The mind often has trouble remembering names or routine things, but once in a while it surprises me when it vividly recalls decades-old events. The other day, I was in Buenos Aires’ leafy district, Retiro. I’d set out for an early morning walk before a business meeting. My meandering had brought me to an area that had large shady and flower-bearing trees—jacaranda and regional species such as the ombu, native to the pampas. A delightfully heady aroma of flowers wafted in the air.
Breathing in the scent I slowly opened my eyes. Nearby were large modern office hi-rises and in between were elegant old residential mansions. The old structures had a distinctively European touch. The building in front of me got my attention. It was a Beaux Arts beauty known as the Circulo Militar. As the sun threw pink-orange hues over the grand arched entrance, a smart change of guard was taking place.
Turning around I stopped at a grand equestrian statue. It was of a stern-faced general atop a stallion, with right hand raised. The pedestal had soldiers looking up at their leader, adoring women, angels with laurels, plaques, and wreaths. It was the inscription though that intrigued me. General Jose de San Martin. The name struck a bell and hurled me back many decades, to childhood and my friends.
The first time I heard that name was from a stamp-seller who stayed up the road from our home. His name was Colonel Hughes but everyone called him Mr H. The jolly, avuncular one-legged philatelist was a raconteur extraordinaire. Before his disabling accident, he had sailed many a sea, fought many an overseas battle. His chamber bore evidence of the adventures. At the entrance was a life-size wooden carving of a Zulu warrior. Near his table were a large yellow-brown globe, bookshelves and racks filled with outsized albums. On the walls were pennants, framed photos of a young Mr H at the wheel of a yacht and so on. One picture that got our giggly attention was that of a nude Marilyn Monroe with leg curled up, eyes half-closed, sporting a pout.
“Like what you see, gentlemen?” Mr H would say, catching us off guard. Then with a hearty laugh, he’d nod and say, “So, what’ll it be today? What country are we looking at?” Pushing chair his back, he’d pull out an album from the rack.
He’d begin, opening pages with flourish, pointing to a stamp to explain why it was “rare”. He’d transport us to exotic places and dramatic happenings. Once, a 12-cent Republica Argentina stamp became the topic of discussion. Handing it to me, he asked if we knew where Argentina was. Met with silence, he smiled, spun the globe, and paused. “The face on the stamp is that of an extraordinary general,” he roared. “It’s the face of a tough old warhorse that led the Army of the Andes, knocked the stuffing out of the Spanish, and gave Argentina freedom. Remarkable bloke this ol’ General Jose de San Martin!”
Now some 50 summers later, standing in front of the general’s statue I was surprised with the vivid recollection of a day long gone. The “tough old warhorse” died in 1850, and the colonel in 1980. I don’t know what happened to my childhood stamp album. But I know, the General and Mr H nestle somewhere safely in the grey cells.