Antonio and doña Maria and I wanted to see if it was ready. Normally he would call, but he had recently quit smoking and people that quit smoking cold turkey can’t be trusted to remember their own names, sometimes.
Anyway, going to his shop was not only a step back in time, but extremely educational—he never disappointed. As always, he was conducting. This time it was Beethoven’s 5th. Probably the most recognized piece of music in the world and it was coming full blast out of a small cassette radio that could have used a better speaker when brand new, and had seen better days. Still, he didn’t mind and I didn’t want to mention the benefits of high tech to someone who enjoyed the scratching and rumblings of old tech so much.
This was a shop full of tools and lumber of every type, but no power tools of any kind, not even an extension cord. This was a shop that smelled like wood shavings, resin, turpentine, hot glue and varnish. I looked around just taking it all in: the countless tools stacked on shelves or hanging from nails along the wall and hooks on the ceiling. Handmade tools that I didn’t recognize, with no names that I knew. Clamps everywhere, as well as the jigs and patterns from a lifetime of working wood. I loved his place.
As I suspected, the furniture was ready and as I was about to find out, he was “about to call.”
One of the things in Tierra del Fuego that I was still not used to was the use of the words “estaba a punto de . . .” Meaning “I was about to,” or “on the verge of . . ..” I was too bloody European, and didn’t think I could ever get used to that. Here the separation between “now” and “later” was not well defined, and could be anything: a year could go by and somebody could still be “on the verge of calling.” It was maddening, but not unlike distances. “Right up the road to the left, over the hill a bit.” Killer words that could mean anything. If somebody said that, best take a backpack, a tent, and be prepared to hike for days. Of course, if you waited long enough, they would call, and if you took any road and went far enough, there would be a hill for sure—more likely a mountain. That said, in my book, don Herman was one of the good guys. An unassuming lover of classical music and a genius in the design and crafting of anything wood.
“Hola maestro,” I said after he discovered me standing there and had a chance to turn the volume down.
“Hola yourself Seg,” he said with a big smile, offering a huge, work hardened paw to shake, while raking the wood shavings and sawdust off his beard with the other. “I was about to call saying the furniture for Antonio and María is ready.”
Typical, I thought.”
The sequel to In the Land of Fire, not yet published.