Ronald M. Helmer

Paris

By: Ron M. Helmer

The Hotel Commodore looked like it had been filmed previously in movies set in the late 19th century. The elevator could be seen from outside, caged in twisted, gold-painted iron curlicues and was operated from within by the passengers aboard. I would like to describe the room I stayed in but I have absolutely no memory of it. I suppose I'm suffering from 'room rent overkill'! The psychological hotshots claim that our memories are much like tape recorders; if you remember something once within the first month and again within a year you have a reasonable chance of remembering it permanently. If you fail to do so the memory will just dump itself to make more room on the tape. The room at the Commodore was obviously not memorable so it was dumped.

The Hartmanns (I first met them in Innsbruck in the early 50's) were living in Paris and I had their address and phone number. They took over my social life. Ted was still writing pieces for the American newspaper (this time in Paris). I spent a substantial part of my time wandering around Central Paris with Ted. He was well-known to the 'garçons' of the various hotels so we were welcomed at the many places where we stopped to rest and refresh ourselves. In the evenings they took me to exotic French restaurants that served large portions of delicious French cooking prepared in their small kitchens.

Iris, as expected, was pursuing her obsession with foreign languages just as she had in Innsbruck and was attending French language lessons every afternoon. I had contracted a miserable head cold (picked up from one of the unsanitary steins at the Hofbrauhaus, no doubt!) and was taking a variety of pills to counteract the running nose and the sneezing. Instead of making me drowsy they were making me talkative and I jabbered continuously during our evening meals. I don't think I made a good impression.

A postcard with a magnificent color photograph of the Paris Opera House. Much preferable to stand in the large open square studying the architecture than to be subjected to what goes on inside!

A postcard with a nice black and white mid-afternoon photo of the Cumberland hotel at the top of Hyde Park Lane with the Marble Arch in the foreground.

It was necessary for me to return to London before flying to South Africa. There were apparently no direct flights from Europe and we were going to have to overfly Angola because of revolutionary fighting there.

That gave me an opportunity to meet again with Mr. Ippen and his colleagues. I have no recollection of the discussions I had with him and his cohorts. (The banker's box full of the files of various companies I met with is in the crawl space in the basement and I'll have to wait for one of the boys to suss it out. I will wait hopefully for some future edification.)

Black and white photograph of Piccadilly Circus by night enjoying typical pre-show traffic jam.

We flew non-stop from London to Salisbury in Rhodesia (now Harare and Zimbabwe). I walked over to the terminal and glanced at the Hong Kong-manufactured items for sale but had no interest in making a purchase. I was able to stretch my legs after the long flight from England. We took off again after twenty-five minutes for the relatively short hop to Johannesburg. As usual I waited until the last passenger was about to disappear from the aircraft before picking up my shoulder bag and leaving.

When I arrived in the terminal I was about to go to the cab rank when I spotted a solitary figure gazing at the few passengers ahead of me.

'You Helmer?' he said brusquely as I passed.

'That's right,' I said, smiling. 'Who'd like to know?

'Hamel, Fergie Hamel, Associated Chemical; you can call me Fergie!'

'Okay Fergie,' I said. "Maybe you can show me to the nearest cab rank.'

'Where are you staying, anyway?'

'The Astor, I think.'

'Cancel it, you're staying with me!' I went to the 'Hotel Reservations' board and cancelled my reservation then walked to the parking lot after picking up my bag.

'How did you know me?' I asked when we were on the main highway.

'I'll let you in on a little secret,' Fergie said. 'I didn't have a clue what you were going to look like, but I decided to survey the passengers coming off the flight and make up my mind after I'd finished my review.'

'And I passed muster, did I?

'Just so, everybody ahead of you had that determined look on their faces like they either had diarrhoea or an important corporate meeting to attend. When you sauntered through the door, last to disembark, I said to myself 'That must be my man!'

'Very perceptive,' I said. 'What's your read on what your wife's going to say when she discovers she's got an unexpected guest?'

'Not to worry, she and my daughter are in England for another three weeks; all you have to contend with besides me are the cat and the cook!'

-o-

Thus began an edifying week of meeting with South Africans and their behaviour at close range. Fergie was a ruddy-faced individual of about fifty-five years of age, about five-eight in height and with a hair-trigger temper. We went to his office and talked about dry sulphuric acid for awhile before heading out to his home in one of the better areas of Jo'burg (as the locals called it).

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